Short stories for men

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f^

SHORT STORIES

A MAGAZINE OF SELECT FICTION

' ' VOLUME LI

JULY AUGUST SEPTEMBER

1903

THIS MAGAZINE IS PLANNED TO COVER THE
STORY-TELLING FIELD OP THE WORLD, AND
ITS SELECTIONS WILL BE OP THE BEST PRO-
CURABLE IN ALL THE VARIOUS LANGUAGES

* W^g I calUd upon to dssignat* that class of composition which should best fulfil
the demands of hi^ genius— should offer it the most advantageous fields of exertion—
J diould unhesitatingly speak of the short prose lale. The novel is objectionable from its
length. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself of the immense force
derivable from totality." — Edgbr Allbn Pob.

NEW YORK

The Current Litbrature Publishing Co.

34 WB8T 96th STRBBT.

uiC Library

1004

JULY

JiNDEX TO VOLUME LI

AUGUST

SEPTEMBER

Amok of Wangsa, The EUla Lowery Moseley 151

By Polly's Aid Eleanor H. Porter 99

CUmax, The Kaiherine Cecil Thurston 304

Connemara Mare, The. . . .E. OE. Sonierville and Martin Ross 235

Doctor*s Story, The. Guy de Maupassant 187

Drama in the Pine Forest, A Fred Wishaiu 280

First and the Second Isabella, The Evelyn Sharp 329

Flyer in Coal, A Arthur, M. Chase 267

Furnishing of Pat Maguire, The Wimfred Boggs 78

His Great Work Henry de Forge 93

Hunting of Chilton Sahib, The Dolf Wyllarde 193

Marcel and Others Charles Oliver 163

Mrs. Wilton's Expectations Jane Richardson 257

Obtrusive Gargoyle, The Frances Irvtn i

Oiler of Marriage, An Katharine L. Ferris 355

On an Alpine Frontier Arthur H. Henderson 106

Pearl of China, A Harold Ballagh 24

Portsmouth Point Romance, A Walter Jeffery 170

Profession for a Lady, A Alice Duer Miller 129

Proving of Hamp Paddleford, The Frank H. Sweet 321

^ver Candlestick, A Edith King Latham ^296

Silver Lute, The James Workman 213

Sitting, A Virginia Woodward Cloud 70

Small Event. A L. Allen Marker 57

Split TnfinitJTf, A Mary F, Leonard 89

Two Men And a Woman Grazia Deledda 3S

Under the Great Shadow Anonymous 345

Victorious Surrender, A Margaret Johnson 203

Waiting Jean Madeline 337

Which Was the Madman? Edmond About 367

White Orchids and Cypress Dorothy Lord Malthy 139

Zulfaa Howard Fisher 224

Copyrighted, 1903
Current Literature Publishing Co.

The Story of a Musician, by Frances Irvin*
Illustrations by Louise B. Mansfield*

"IT is long since I have indulged in such frivolity," ob-
1 jected Marot; *'my age and my professional standing
demand a certain dignity of conduct — "

"Nonsense!" said Lfery, his old pupil, slipping an arm
through his. "An artist like yourself may do as he pleases,
and let lesser musicians howl as they will. This is not a
waste of time — ^you are diverted, you are giving me pleasure,
and then there are voices worth hearing within this ' cage of
screech owls,' as you call it; and dancing — Ciell"

♦Written for Short Stories.

2 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

With a protesting laugh and a shrug Marot, composer,
musician, master of vocal training, and erstwhile opera-
singer, allowed himself to be gently guided through the
doorway of the Caf^ Chantant, in which L^ry found places
at a small table well in the rear.

** You are as unmanageable as ever, and as full of whims,"
Marot remarked, and leaned back to view the dance just
ending, with an indulgent smile.

He talked without cessation through the next chanson
populaire, with one hand on the shoulder of L4ry, who lis-
tened and gazed at him affectionately. They forgot time
and place in their reminiscences, in their interested eager
exchange of opinions which had diverged widely since their
last meeting; tmtil a sudden hush in the room, and a few
piano notes from a voice of melting sweetness startled them to
silence. It was a simple and touching ballad stmg by a
woman whom Lfery could not have pronounced either plain
or beautiful, so simple was her dress, so modest her lowered
eyes, so qtiiet yet full of tremulous strength the easy legato
of her style.

** A voice! " exclaimed Marot, leaning forward with his hand
on the other man's knee. ** A rare voice! it has great quali-
ties!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm as the ballad ended.
**I must speak to the director — I must find her out — "

But he stopped again, as the singer trilled forth into a gay,
popular song. The quaint simple maiden vanished; coming
to the front of the stage, she let her hearers know the full
charm of her long-lashed and laughing gray eyes. She took
dancing steps and pirouetted with her head thrown back —
all gay witchery and diablerie, while Marot and L^ry looked
at each other with wondering smiles.

** Deceived again! I thought her an angel!" said L6ry.

Marot waited for her encore, then as she laughed and ran
out for the second time, the gray-haired apostle of music
rose. "Wait for me here, my dear L^ry. I must see the
singer — I must know that voice!"

That voice — to him an individuality, a wondrous creation
of unlimited possibilities. Already his trained ear had
marked its depths, its weaknesses, its rare characteristics,
and the jealous mastership that was in him claimed a new-
found treasure. The perfecting and developing of it lay in
his power and presented itself as a duty.

The Obtrusive Gargoyle 3

In the bare room adjoining the stage, to which his card
won him admission, Marot found her, the object of the atten-
tions of a tall, greasy-haired boulevardier, to whom she showed
scant favor.

"My child," he said, touching her arm gently, "perhaps
you have heard of me — I am Marot, known for many years in
opera, and I now train singers for the stage. I wish to talk
to you — "

The obnoxious flatterer fell back, and the two were soon
in earnest conversation.

"To leave this engagement? but the money is what keeps
me alive — I have no other way of earning anjrthing, and I am
not yet reduced — " she glanced contemptuously around
on the groups of men and women in the room.

"Have you been singing here long?"

"My father was violinist here, and the director heard my
voice one day when he came by chance to our lodging. He
begged me to come, but Jean always refused. Now — he is
dead — ^and I had no choice. I have been here a few months;
the director is kind, and has taught me many things. But,
last week, he tried to force me to sing a favorite air of poor
Jean's! — I could have killed him! He will not ask again."

"But you are being wasted — ^thrown away here. Besides,
you are too young — it is not a fit place for you."

"It is not so bad as they picture it," she said, flushing a
little angrily. "I have some good friends, and as for the
rest, if one is not a fool — "

"I have fotmd her just in time," thought Marot. "An-
other half year and she wotdd have clung to this life."

Two Frenchmen, tall and well-dressed, came in and stood
as if waiting to speak to the singer, greeting her with exces-
sive gallantry as she came toward them. She chatted gayly
for a while, and returned to Marot at last with a little air of
triumph, as if she had given him proof of her last assertion.

"My song comes in a few minutes and then I am leaving,"
she began. "You are very kind, monsieur, but — "

" It will take me only a few minutes to say what I wish.
I propose that you give up this engagement, and put yotirself
under my instruction which I give gladly in the interest of
Art. I have absolute faith in yotir voice, it has a great
scope, and very imusual qualities. You have not misused
it much as yet; if you stay here you are in a fair way to do

4 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

so, and in two years it will be rough and incapable of develop-
ment. I have noted your faults of method. On the other
hand, three years — I name a safe figure — of proper instruc-
tion will transform you into a dramatic singer welcome on any
stage."

She stood before him in her demure plain gray gown that
suggested the simplicity of her first ballad, a white kerchief
crossed over her breast and leaving her throat bare; her
thick black hair parted and drawn over her ears into a low
knot at the back; her figure slight and yet rounded, and ftdl of
the quick grace of the Frenchwoman.

"I can't believe you,'* she said. "I have not much faith
in generosity. You offer a great deal, and of course I might
disappoint you."

"The future offers you a great deal. Nature has already
given you much, and you do not value it. Such a voice as
yours will be one day is rare on the operatic stage." She con-
tinued to look at him incredulously.

'*My child, I am old enough to be your father. I know
this world with its good and evil — I know the world of Paris.
Are you, with your glorious gift, going to throw yourself
before these good-for-naughts, who are as eager as vultures
for every new victim? Let me show you another and larger
world, a world worth conquering — ^let me show you how to
conquer it with your voice. Then choose, when the best of
ever3rthing lies before you."

She looked at his kind, earnest face, the eyes so full of
true interest and friendliness, the gray hair bristling erect
on his head in the fashion her father too had affected. For
some reason tears sprang to her eyes.

**I wotdd have no means of support — " she faltered.

"That could be all arranged. I am not a poor man, nor
helpless yet, if I aw getting old." He took both her hands
and held them with a sort of benign tenderness. "You
have it in you — ^the courage and the artistic feeling," he
whispered, not to be overheard by the two waiting fli^gants.
"I will see the director, and to-morrow will come to see you
where you are living. By then you will have had time to
think it all over. You can return with me to my studio so
that I can try your voice, and then — ^we will come to a con-
clusion."

They parted as the "demoiselle grise" was called for her

The Obtrusive Gargoyle $

final song, and by the time Marot returned to bis place sbe
had vanished again.

"What success?" said L6ry, who was applauding enthu-
siastically.

"She is reluctant to think of serious study. Perhaps
at some future day she will come tp me. She is — a little
disappointing when one talks to her — " be halted. He
could not tell what instinct made him hide the truth from
L^ry. Marot was diplomatic, but not too good at prevari-
cation.

"You are deceiving me," laughed the other. "You don't
want me to see the girl. I vow she is charming, and I am
going to have a word with her." Marot shrugged his shoul-
ders and let him go, knowing that by this time "La Grise"
was well on her way up the bright boulevard. L^ry came
back annoyed and declaring to the imperturbable Marot that
he wotdd certainly find her on the following evening.

"You have deteriorated," said Marot, "since you became
a sculptor. Had you remained under my influence you would
have been a hard worker, a prudent liver — ^more serious, and
with more conscience — "

"And with a horrible voice," added L6ry. "My dear old
master, I love and revere you more than any man living;
I will not tease you any more, for I remember that you were
always headstrong where your protfeg^s were concerned."

Marot did not reply. They went out, on the whole, a little
cold, and not quite sure of each other.

L^ry could not carry out his plan for the next evening, and
when he returned to the caf^ ten days later "la demoiselle
grise" had almost been forgotten in the charms of a stout
contralto who wore poppies and gave embellished imitations
of "Carmen." .

"You are a fool, as usual," said Marot *s wife, when he con-
fided his project. "You will be imposed upon: the girl, of
course, is tricky and not at all as grateful as she appears.
She will use you in some way."

"One cannot be 'imposed upon' by a voice. It is there —
it declares itself — it cries to me to liberate it. As to the
girl's character, I can find nothing evil in it. The director —
who demands less for her release thaa I expected, the people
she had been lodging with — spoke well of her. Ciel! what a
miserable lodging! This may be the saving of her — at any

6 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

rate I willingly take the risk. She cannot make off with any
of my theories for at least two years, and if she gets tired and
leaves me, Art and the Public will be the chief losers."

"You are a good man, but you are crazed by your pro-
fession. I wash my hands of your doings. Come, where is
that music you wanted copied?" So the two lived, arguing,
and adoring each other.

A knot of foreigners, all pupils of Marot, were wintering
in Tours, and he found it to his advantage to spend two days
there out of every week. A happy idea had come to him.
An old servant of his was settled there, and he madfe arrange-
ments with her for a lodging for **La Grise." He was tri-
umphant at getting the girl out of Paris. He broached the
topic gingerly, fearing after all that she might rebel, and pine
of loneliness in a small town, devoid of the sparkle and life
she knew. But when he spoke of old Marthe and the com-
fortable lodgings he had provided for her, of kind people he

kne.w in T , of the inducements to study, and of his

regular visits, the girl began to weep.

**My dear — ^my dear — friend — " she faltered, **how can
I thank you? I am really so tired of all this here, and it is
often hideous to be alone. Poor Jean's death — if something
had not happened soon, I think I should have jumped into
the Seine." Her tragic air was not affected, and he had never
before seen her so moved.

In the train, during their journey of a few hours, she put
her hand timidly over his arm, and said in a low tone:

"I shall work! Oh, how I shall work!"

**My judgment is not always so fatdty," thought Marot,
**but I will be cautious, and I will not expect too much."

Marot, with his kind, understanding eye« that gazed long
at her, and grew tearful at her clinging to h^m, had gone at
last, leaving her in the quaint, four-roomed fodging with the
good\>ld peasant woman. Overcome suddenly with her old
grief£and loneliness, as well as by the wonderful kindness
that had been showered upon her, Gabrielle threw herself on
the bed and cried herself to sleep. When she woke it was
late afternoon. She pushed open the shutter and disclosed
to view a tiny dark street, the houses crowding against the
protecting mass of the great cathedral. Quite a distance to the
left one flying buttress seemed to have alighted between two

The Obtrusive Gargoyle 7

ancient houses that leaned and toppled on it lovingly. One
boasted a tiny comer tower with a pointed cap of gray slates.
The windows of this house had gently subsided from the
severity of their original angles, and were moreover placed
at irregular heights and spaces, as if the builder had been pre-
occupied and knocked one here and there as the thought
occurred to him. The entrance door boasted an archway
whose fretted stonework had grown soft and warm and
indistinct of pattern, like used and ancient lace. Over all
this ravishment of age the cathedral threw its vast impene-
trable shadow.

A little farther on where a wrought-iron lamp thrust itself
out from the comer house, a flight of roughly paved steps
descended by turns and angles to the lower town, whose roofs
were just visible through a narrow opening among the houses.
The street, which encircled the cathedral, was only visited
at rare intervals by strangers, who forgot all else in the glories
of the interior. It opened out on a quiet square behind the
apse, warm and sim-flooded, delighting the eager Gabrielle's
eyes. The comer house was the most noticeable on the
square. It had a sculptured doorway and two broad windows
above, with plain stone arches, divided by stone bars in the
center. These windows were nearly always open, and thin
scarlet curtains blew in and out. Such was the angle of the
square that this house commanded a view down the Rue des
Cl6itres, and formed a gay focus for the eyes of its inhabitants,
dwelling in the cathedral's shade.

The gargoyles on the cathedral roof were not far above
the level of Gabrielle's window, and kept there an eternal
watch, with the' moss grown green in their grooves where the
rain had left small pools. The great sloping roof soared
away above them — ^the double rows of buttresses thrust
outward like the serried ranks of oars in an old-time galley.
One gargoyle had the head of a frog, another that of a strange
griffon, which clung with all four feet to the stone as he sur-
veyed the street below. The third, nearest the window,
pulled his right eat forward with one paw, and with the other
dutched his wid6-open mouth, while his eyes bulged with
expectation.

"What is he listening for?" thought Gabrielle. "Why,
waiting to hear me sing, of course!— and he has been waiting
who knows how many years ? "

8 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

She was delighted with the humor of the idea, and felt a
sense of companionship with these strange creatures. For
very joy she trilled forth a few notes, sending them up to
break and shiver and soar to silence over the vast roof. '* You
shall soon know what I can do, gargouille!'' she said gayly.

Once more she leaned out and looked, first to the left
with its glimpse of the square and the gay-curtained window,
its vista of roofs where the paved steps descended; then to the
right where the light was less and the houses followed a tor-
tuous line arotmd the buttresses, and where along the rough
cobble stones came good old Marthe with her basket of
vegetables and frugal provisions for the evening meal.

The sunlight as it touched the gargoyles fell for a short
time each day in at Gabrielle's room. She welcomed it and
reckoned the noon hotir by it. The days were crowded so
ftdl that she had little time to mope or dream. She was
thrilling still at the sudden change in her forttmes, absorbed
in Marot's instructions and tasks. She must read — she must
memorize verses for him — ^become familiar with the wonderful
stories of the operas she would study later. She must follow
all his rules strictlv — sing for so long, no longer, each day.
Sometimes she walked out with Marthe; every day, often
more than once, she went into the cathedral and said her
prayers in a quiet comer. At these hours poor Jean was
uppermost in her thoughts.

Then came the weekly visits of Marot, and her walk to his
studio, where she spent the morning and often the entire day,
listening to his pupils from a hidden comer, and profiting by
the criticism that Marot flung at them mercilessly. She
begged him not to present her to any of these students —
many were foreigners, all were well-dressed, gay, intimate
with one another. Prom the window-seat she watched them
as though they were before her on a stage, and thought how
their bravado and airs wotdd vanish before a critical Paris
audience — ^above all such audiences as those to which she had
,sungl — ^who demanded the best thing of its kind, though
the "kind" differed in standard from the fashionable the-
aters.

" I can hide you for a time," said Marot, '* but not for long,
especially if anyone chances to hear your voice. No one
must hear it for a long time yet — that is my express wish."

The evenings with Marot she liked best of all, and extdted

The Obtrusive Gargoyle g

in the thought that none of his other pupils saw him as she
did — communicative, reminiscent and almost childish in his
readiness for any small diversion. They went to the theater,
or listened to the music in the square, or sat in Marot's studio,
she on a low bench listening to his tales of opera days and
triumphs. Marot was astonished to witness the quickening
of her intelligence, and the hold his ideas seemed to have
over her. He had never moulded so pliable a nature — ^he
attributed her impressionability to her recent grief, and to the
intense and reverent gratitude she felt to him.

"Are you lonely? — do you miss Paris?" he said one night.

She colored faintly. " Sometimes. "

" It is natural. You shall return there with me for a few
days whenever you like. Madame Marot will receive you
gladly, or, if you wish, you can return to your old lodging."
He awaited her answer ciuiously.

"Oh, no — oh, no! I am glad, now, that you brought me
away from Paris. Here all is fresh and new, there is nothing
dreadful to remember; but there I think of how poor Jean
died — gasping for breath. And then, I am not 'La Grise'
anymore. I am really different, cher mattre I"

What he had aroused was ambition, and the love for her
work. His wife ceased to deplore his infatuation, as he gave
her occasional accounts of the girl's progress. Old Marthe
had grown fondly attached to her.

But there came a week when Marot was detained by illness
in Paris. The days seemed endless, and Gabrielle realized
for the first time how all her week had merged to his visits,
and how truly lonely was her life otherwise. She stood near
her window and sang the studies that suddenly seemed so
difficult, and the gargoyle leaned mockingly above to listen,
dragging his ear forward with one grotesque paw. The after-
noon was dark, and threatening rain. She felt overwhelmed
with a sudden horrible sadness. Her voice broke, and she
hid her face in her arms. It was Marot, her kind old master,
alone, who gave her courage. How many years of work
and loneliness like this would realize his aim for her? And
meanwhile, who cared whether she laughed or wept? Even
Marot himself was more disttirbed at the roughness of her
voice than for its cause when she had spent hotirsof the night
in tears over sad memories. Would she go back to Paris, to
the gayety and excitement of the old life? In her heart

lo The Obtrrisive Gargoyle

she knew that "la demoiselle grise** had almost forgotten
how to trill and pirouette as of old before an enthusiastic
audience — even though the "new voice" that Marot was
slowly liberating should send the poor director into paroxysms
of envy.

Work — patience — ^new words, and hard to learn; and they
could not fill one's life! She leaned out of the window and
looked mechanically toward the square for the fluttering
crimson curtains that always made such a gay, delicious spot
of color on dull days. But the windows with their arches
and dividing stone bars were shut — and the gargoyle grinned
derisively.

"B6te! Horreur!" cried Gabrielle to him — and shut her
window with a crash.

She flung on a wrap and went out to say her prayers at the
cathedral, as a relief to loneliness rather than in any spirit
of devotion.

The place was almost deserted. The verger was cleaning
the great pillars with a btmch of leaves set on a long pole;
the dust of ages came drifting down. He paused in his work
and waited for Gabrielle 's daily greeting.

"How dark and dismal it is!** said the girl. "Everything
is so cold and gloomy that I am almost afraid to go over to
that chapel to say my prayers.'*

"There are flowers there, and the lamps are lit,*' said the
verger. He was hurt. The old cathedral in its dingiest
and darkest moods was his love and his life.

They stood looking toward one of the great rose windows
in the transept. "You are all sotmd asleep," he went on,
"when the light is finest. It is here — '* bringing his feet
together on a well-worn stone, "that you shotdd stand early
in the morning if you want to see the true beauty of those
windows."

A strange voice answered.

" May I come to-morrow morning, then, my good Clement?
You know I am greedy enough to gloat over the place in
its every possible aspect."

Gabrielle had not noticed a man standing near in the
shadowy aisle, and she went slowly away as he approached.

"I shall not open the doors so early to-morrow; it is better
to come in the afternoon, as usual," grumbled the old man,
not yet mollified.

The Obtrusive Gargoyle 1 1

There were spots of flame on the stone arches, and a broad
blue bar slanted down into the chapel of St. Francis. The
afternoon sun blazed on the delicate tracery of the great rose
window, and on the twelve narrow arched openings below
where glowed the gorgeous red of apostles' robes, popes with
croziers and aureoled saints, and kings, in scarlet and ermine.

The architect was always here at the same hour, seated in
the aisle that encircled the choir, while he sketched the effect
of the vaulting at various points, the decoration of the arch
over the sacristy door, or the design of a capital. Behind the
choir were the stained-glass windows of the twelfth and thir-
teenth centuries in deepest reds and blues, with their small
medallion panes picturing the lives of the saints. Among
them a more modem window asserted itself — ^vainly trying
to rival their coloring — ^bearing an image of the Archangel
Michael, warring and triumphant: the deep blue of his mantle
was thrown, as the stm began to decline, straight across the
face of the artist. It grew to be a signal for him to stop work,
for by the time the sun had gone there would be no light left
for sketching; but he was impatient of the garish half hour,
and bore the archangel a grudge.

She was there, as he had seen her many an afternoon, in
a seat in front of a huge pillar, from where she could see the
ftdl width of the transept and its two rosaces, and more than
half the choir with its wine-red glow and the warm brilliance
of the triforium. As the blue glare again dazzled him, the
architect looked savagely at the archangel and began to put
away his sketching materials. Suddenly a dark shadow ob-
scured the blue. The girl was standing not far off, looking
at him curiously.

"If she would stand there just an instant," he thought, "I
could finish putting in that figure." He seized his crayon and
made rapid strokes.

** Pardon me — I am in your light," she said, apologetically.

"Pray, don't movel" he cried; "you are in the archangel's
light — ^it is of the greatest service to me." She stood watch-
ing him, with a flicker of the old smile of " la demoiselle grise."

"Thank you so much!" he said in an instant. "You are
very good. Now I can get my drawing off to the &cole to-
night."

"That sculpture over the door is very beautiful."

"You come here every day — " he said, tentatively.

12 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

"You have noticed? — yet I have not seen you."

**You were in the chapel, or else sitting entranced with the
color in this glorious old place."

**I should like very much to see your drawings."

**I should find great pleasure in hearing you sing."

''You know?— how is that?"

** I have ears — not eyes alone — and I livenear the cathedral."

**I am not allowed to sing for anyone yet. I must close
my window. I did not think anyone heard but the gar-
goyles!"

** Please do not shut us all out! It is very faint and sweet;
I could not tell for a long time where it came from. You
should sing on Christmas day in the cathedral."

Gabrielle was trembling. It was all so unexpected, and she
could not half see this man now the sun had dropped down.
*' Please do not speak to anyone of my voice — ^yet. It would
displease my master."

''Then I beg that you will soon give me the pleasure of
hearing it. I am haunted by its beauty already. Made-
moiselle, if you do not, we shall all pray to be turned into
gargoyles!"

Gabrielle laughed. "Is there anyone but you?"

"A friend who arrives to-morrow. Will you do me the
great honor some day to sing in my studio?"

"I will ask my master — ^there is time enough yet," she
said. The thought of her kind Marot restrained her as no
influence had ever done. She surveyed the tall, muscular
stranger critically as she left him. His suggestion offered a
break, a variety in her monotonous life, but she walked away
with a deUberation new to her. " I will tell Marot, mon cher
maitre," she thought, singing softly as she went up the stairs
to her room, and opened the shutters to let in the last rays
of daylight. "I kiss my hand to you, gargouillesi You
look kinder than last night, and there is yet some joy in living."

Mechanically she turned to her glimpse of the square. The
architect stood in the window, between the crimson curtains,
which he had pushed aside against the stone framework.
He gave an exquisite military salute. Gabrielle sank back
in a chair and laughed with sheer childish delight.

Old Marthe came panting up the stairs with a basket of
fresh flowers. "A servant has just brought them — and you

The Obtrusive Gargoyle

13

will find some writing here." Gabrielle roused excitedly out
of sleep.

" 'Where others are enjoined to silence, the language of the
flowers may convey a fitting tribute to a beautiful voice.'"

Monsieur Tarchitect was abroad and astir early! His
windows were open, and her eyes wandered to them as they
had ever done, as if drawn by a magnet. That day a letter
came from Marot. sajring that he was ill and might not come
to T for a fortnight. So that, two days later, when a ser-
vant brought a formal and courteous note begging mademoi-

selle to give the great pleastire of her singing to the Comte de
Vilars and his friend, she hesitated no longer, but escorted
by old Marthe, who gabbled and rebelled, but yielded as ever,
crossed the square to the alluring doorway of mellow, fretted
stonework.

Gabrielle stood by the window, fingering the elusive, de-
licious draperies of crimson sUk. The Comte, who was grave,
musctilar, serious, absorbed in his art, directed a servant in
arranging a little table of refreshments. He was a new type
to the interested eyes of Gabrielle. She was quite at her

14 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

ease, standing in her old gray gown with a wide black hat
that shaded her eyes. Suddenly he stopped before her with
a smile and gesture that might have delighted a queen. " I
am selfish enough to wish to hear the first song myself — my
friend will soon arrive. Will mademoiselle begin?"

When she had stepped forward, he threw .himself into a
huge carved chair and waited with his eyes^^fixed upon her
in a dreamy, indolent expression.

She sang with a vigor and gradation of tone that would
have delighted Marot. As she lingered over the close, the
door opened and another man entered.

He bowed to the singer with the manner of a Paris ex-
quisite. **I was in time to hear the last few notes of
divine sweetness, — ^Vilars, this is too badl I would not for
the world have missed any of this pleasure."

''Mademoiselle will be generous, and give you an' equal
chance to judge of her great talent. I have never heard a
more beautiful voice," said the Comte.

Gabrielle looked from one to the other, knew them both
appreciative -and enraptured with her singing, and into the
new beauty of her voice there crept the old verve and fascina-
tion that had held audiences in Paris.

The sculptor and the architect came toward her exclaiming
in their enthusiasm. The former bent to kiss her hand, while
the Comte placed a chair and offered her a glass of wine. M.
Leroux's eyes, it seemed to her, did not leave her face.

'* If I am not to sing any more? — " said Gabrielle, raising
her hand to the glass.

"If mademoiselle will I — I did not dare to ask, thinking
she might be fatigued."

**I cotdd sing on and on when an audience listens as you
do, messieurs!" She was laughing and elated, and her old
audacity rushed over her beneath the admiring glances of
Leroux.

"Here is a song that I have learned — ^without the aid of
my master!" She was suddenly "LaOrise" again, flinging
bewitching glances at her listeners. The men applauded
frantically, and she sank down, breathless and radiant, on
a wide carved bench, while' Leroux brought her cakes and
wine.

"And yet, mademoiselle, that last is not worthy of you.
You are destined for such great things," said the Comte*

The Obtrusive Gargoyle i$

" I know, I know! but there is life, there is joy, just in that
reckless and foolish thing."

"Mademoiselle could make the poorest melody worthy if
she gave it the charm of her voice. I am indeed fortunate
to have left Paris, where there are now no singers." Ga-
brielle met the sculptor's eyes thoughtftdly.

•'Monsieur will be some time in T ?"

" The Comte kindly asks me to stay, and I shall have tht
use of his studio. I hope that you will come again, nor once
but many times."

The Comte on some pretext left the room, and the two
continued talking alone.

"You have enchanted me, mademoiselle, not only with
the charm of your voice, but with your eyes, your face —
Ciel! if I could have it in marble! The fact is this — I have
promised a head for the Exhibition, and I have begtm to
despair of ever finding a model. It would be the greatest
favor — and what exquisite lines — ^the forehead, the eyes —
Pardon! but I am given to raving. Wotdd you consent to
sitting, at least a few times?"

"I think — ^there is nothing to prevent," said Gabrielle.
"My master, Marot, is ill and away, and I cannot sing and
study all day."

"Marot! I know him well — ^the best of men! Do not let
him know tintil it is finished, and we will give the marble,
later, to him — ^that is, if I can bear to part with it. Marot !
he is the kindest of men."

"He is, indeed; no one has ever been so kind to me."

"But you have shut yourself away — ^why do you bar
everyone out — ^why do you spend your whole youth — "

"Nothing must interfere with my work, and my promise
to Marot — I owe'him everything," said the girl, rising proudly.

" Nothing shall interfere, mademoiselle, but surely to spend
an hour in these charming surroundings, to talk with such a
man as the Comte, an artist and litterateur — "

"You efface yourself nobly!" she laughed. "I will come,
then, to have my profile modeled by a sctdptor and to talk —
to the Comte."

As it happened, the Comte was seldom in the studio, or
passed in and out on some slight errand. The modeling
took longer than was expected, and Marot remained so ill

i6

The Obtrusive Gargoyle

that before his return the head was finished, and Leroux
had departed carrying his precious work with him to Paris.
Gabrielle was hopelessly, overwhelmingly in love. The
grave Comte had become her friend, but the sculptor with
his daring, insistent eyes, his enthusiasm, his reckless love-
making, filled all her thoughts. She worked mechanically,
but faithfully, according to her promise to Marot, and gased
up at the grinning stone faces above her window that seemed
to mock at the hopeless thraldom binding her.

*'I am in love I" she said to the darkening night.

'' Listen! she is in lovel " grinned the monster, ere the dark-
ness veiled him.

For the first time she became utterly discouraged with her
progress — dreaded the thought of a "career"; looked back-
ward and forward at the months of drudgery past and to come,
as if a limitless desert surrounded her, standing desperate and
solitary. At intervals, when she had attained some self-com-
mand, Leroux's letters came to dispel all her calmness of soul.

The Obtrusive Gargoyle 17

She wotdd throw her arms out on the dusty pile of opera
scores and remain thus for a long time, with her face hidden.
She longed for Marot to return and break the horrible spell.

The Comte de Vilars appeared to tmderstand. She talked
to him a little as he sat sketching an altar piece in a side
chapel. He too was soon returning to Paris, having taken
the studio for a few months in order to make special studies

in T for the course he was about completing. He was

less grave when Leroux was away, and treated her as a child
who needed to pour out her troubles.

One evening as he walked home with her in the dtisk
Gabrielle began hesitatingly, "You are so good to listen —
and I begin to be ashamed. I shall not talk of this any more. ' '

The architect pressed her hand. "I am fond of Leroux,
but you do talk a little too much about him to suit my
taste! I have something to say to you — ^to-morrow — "

She had a glimpse of his face as Marthe opened the door,
and ran upstairs in a tumult of new thoughts.

"I am better, quite recovered," said Marot. "I leave

to-morrow for T . I came in to see how all went with you

and to take a look at your work, which I have never seen."

"You are more than welcome," said his old pupil.

"You sctilptors say that the form is within the stone,
that it takes but the sure and patient hand to liberate it.
In the same way I set free a voice, by slowly breaking away
its coverings."

"You would have discovered a horror to the world in
liberating mine," said L^ry, who loved thus to ridicule his
master.

"This, too, is a thing of horror which you have freed," said
Marot, pausing in his walk before a figure whose faulty pro-
portions struck the most untrained observer.

"That is — a mistake," said L^ry, flinging a cloth over it
somewhat angrily, "to which we are all sometimes prone."

"Show me your new reliefs," said Marot, desiring peace.
" I hear they are very fine."

L^ry walked to a comer and pulled the damp cloth from
several pieces in process of modeling. As he explained them
he did not notice that a covering had fallen also from the
nearly completed marble of a woman's head, before which
Marot stood riveted.

1 8 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

"Mais — c'est La Grise — c'est Gabrielle — ^how in the name
of the saints have you done this?"

There was no loophole for excuse.

** You were not expected to see it — it is not qidte finished,"
said L^ry, hesitating and trying to laugh. Old Marot turned
on him.

** Explain, sir," he demanded, "how you have tricked me.
How have you seen the girl? You knew it was my express
wish to keep her by herself — ^that I had staked a great deal
on her operatic success. How did you find her out?"

"If you had not hidden her away so carefully, I should
not have found her! I should never have found her in Paris.
But when Gaston de Vilars wrote me of the exquisite voice
he heard while he sat in his studio, and described the girl
he saw in the cathedral, I felt sure it was La Grise — I went
down and found her."

"So it took a pair of you to trick me?"

"Vilars knew nothing of you or of our acquaintance."

"Ah, I see! You feared he would not be party to any
such manoeuver?" Marot 's voice quavered bitterly.

"I was crazy over the girl, and I wanted a model of her
head — ^this is almost promised for the Exhibition. What
calamity is there? My good Marot, nothing worse has
befallen!"

"I don't trust you — no, my God! I do not! Who knows
but that you have bewitched her, turned her head with flat-
tery— made her miserable?"

"She knows the world as well as I do."

"Come, an end of this — are you going back to her?"

"That ismy aflEair."

"Ah, you have wrought some mischief, I'll be bound.
You shall hear from me later," Marot thtmdered, as he went
down the rickety steps of the atelier.

He could not go for consolation to Madame Marot, whose
dark prophecies had been fulfilled.

The next night fotmd him with Gabrielle in his studio at

T ; she speechless, spent with weeping, leaning against

the heaped-up table where dust had lain tmheeded since his
weeks of absence. Everything spoke neglect, forgetfulness,
ingratitude, to the overwrought feelings of Marot.

"Give up your singing? as well throw yourself into the
sea — ^make way with your life I "

The Obtrusive Gargoyle

19

"I cannot sing — ^it chokes me. I cannot work, unless I
have some other end than the future you promise me. I love
L^ry — ^you say I must give him up, give up all thought of
loving any man for years — years.'*

"He is a bad man."

"I am bad, too — yes, that must be the trouble. I love
him."

" He will not love you. He will tire of you as he has tired
of everything, and ridictded all that he has once loved."

"You do not know him — ^you do not know all that he has
said to me."

'* I know more than enough, I know that you have both
tricked and duped me — that I have been made a fool of once
more. Go now child: I am not calm enough to talk further."

" I never meant to dupe you. I know I broke my promise,
but you were away — I was so discouraged and so lonely —

20 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

man Dieul — ^after all, what is a woman made of? In Paris, I
had lovers, it was sometimes gay, and yet I worked — "

** Rubbish! falsehood! You knew what I demanded —
after this I demand far more — and I have given what ? Time,
strength, energy, money — for this!*' — snapping his finger.
"Horrible! I kept you purposely from L^ry, because I
never trusted him."

"He never told me — ^till the very last day — ^that he had
seen me in the concert-hall in Paris. Oh, my good master,
believe me, I am not such an ungrateful creature! Perhaps I
can still sing and work — I will! I will! — give me one more
trial!"

Marot sat unmoved. Gabrielle's face bumed. She leaned
for a moment against his chair, and he knew that she was
weeping, but did not look up. Then she went out, down
to the street, and straight to the house of the Comte de Vilars.

Though it was late, there was a glow of light in his studio
windows. The Comte was shocked at the wretchedness in
her face as she recounted all to him.

"I am unwittingly a party to all this, it appears," he said
with a shrug. " t , in fact, was sole means of bringing you here.
I did not believe it of L^ry. I have a letter from him here
that I have not yet opened."

"Whichever way I turn," murmured Gabrielle, "I seem
to make myself and others wretchedly unhappy."

The Comte looked up from the letter pale and cold as she
had never seen him. "It becomes my miserable duty," he
said, averting his eyes, "to convey to you the news that
L^ry is tired of the whole affair, sorry for his part in it, and
anxious to withdraw. He has not been fair to Marot —
mademoiselle, I would rather cut my hand off than tell you
this."

"It will take me a little time to believe it," said La Grise,
who grew suddenly as white as the marble statue behind her.
" But I was too sure — I judged wrongly — ^why shotdd I have
expected — What can be done?" she murmured. "I
can't think; everything has come in such a whirl."

" I will see Marot in the morning — an)rthing else that I can
do for you, always remember that I am ready — "

The poor girl could not even find words to thank him as
they separated.

It was a night of hideous dreams. She stood on a dark,

The Obtrusive Gargoyle 21

cold platform confronting a moving sea of stone faces, gro-
tesque and horrible. Her voice, grown raucous and strange
to hear, was qtiite out of her control; but at each fresh turst
of her weird music the listeners bulged their eyes again,
dragged their ears forward expectantly, and sent forth peals
of sardonic laughter. L6ry was there, too, turned griffon,
mocking more horribly than them all. In the dark she called
out for Marot — ^for M. le Comte —

It was morning, and there was his voice below, talking
to old Marthe. **Tell mademoiselle to keep up courage —
I have seen le maftre, he has promised to receive me in an
hour, and there will soon be good news."

M. le Directeur leaned back wearily, wondered if his car-
riage was waiting outside, fumed because his assistant was
not present to-day of all others, to spare him the thankless
task of sifting bad from worse in the great influx of singers
that the season had brought to Paris.

** I might be saved this — ^there is nothing good here to-day,"
he muttered.

A few of the footlights were lit in the great opera house,
and a handful of people m the front fauteuils were criticising
•a soprano's rendering of the Jewel Song.

" Heavy — high notes poor — ^bah! it is sacrilege to listen! "
By an angry movement he conveyed to the chef d'orchestre
that the soprano was not pleasing to him The music ceased,
and the disappointed singer retired from view.

** Whom have we now?" asked the director of a person of
official bearing who approached him consulting a written
paper.

"Mile. D. — She writes a charming letter; she has studied
five years — ^her mother is waiting here across the aisle. She
has spent all she had in her studies, and the assistant director
encouraged her last spring and promised her this hearing."

"Then it is his place to be here."

The young applicant sang a difficult air of Mozart that
must have cost her months of study. Dtiring its intricacies
the director made a wry face. "What was Mabillard think-
ing of? Tell her to go back and practise a year on that
trill."

"She may be nervous."

22 The Obtrusive Gargoyle

"All the worse. No, I have no patience with her." The
official returned with the message, and the singer descended
to the elder woman in rusty black. They went slowly
out arm in arm, the mother in tears.

** My time is up; I am due at the Place de TEtoile. Finish
the rehearsal, I am just leaving, "he said to the chef d'orchestre,
and made his way out. Two people were entering by the
same side door.

"My good Marot! I am about departing! What brings
you here?"

"What do I bring here? — an exquisite voice. This is
Mile. Gabrielle Tr^mars, a contralto."

" Better a soprano, we are in need of them. My contralto
parts are filled."

" I wrote to you some time ago."

"Yes, but I at one time tmderstood that the lady had
forsaken her art."

"On the contrary," said Gabrielle, "I have more ambition,
I am more confident of success than ever."

"That is well said, but — you will excuse me to-day, Marot.
I am already late, and as I said, no contraltos are needed at
this time."

"At least hear her for five minutes, my good director, for
the sake of old times."

"No, no — you must excuse me, my nerves are unstrung.
My singers are all engaged; the cast is full. I have told
them to refuse all other applicants. I am on the verge of
distraction with so much bad singing."

Marot looked as if about to despair. It was true he had
come imheralded, venturing on the knowledge that the direc-
tor himself was to hold a hearing to-day. He had seized the
first opportimity in many months to have a free afternoon
with Gabrielle in Paris. Fate had been against him — ap-
pointments made with the assistant director had been can-
celed for various trivial reasons. Now the season was
late, but he had felt assured of success in the matter of the
voice that three years of his instruction had rounded and
perfected. As the director replaced his hat and pushed
past them down the corridor muttering some apology, the
good Marot's face fell.

Not so with Gabrielle. The loss of this chance would
mean months, perhaps a whole year, of delay. Some singers

The Obtrusive Gargoyle

23

had waited for years on this man's pleasure. She drew her
arm out of Marot's.

The footsteps of the director were far away down the de-
serted corridor. If he reached the door at the end —

Laughing, with the old audacity in her eyes, she sped after
him. Marot heard one of her marvelous trills bubbling
like the spring notes of a bird; then the whole great rich
beauty of her voice poured forth, echoing in the marble
corridor, thrilling her old master as no tones of hers had ever
done.

Far away, arotmd the curve of the passage, the director
paused. The singer too stood still, but her music flooded
on. She saw a swing door open, and Mabillard join the
other man with a questioning glance.

** What is this — ^this great organ voice?" cried the director,
as she paused for breath. With their hats in their hands
the two men came toward her.

"Mademoiselle, you have conquered. Return with us, if
you please, to the stage. I am overwhelmed — M. Marot,
this great voice — we must have it. I have heard nothing
like it."

A year later, in the foyer, two men were walking.

"I shall be quite content," said the Comte de Vilars, **to
be the husband of a great opera singer, even though the world
shall credit me with little individuality of my own. Gabrielle,
perhaps, is not deeply in love with me — "

** If that is so — ^which I doubt — ^all the better for her Art.
Yes, I am still merciless!" laughed Marot.

^\

"W

PEARI^ of China: A

Talc of the Pacific Coasts by
Harold Ballagh* Ultistrations
by Edward Mayer*

^ ^ ^

^HATisthat?"

According to the sign that flashed by the Yesler
Avenue car-line windows it was a restaurant.

Little Seattle boys, with noses pressed flat against the
street-car windows, pointed it out to their mothers, who if
they had come from the region of upper Yesler Avenue —
where very new villas stood in irreproachable rectitude in
grounds adorned ks yet by nothing but the black stumps of
the ''clearing" — ^hastily plucked the youngsters into correct
positions and whispered: ** Don't talk about it!"

It was no wonder the sign amazed the beholders, for flank-
ing the long English word were the most astonishing scratches
and scrawls and the climax of sensational advertising — a
marvelous, fierce, black dragon, breathing out frightful red
spirals upon a flaming yellow background. Forgetting past
repulses the boys would gasp: **What is it, mamma?"

** A Chinese restaurant — ^now hush!" with the usual clutch
upon unruly legs. The **hush" is easily explained. The

♦Written for Short Stories.

A Pearl of China

25

beautiful lake and the villas at one extreme of the long street-
car line are as far removed from the ugliness and baseness of
architecttwe and purpose at the other as is the white diamond
from the polluting carbon. For this Chinese restaurant was
only one of many similarly ignoble places in Jackson Street.

Within the house of the Dragon there was a main room
bare of carpet, studded with ugly little tables also bare except
for the crude furnishings of a tenth-rate eating-house. Ram-
shackly doors led into tiny, dark closets where unsavory
bunks gave a hint of those strange sleeps induced by opium.
The Dragon was practically deserted by day, but at night it
echoed with the sing-song speech of a dozen different Chinese
dialects, and where these dialects failed of their purpose the
yellow men of the North talked to the yellow men of the
South in broken English.

"And when shall we start?" asked Ho Wing Sui.

** To-morrow," said Yung Lit

Now Yung Li had been fifty moons in Jackson Street;
many a little group of contraband Chinamen, smuggled down
from British Columbia, had entered through his rear alley
and disappeared ghost-like down his cellar steps to emerge
one by one into those places long waiting for them; for as a
god Yung Li held these newcomers in the hollow of his hand.

A group of ten men at this moment eyed ratlike the fat
and unctuous face

of Yung Li, for
was he not the
arbiter of their
fate?

*'Whatdowedo
when we get
there?" persisted
Ho Wing Sui.

Yung Li stared
at his questioner
in a manner that
made some of
those immobile ones feel as if they were once again between
decks in the foul-smelling Chinese steerage of the C. P.,
longing through the lift and dip of the odious waves for
land or death.

''Work!" finally grunted Yung Li.

26 A Pearl of China

''Mines?" queried the irrepressible Ho Wing Sui.

Yung Li gave him a basilisk stare, but Ho Wing Sui un-
abashed eyed the great man in a manner compelling, pos-
itively commanding. One hand, narrow and delicate, with
a long nail ornamenting the little finger, unconsciously
grasped spasmodically the back of the rude chair next him.
Yung Li angrily opened his mouth, but his fish-like eyes
falling upon that clenched hand he suddenly closed it. To
match that hand there should be education, station, clothes,
money! With electrical rapidity he took in the whole
man, soiled, coarse clothing, matted cue, pale, cadaverous
face.

' * What would you pay to change from work in coal mines ? ' '
smiled Yung Li in a manner intended to be ingratiating.
So grotesque was this affectation of amiability, belied by the
green and cruel eyes, that an involuntary shiver of repugnance
chilled the blood of Ho Wing Sui. The beady eyes of the
other nine traveled from their tmexpected champion to the
simpering, calculating features of the highbinder. Work?
They had signed for work, and it mattered little what sort of
work it might be; they knew they were mortgaged body
and soul for years to come, but were not their parents in
China cared for in the meantime? And themselves, if they
died, would go back at least in the body to the consecrated
ground of the faithful, for was not this in the bond ? What
then, did this man, for three whole weeks a man of silence,
mean by his questions ?

"Pay?" repeated Ho Wing Sui, with the first choke in his
voice, ** Nothing! "

"In coal mines," leered Yung Li, " a man arises before day,
enters the bowels of earth, into the heat of hell, tears his
hands with the heavy iron tools of this land, breathes the
poisonous fire damp, handles fearful explosives, contracts
the fast lung sickness, under taskmasters he does the work
of beasts of burden, he is cursed and kicked by these foreign
devils and when he wearily crawls up i,ooo feet to the sur-
face, it is already night. Thus, he never sees the light of the
sun — even for many years, if he live so long! "

Ho Wing Sui's grasp of the chair tightened, a look of agony
escaped his control, for Yung Li had judged rightly that his
questioner was unfortunately gifted with imagination, with
sensibilities.

A Pearl of China

27

"And if one attempts escape," continued the highbinder,
" he is killed with cruel tortures! "

Before Ho Wing Sui there sprang a vision of lines of kneeling
prisoners, hands tied behind them, the executioner with sword
in hand, the blood-pit yawning. He would not think on
the tortures these prisoners might have undergone, and he
doubted not the words of Yung Li, for he had seen men in
even worse plight than a life in the
mines.

"But I cannot — pay," he mur-
mured from lips his pride kept
from trembling — for Ho Wing Sui
was but a youth. ** I have nothing
but these rags."

"Not even a charm to save
yotu^elf from — the mines, where
one lives in filth, in eternal darkness,
in silence, no speech, no book — ?"
Ytmg Li involuntarily grinned.

" Nothing — ^but — ^this — " stam-
mered Ho Wing Sui, drawing from
his breast a little embroidered bag,
attached to a silk cord that passed
over one shoulder and under his
other arm. Yung Li snatched it
from his hand and hastily opening
the bag he turned out upon the
bare table a pearl that appeared to
stare back at his astonished eyes
in matchless innocence.

"It is priceless," flashed joyously
through bis evil heart.

"It is worth little," he growled
out loud.

"The jewel is of great value — to me," said Ho Wing Sui,
through parched lips. His nine companions crowded around
with looks of envy.

"You have stolen it!" ejaculated Yung Li.

"Rather all else I had was stolen from me," said Ho Wing
Sui, and Yung Li believed, but would not acknowledge that he
did.

"Nay, it is stolen," but seeing the drawing together of

38 A Pearl of China

Ho Wing Sui's brows as he reached out for the pearl, he added,
'* nevertheless I will accept it as a gift — a free gift — and in
return you and your comrades need never go to the mines!
To work light and pleasant will I take you."

Then the nine sat down and smoked as speechless and
immobile as they had been throughout. But upon Ho Wing
Sui's brow stood the beads of exhaustion, for his recent experi-
ences had sapped the strength and the manhood from him.

** To-morrow," said Yung Li, craftily, "you will all go up
country to pick hops, there is no work easier."

Tricky highbinder! There are no coal mines on Puget
Sotind in which Chinese are employed, and the men had been
destined for the hop fields from the first.

Yung Li packed his voluntary slaves aboard a box car of
the Seattle, Lakeshore and Eastern, for these cars were used
to convey the crowds that swelled the ordinary traffic toward
the hop fields, forty miles beyond.

Doubting the intentions of Yung Li, but feeling poignantly
his helplessness in a strange country, without a knowledge
of the language. Ho Wing Sm took what comfort he could in
vitwing the landscape when the station of Stillaquamish was
reached. He looked at the little mining town huddled
between the great mountains — covered with splendid sentinel
firs and blazing with the first bright leaves of autumn —
behind which the sim rose too late and set all too early. As
he saw men passing with the slime of the pit upon them he felt
soul-sick, for his eyes told him here indeed was a coal mine.

"You have tricked me! My pearl!" he said, passionately,
holding out his hand.

Yung Li in pure bravado took out the little embroidered
bag and held it toward the pale, agitated young man only
to snatch it back with a diabolical laugh.

" My only hope of ransom I have parted with to this thief! "
hammered itself subconsciously into Ho Wing Sui*s brain.

** It was a gift," said Yung Li, with intense enjoyment of the
evident agony of the other, "and I keep it forever. Go you
aU, down that road."

Ho Wing Sui followed automatically, not noticing the
strange crowd he found himself with, for there were white
men, women and children of every social condition, and In-
dians, the clam-digging Siwash and those from British Co-
lumbia and Alaska as well. Among these was one clad not

A Pearl of China

29

theories of the
prising tableau

like the average squaw, but in the neat apparel that pro-
claimed her to have passed creditably through a Government
Indian school. Her lithe young figure matched her pleasing
face and her intelligent, lustrous eyes. She was the daughter
of an Indian chief, and her tribe, having disposed instantly of
their beautiful woven baskets in- Seattle, had pressed on to
their yeariy camp at the StiUaquamish hop ranch. She had
taken in the whole little scene in which the pale, proud-looking
Chinaman had been rebuffed. Skilled in sign reading, she
revolved a dozen
sur-
she
had wittjessed Did
he not look 'like a
chief's son? Why
then had he clothing
so inferior ? Was the
ugly, well-dressed
man his master? And
did he keep the other
man's money ? What
strange speech aiid
clothing had these
men? The talk was
not English which she
knew well, nor French
which she knew a
little, nor yet Russian
which also she had
heard.

**Bill, see dem
Chinks ahead ? What
gall old Wolf has to bring Chinks to a camp wid white
men I" the Indian girl overheard; and so these strange men
were called Chinks.

"Wolf lost part of his crop last year because there wasn't
enough pickers, and I heam he done bargained to git every
white man, Injim, black man that the Snoqualmie hop men
left in Seattle and up the coast," replied Bill.

" But Chinks I Now, Tom, I don't mind niggers, nor dagoes
— ^work wid 'em in de mines — ^but Chinks !"

30 A Pearl of China

**Shet up, Bill, somebody *11 hear you — ^it won't be so hard
to fix 'em."

As the two yoimg miners rudely passed by the slow-moving
Indians the girl looked at them attentively. Ho Wing Sui
noticed them not at all. Choking with the dust of the road,
stirred up by the htmdreds of eager feet ahead of him, for
the crowd that had tumbled out of the mixed passenger
and freight train struggled onward to get a choice of camping
positions, he was amazed at the laughter that floated back
to him.

''If these men and women and children were going as
slaves to mines, would they laugh?'' he asked himself. The
further he left behind the rattle of machinery, the shtmting of
filthy coal cars, the hiss of donkey engines, the lighter beat his
heart. Also the enclosing moimtains no longer crushed the
road under stem and threatening feet, the way led out into a
valley glittering with masses of green through which wan-
dered a wide stream dimpling imder the kiss of the September
sun — such a valley! Was it not a vineyard fringed with
orchards?

"Those be the hop fields," said Ytmg Li, **and this is the
owner thereof."

The Chinaman looked up at a man tall and fair, for he had
come from the Norseland, seated on a great white horse.

*' You will find your yob a good yob," said the owner of the
ranch, grinning amiably. Only Yung Li tmderstood. " How
many men could you get ? "

'*Have got ten," said Yung Li.

"The money for the yob is to go to you?"

"Yes, cause why I pay for chow," explained Ytmg Li.
"Where sleep?" he added.

"In that tent," said the big man pointing with his riding
whip, and ttmiing his horse around he galloped up the broad
avenue toward his dwelling, a large frame house with ver-
andas, from which he issued orders for the accommodation
of the newcomers in the various parts of his estate. The bunk
houses were already full, covered wagons sheltered many of
the pickers, a g3rpsy-like camp quickly arose on the fringes
of the fields. The Indians, stationed nearest the Chinese,
were soon in living order, and then this small army of laborers
went to work — or was it play? — among the vines.

delicious, clean and healthy smell of the hops scented

A Pearl of China

31

the atmosphere; great poles, vine-covered, stood in inter-
minable rows down the shining valley; huge empty boxes
cried out for their fragrant burden, and twinkling fingers,
keeping time to chattering tongues and merry laughter,
filled them with the delicate, green, paper-Uke fruit of the
vine. There were men who did nothing but cut the vines
near the roots, leaving only the stubble, and then took to the

pickers the festooned hop poles. There were others who
bore away the brimming, huge but light boxes to the hop
bams, leaving coupons for the same in the hands of the pickers.
There were races run between merry maidens and audacious
youths; there were syndicate boxes, and there were children's
boxes, largely filled by the pluckings of grandparents. The
green of the aisles was interspersed by dashes of vivid color,

3 a A Pearl of China

the head coverings of Indians, the flaunting of short-skirted
girls; in sections of the field fingers worked to the rhythm of a
lively chorus.

**The man says, put no leaves in the boxes/' explained
Yung Li to his men, watching but lifting no finger to the work,
for on the morrow he wotild return to Seattle and smoke
again in the house of the Dragon, while he watched the ebb
and flow of custom in the place. Ten men in the hop fields
for many days insured good interest on the money of the high-
binder. He smiled grimly at the thought and clutched at the
little bag which held a pearl too precious to leave behind him.

Among the Indians who chanced to be picking next to the
Chinese was the girl with star eyes who saw this gesture
and the answering flush on Ho Wing Sui's thin cheeks. Her
interrupted surmisings on the station platform again broke
into full gallop.

Yung Li only remained long enough to see that his country-
men caught the trick of stripping the hop vines to good advan-
tage, then he returned to the tent and slept away the day.

Ho Wing Sui, too proud to ask any favors of the coolies
by whom he was surrounded, was agreeably surprised by the
nature of the work, but that did not dtdl his anguish at the
ignominy of his position. For the thousandth time he
reviewed the events which preceded his slavery — ^for such
he well knew it was. Was it possible that three weeks before
he had been the sole possessor of a forttme and master of
servants, while now he toiled beside bond servants? Who
then was his enemy? He had been so busy preparing for the
Government examinations which he hoped would usher him
into an official post that he had failed to keep up his former
friendships, but at least he knew of no enemies. On the
last night in China he could remember his only uncle, not
much older than himself, had coaxed him from his studies and
had taken him to many curious places. He shrunk from
the looks and the odors of the last joint, but his uncle had
laughingly told him that more was to be learned from life
than from books and he had reluctantly followed him within.
He remembered nothing beyond joining him in a drink, and
when he woke up he found himself on the ocean in repulsive
company, in coarse clothes, robbed of his money and even his
rings; and when he tried to get satisfaction from the chief
of the party, he discovered that the identification papers

A Pearl of China 33

described him acctirately, even to a birth-mark upon the arm.
In despair of convincing foreign inspectors of the truth of his
story when he could not Chinese, he had silently borne his
examination with his companions, trusting to escape later.
Alas! he had tried once, he had been thwarted, and now what
was left him when even his pearl was gone? The pearl his
mother on her dying bed had pressed into his hand, in a little
bag of her own work. Who would benefit by his disappear-
ance? Undoubtedly his kindly uncle, for he was the next heir
— ^therefore he must have done this treacherous deed, for
by the evidence of the identification certificate, it was care-
fully planned even to the procuring of someone to imper-
sonate him. In trouble of soul he raised his hand to cover
the mist in his eyes, and when he took it down he beheld the
Indian maid, straight as the firs in the surrounding hills,
with compassion speaking eloquently in her glance.

Ho WingSui was astonished, he even opened his lips, but the
girl unsmilingly lowered her eyelids and busied herself with
the hop picking, humming a song.

** If I spoke she could not understand," thought the China-
man, "and yet it looks almost as if she did understand."
He glanced at the old crones about her, the young bucks and
the brawny braves, and he marveled what manner of woman
this might be. Her modesty and her dignity, her low voice
as she spoke to her people, appealed to him more than
the loud laughter and coquetry of the miners' daughters
further down the line.

**Is she too a captive?" he asked himself, **a captive perhaps
of the Indians — but they seem to obey rather than command
her." For the first time in three weeks he forgot his own mis-
fortunes in wonder as to this young woman. The girl divin-
ing this abruptly dropped her work and walked in the direc-
tion of the hop bams. From these tower-like buildings came
the pungent smell of hops drying by furnace heat. Thousands
of pounds of these were on every side fresh, dry, baled, sus-
taining the claim of Washington to the greatest hop crop
in the world. Activity, movement, life were on every side of
her; reaching her tent she sat for a moment wondering at the
trouble she had seen in the Chinaman's eyes, but soon her
attention was distracted by low voices at the back of her tent.

"Well learn old Wolf to bring in Chinks to take the bread
out of honest men's mouths! "

34 A Pearl of China

**When we went to him and stated our -position he jest
laughed and said he wished he could get more industrious
Chinamen."

"Damn Wolf! Becatise he owns this big ranch and puts
money in bank he needn't think he can walk roughshod over
working men — well leam him!"

••How, Bill?"

"Ttxm loose on the Chinks."

"Sh-sh-sh!"

**What fer? This is Injtm quarters, I ain't skeered of
them tmderstandin', or stoppin* us if they did "

"Who?"

"Well, six of us — you'll be ntmiber seven, pardner — ^we'll
jest natcherly be practising with our firearms at midnight
and by accident them Chinks will pass in their checks."

"Then a sheriff will be sent for — "

"Easy to lay it on the Injuns. It's a-goin' through all
right, all right — but come on back to work, Tom."

Out of the girl's conflicting emotions sprung aims flamelike
in intensity. She would save her people and she would warn
the strangers. She returned to the hop picking and gave no
sign of her resolve.

When the sun sank suddenly behind the gleaming top of
Ranier and the lower moimtain walls of the fragrant valley,
the fields were deserted by the chattering hundreds. The
Indians and the Chinamen alone remained. Yung Li, re-
freshed by sleep, walked ponderously down the rows of
stubble, collected the tickets from his men and made his
way to the pay office.

"At the last," said the girl to a man of her band, "get the
money for all our tickets."

The inquiring eyes of the Indian rested on the daughter
of his far-away chief.

" We will not wait for the end of the picking; as soon as it is
dark we will start on the trail to Snoqualmie, for there are
even larger hop fields — also we will go in silence."

To establish an alibi for her tribe was very simple, but to
caution the strangers was a matter of diflGlculty. She was
glad there followed a cloudy night, for she had dreaded the
light of the stars that jostle each other in the firmament of
Washington as nowhere else in the world. Watch as she

A Pearl of China 35

would, she found no opporttmity to communicate with the
young Chinaman, the chief's son, as she thought.

"Go," she said to her people, "one at a time, and leave
this bundle in the first tree beyond the long trestle ,tmite there
and go in a band to Redmond and make your'presence known
before the moon rises. ' ' Now as the moon did not appear before
eleven she was satisfied that the miners could not charge any
murder upon the Indians.

After the last of the tribe had been swallowed up in the
dusk she slipped around the tents and hid herself in the under-
brush near the quarters of the Chinese. She would have
gone boldly to their tent, but a man smoked idly hour after
hour on the fence in full view of the entrance — evidently he
was there to see that the Chinese did not escape. By eleven
o'clock a deep silence _
brooded over the
ranch, for rising be-
fore the sun these
toilers sought rest
early. The Indian
girl waited yet longer;
she shivered in spite
of her blanket.

"If I cannot warn
them all," she said |^/. .
to herself, "I wish I ' W...r^:v;, ^:.
might save the man
who was sorrowful." She looked sadly at the^^moon, dimly
visible through swiftly moving clouds.

"It is now nearly midnight and I have made no headw>ky
because of the watchman," she told herself. At that moment
her eyes brightened, for was not the' man's head ^unk in
sltmiber upon his bosom? She crept stealthily to the tent
and called softly: "Mr. Chink! Mr. Chinkl"

There was a smothered reply in an unlgiown tongue.

"He cannot understand me," flashed despairingly through
her mind. Suddenly she remembered that she had hummed
a song when he caught her looking at him in the hop fields.
It was a forlorn chance, but she hummed the tune and in a
moment the man she looked for stood near her, his paper-
soled shoes deadening his footfalls. She motioned for him to
follow and by signs endeavored to express his peril to him.

36

A Pearl of China

She covered his strange garments with her blanket and had
barely gained the woodland path when a sharp volley flashed
from behind the fence and the whole ranch rang with a sudden
uproar.

Ho Wing Sui paled as he heard the sound, the moon coming
out from the clouds gave him light to follow the girl's swift
footsteps across the high trestle. She plunged into the wood
beyond and presently thrust a bundle of European clothes
into his arms. She motioned him to put them on and to wait

for her. Speeding back to the ranch she found crowds of
curious men and women surrounding the gruesome sight of
the lifeless bodies of the band of Chinamen, for the tent over
them had been lifted literally off its pegs.
** Serves 'em right, the Chinks!"
*' Don't know who done it."

*' Old Wolf won't never try to bring no more Chinks here! "
**Well, then, why didn't they stay to home?"
Nowhere was there a syllable of compassion for the fate
of these men.

A Pearl of China

37

Suddenly the Indian's keen eyes detected the little bag
for which she looked. Yung Li in his death struggle had
grasped the string. In the wink of an eyelash the girl had
cut the cord and secreted the bag. Among the shoving
crowd, tmder the flickering lantern lights, her action was
unnoticed.

"There's just ten," said a man.

"But there was eleven," reminded another.

"Nit!" cried the first, "one of 'em went away early in the
morning." Therefore no search was made for a survivor.

When the girl next stood before Ho Wing Sui and pointed
out the way to Seattle, she handed him the embroidered bag.

Ho Wing Sui, astonished, touched to the heart, opened it.
He passed over the American coins, earned by Ytmg Li's
slaves, and held for a moment under the clear radiance of the
moon his mother's last gift, then he pressed into the brave
girl's hand, with smiling lips over white teeth, his priceless
pearl.

iWO Men and a IVomant

A Story of Italian Prison Life, by
GtSLZia. Deledda. Translated from
the Italian by Florence Maclntyre Tyson*

^ ^ ^ ^

AMONG the prisoners who arrived at the Penitentiary on
the 23d of March, as the setting stin was flooding with
crimson its cold, grim walls, was a young man of distinguished
appearance; he was dressed in gray, and the folds of his large,
soft gray hat, adorned with a knot of gray ribbon, quite hid
his pale, thin face, with its aquiline nose and carefully kept
pointed beard. During the journey he had not spoken once,'
but sat with bent head and knitted brows, his eyes intently
fastened upon his thin, nervous hands with their long,polished
nails, enclosed in the shining bands of the steel handcuffs.
On reaching the Penitentiary he had for an instant raised his
head and fixed his shining, burning eyes upon the counte-
nance of the Direttore, who on his side returned the gaze
coldly and at length. By a queer coincidence, the prisoner
and the Direttore had the same name — Cassio Longino! And
they both knew it; and the prisoner, who in his distant
country across the sea where " Cassio *' means *' a white petti-
coat,** had often been the subject of many a caricature, experi-
enced now a sort of bitter satisfaction, on seeing himself on
that account sought by the cold, scornful glance of the
Signore Direttore. With the first glance, the two men hated
each other. The Direttore was approaching middle life, was
small and stooped a little. His feet and hands were small,
and the latter were always pltmged in the pockets of his long,
black overcoat. His clean-shaven face bore the marks of
phjrsical suffering, which was accentuated in deep lines about
the pale, thin lips; his eyes were small and green and full of
an almost cruel indifference; his hair was blond and short,

^Translated for Short Stories.

Two Men and a Woman 39

and his ears large and prominent. For all these reasons, but
chiefly because he was the commandant of the prison, he
was exceedingly displeasing to No. 245; and No. 245 was
displeasing to the commandant on account of his haughty
manner, the fiery look with which he observed him, and
especially on account of his vigorous, superb youtfi.

While the prisoners were being consigned to their quarters,
the Direttore did not open his mouth, and for several days,
Cassio, shut up in a private cell, did not again see him. His
cell faced the East, and through the tiny aperture pierced in
the great stone rampart, he could see the distant Apennines,
still covered with snow, and the Tuscan landscape, over which
the early spring was scattering a vivid green sward, and the
pale, tender coloring of bursting twig and blossom. In the
Penitentiary garden, which was ctiltivated by prisoners
clad in white linen ' suits and red caps, Cassio, who by
especial permission of the Government retained his gentle-
man's clothes, watched the peach trees burst into a glory
of intensest pink, and the apple trees toss their delicate
bloom in rich masses through the balmy fragrant air.

A prey to keen anguish and despair, he never wandered far
from his cell. The long, silent evenings overwhelmed him
with despair; often he did not sleep at night, but tossed
feverishly upon his hard straw pallet. When, in the morn-
ing, the guard, a great, tall fellow, whose red head brushed
against the ceiling of the cell, wotild come in to make up the
bed, Cassio was always dressed and standing before his tiny,
barred window.

Outside the swallows were wheeling and fluttering about,
their wings and breasts flashing in the sunshine. The
prisoner did not deign to speak a word to the guard, nor did
he take the slightest notice of the continual complaints,
whistles, or gestures of his neighbor on the right; but when
the exercise hour arrived and he was allowed to walk in the
courtyard, he paced in haughty indifference, without even a
glance at his companions, up and down the sad, dew-covered
pavement.

The rumor spread through the prison that he was a very
rich lord from Sardinia, a relation of the Direttore, and since
the Direttore was feared and hated (though none of the
prisoners knew the reason of this hate and fear, for the poor
man had never done them any evil, except with his look of

40 Two Men and a Woman

icy indifference), No. 245 within a week after his arrival, was
hated, and strange to say, was feared.

Having requested permission to write, the first of April he
was sent for into the office; through the barred window
there penetrated a ray of pale sunshine, in whose light danced
the shadows of a distant treetop. The Direttore, bent more
than usual, was working at a gray table; he neither moved
nor spoke for a long time, during which Cassio, standing
upright and stiff, his eyes fixed on the branches trembling
in the sunshine, grew hot with humiliation.

Ah! in the presence of the others, of that crowd of crimi-
nals, and the vile guards, he could at least give himself the
satisfaction of taking refuge in a certain, scomftd dignity;
he was stronger than those who bound him, greater than
those whom be would not even deign to call companions
in misfortune, but in the presence of this little man, so ill and
full of disdain, he must bow, must reply, must humiliate him-
self.

"You," said the Direttore brusquely, turning around but
not rising, "are condemned to three years of simple detention
for forgery; and you may write only once a month."

His voice was rather weary, but the tone was pure Tuscan.

"I know it," replied Cassio, "but I have not asked to be
allowed to write to my own home, but on my own account, in
my own cell."

"It is not possible. Why do you not ask to be placed in
the office of the clerks?"

"Is there chance of being allowed to do so?"

"Yes, there is every chance."

That very day Cassio proffered his request, arid o» the next
was placed in the office, where a great quantity of work was
badly executed by three other prisoners. The room, which
was next to that of the Direttone, was even more desolate and
gloomy, and the three clerks, the first, fat and bald, with
small, bleared eyes; the second, fair, pale, and with a trans-
parent look, and the third, a tall muscular young man, with
black curly hair, and the face of a Roman emperor, made a
bad impression on the new arrival.

They appeared resigned to, and even contented with, their
melancholy fate. Cassio, on the other hand, experienced a
profound disgust, which was but accentuated by the stupid
resignation of his companions in misfortune — a very anguish

Two Men and a Woman 41

of impotent desperation, and regretted his request. Better
to have remained alone in his cell , with his hands clasping the bars
of the little window, and before him the distant Apennines,
that brought to him memories of his own native mountains,
resounding with the neighing of his black charger, dashing in
pursuit of the straying sheep— alone with his sentence and
his sorrow!

He of the curly head, bolder than the other two, who con-
tented themselves with casting stealthy glances at him,
sought promptly, though respectfully, to make his acquaint-
ance. (They knew that he had the same name as the Diret-
tore, and so it was told among the other prisoners.)

**Are you a Sardinian?"

"Yes;" replied he coldly.

"Since Fate has sent you to this place, allow me — *'

"A beautiful Fate!" interrupted Cassio bitterly, and cut
ofE sharply the compliment the unfortunate man was about
to present to the presumed great Sardinian signore. But
he said nothing more himself, nor asked anything of the
others.

Three days later, there arrived for him from Sardinia a
letter bearing an air of indefinable elegtmce. The hand-
writing was large and firm, while a delicious, almost imper-
ceptible fragrance escaped from the sheets.

The Direttore opened it, and read it with a certain hesita-
tion and half feeling that he had been expecting it.

After all, he was a man who was still yotmg; he had
suffered much and loved much, and if his own sufferings had
produced that profound indifference which passed for
cruelty among the unhappiness it was his fate^^to control,
there still remained in his heart something of sympathy and
compassion. Had No. 245 been a poor devil, like almost all
the other prisoners, instead of a most interesting personality,
the Direttore, after the first day, would never have given him
another thought. But this handsome young stranger, with
his haughty, distinguished air, who had arrived surrounded
by a romantic mystery, had attracted the attention of every-
one, as well as his own.

The queer stories current in the gloomy cells and dark
corridors had also reached his ears.

The thought that there might be something of truth in
them, had even begun to pierce his customary indifference

42 Two Men and a Woman

with a faint interest, which was augmented as he perused
the letter.

Not that it contained anything of especial interest. It
was written by a half-sister of Cassio.

An intense affection manifested itself through all the four
sheets, a certain nameless sweetness, and exquisite sug-
gestion of comfort and resignation.

** Have courage, Cassio, do not despair nor suffer too much;
remember that we two are alone in the world, alone to love
and believe in one another. The time will pass, and when God
reunites us, I will know how to recompense thee for the
immense sacrifice thou hast made for me. Do not feel
humiliated nor cast down; the good know that thy fault was
an act of heroism — "

''Indeed,'* thought the Direttore, "prisoners are always
innocent, generally are victims, but that they should be
heroes!"

This letter, so different from the vulgar epistles that were
accustomed to come to the Penitentiary; so good, delicate,
and loving, gave him food for reflection.

A sort of morbid curiosity took possession of him, against
which he struggled in vain, to find out, to know everything.
So that in spite of himself, though not contrary to the regula-
tions of the establishment, which he scrupulously observed,
he sent for No. 245, and on his arrival, he opened the con-
versation by explaining some difficult work to be done in
the ofiice, and then fixing a look of close scrutiny upon him,
said:

"Here is a letter for you."

Cassio proffered never a word, but raised his head, and his
face turned red to the tips of his ears.

And for the second time a wonderful thing happened. The
Direttore of the Penitentiary envied his prisoner. For to
the prisoner in his profound wretchedness, had come a voice
of comfort and affection, illuminating his dark horizon with
a glory that was mirrored on his countenance, and to him,
free and powerful, alone and lost in the infinite sadness of
deep suffering, there never came one word of tenderness, one
ray of light.

In spite of his emotion, Cassio perceived something abnor-
mal was passing in the mind of the Direttore, and astute
Sardinian that he was, he took advantage to ask eagerly if

Two Men and a Woman 43

he might not have the letter at once and read it there in the
office.

Better there, under the badly concealed indifEerence of the
little, green eyes, than in the repulsive surroundings of his
workroom, subject to the vtdgar curiosity of the three clerks.

From that day, he became more sociable, more resigned,
and the Signore Direttore showed him a certain deference
which did not escape the eyes of the others, and but con-
firmed the report of an assumed relationship.

But still he did not receive permission to write until he had
been there a month, though on the very day he was given
two sheets. And his letter was not less affectionate than
had been his sister's, though less sweet and delicate; in every
line was displayed the agony of helplessness.

"I have been here but a month, though it seems thirty
years. I am beginning to be more resigned. They have
put me in the clerk's office, with three terrible strangers (this
the Direttore erased), the work is hard, but it helps to pass
the time. At first I cotdd not accustom myself to it, now I
am less desperate. The Signore Direttore is very kind to me.
Yes, I know the time will pass somehow or other, but still I
feel as if my sentence would be eternal; that the 987 days
yet remaining are as boundless as the waves; but most of all
do I suffer when I think of thee; and yet the thought brings
me much comfort. Thou art so good. Please do not forget
me and get married while I am away! But I am ashamed,
my dear Paola, such a thing I well know is impossible. How
could a good sister forget her unhappy brother? But all the
same, when I am tossing sleeplessly on my narrow bed, the
thought fills me with terror. Who cotdd believe such a
thing possible?

"Though I am now resigned to all, I did once believe in the
justice of men. But what have they done to me? Write
very soon and do not forget me. If that were to happen I
wotdd soon find a termination to my sufferings."

Not a word nor thought for anyone else, only for her! The
answer arrived by return of mail, together with clothes,
books, and money.

The Signore Direttore, felt anew the strange fascination of
envy and longing, as he read the delightftd, tender letter of
Paola. She had not a word of reproach for the lack of con-
fidence the unhappy man had shown in her, but said how

44 Two Men and a Woman

grieved she was that he should be so sad, and assured .him
she would never many until his return. She had, too, a
good word for the Signore Direttore. "Love and respect
him; he can do much for thee; can be like a father to thee**
[**a brother, young lady," thought the Direttore]. **I pray for
thee and for him."

*' Thanks," he murmured rather bitterly.

In the third letter, Cassio having asked what she was
doing and how she passed the days :

**The days pass sadly in thy absence. I look after my
affairs as well as I can, and often go into the country with my
foster-parents. Poor things, they are a great comfort to me!
We go on horseback, and these trips are my only diversion.
In the house nothing new has happened. I am embroidering
the tapestry I began at school, when my dreams were so
different from the present reality. I am working into it
certain rich Sardinian embroideries ferreted out by the
foster-mother.

"I never see anyone, but am always thinking of thee and
counting the days."

** Why in the world do not these people, who seem rich and
cultivated, think of asking for a pardon," the Direttore asked
himself, and, rising, he went into the garden, where the
Tuscan spring was rioting amid a very glory of roses — crimson,
white, and yellow; while gleaming among the deep green of
the shrubbery, like brilliant butterflies, moved about the
little red caps of the prisoner gardeners, and fell iiito a
strangely sweet strain of thought of which the tender, strong
sister of No. 245 was the subject. In fancy he saw her, tall
and dark, like her brother, with the pallor and distingtiished
appearance so marked in the prisoner; or bending patiently
over her embroidery; or else trotting on her little Sardinian
horse, her eyes half closed as she faced the ardent beams of
the midday stm. Then, lost in wonder, he took himself to task
for such boyish romance, till he worked himself into quite a
frenzy of anger at his foolishness, which left him exhausted
and more indifferent even than was his wont.

And so the months rolled by, bringing three or four more
letters from Paola. In the last she promised to send her pic-
ture, if Cassio was quite sure he wotdd be allowed to receive it.

"It is allowed," wrote the Direttore at the bottom of the
page before sending it to the prisoner.

Two Men and a Woman 45

For one, two, three weeks, in that great pile, under the
overarching blue sky and ardent sunshine that turned it into
a very furnace, two souls were awaiting with passionate
eagerness, though under different aspects, that picture of a
woman.

The waiting of Cassio was ^eet and full of peace, amid the
passive resignation that habit and hope had begun to plant
in his heart. The pleasure of anticipation brought him
almost a sentiment of happiness; he would rise up early in the
morning with the thought that perhaps to-day he would
receive it, and as he waited for the guard who came to con-
duct him to the office, he would turn to his little window and
reach out his hands as if striving to gather in some of the
freshness of the morning; and he was always thinking of the
picture.

Outside the swallows were flitting and wheeling as they
sang, their wings and tails gleaming in the sunshine ; the
yellow com surrounded with its golden glory the shining green
of the distant vineyards, while farther away,the watching
Apennines shone in the'ltmiinous morning air. The prisoner
called to mind the crimson dawns of his native mountains,
brilliant with flowering yellow broom, then his thoughts
turned to the expected picture, till he felt a vague feeling that
was almost happiness.

The Direttore qtiitted his bed with a face even paler than
was its wont, and he, too, thought of the picture; but his
waiting was made up of a strange mingling of restlessness,
bitterness and anger against himself, because he could not
overcome his fooUsh ctiriosity, his fooUsh sentimentalism, the
foolish interest "these people" awakened in him.

He went into the garden, and then into his bureau, and did
' his duty, performing all his tiresome work, and with cold
eyes, and hands in his pockets, inspected those men clad in
their prison garb of shame, but all the time he was waiting
for the picture. In the bottom of his heart, under his anger
and cruel indifference, there glimmered a spark of joy,
from which a tiny ray sprang into his eyes and stayed there.
And this spark, this hidden ray of light, burst into brilliant
.flame on the arrival of the picture, so instinct with life and
loveliness and charm. She was not in the least as his fancy
had pictured her; for hers was a blond and delicate loveli-
ness. The beautiful dark eyes, in the deHcately curved

4^ Two Men and a Woman

lips and dimpled chin were suffused with an infinite sweet-
ness. It was the same ineffable sweetness at filled her
letters, a fragrance exhaled from every word, and this mys-
terious and suggestive fascination it was which had conquered
the soul of this silent man, who was thought cruel and was
feared and hated only because he was a poor dreamer.

The letter accompanying the photograph was, as usual,
full of sweetness and charm.

"I was thinking of thee and smiling when the picture was
taken; may it bring thee a little joy and comfort in hoping
for better days. Read in my eyes all that I wotdd fain say
to thee."

Just here, the Direttore, too, looked into the eyes of the
picture, then finished reading the letter, only to return to
gaze on the picture, turning it so the full light should fall
upon it, until the face seemed to assume a sort of reality, the
lovely eyes to shine, the lips to smile.

" Oh, Dio! What a fool I am!" said Signor Longino to him-
self; but in his heart he was thinking, **How wotdd this
exquisite creature write to her lover, if she writes thus to her
brother!" And then he fell to thinking sadly, that he was
small, ugly, almost old, hated and feared by all those unfor-
tunates whom his cold eyes dominated.

Once more he read the letter und gazed at the glowing
picture, and — and that day neither the one nor the other
were given to the prisoner.

That night the Signore Direttore had a queer dream; he
thought a mutiny had broken out among the prisoners and
they yelled and shook their chains and rushed upon him.
He held Paola's picture in his hands and could neither move
nor defend himself, for then the picture would fall to the
ground and No. 245 wotdd know that he had stolen it. But
just as he was about to be killed by the prisoners, Cassio
threw himself between, crying: "Leave him alone, for he is
to marry my sister, and then he will become good because she
is so good! "

He waked up bathed in perspiration, and passed the rest
of the night sleMj^sly tossing about his bed.

Cassio, in the Swanwhile, was waiting patiently, though as
the days passed a vague anxiety disposed his new-found
repose. A week went by and still no picture came, and he
had waited so long! so long! What could be happening over

Two Men and a Woman 47

yonder, beyond the sunlit sea among the purple solitudes of
the fragrant thjnne-scented mountains? Paola must be ill —
or had she forgotten him? Cassio fell back into the agonized
despair of his first days. He asked, but was refused per-
mission to telegraph. With difficulty he got permission to
write two days sooner than his allotted month. *

His letter was so sad and full of despair, that the Direttore
felt more than ever ashamed of his deed; for two weeks he
had lived in torment, and while he seemed more cruel and
hard then ever, his little, • green eyes fell sadly upon the
prisoners, for at last he tmderstood how, against his will, a
man might be led into crime. As he read the sad letter of
No. 245, he murmured again : '* But why do not they ask for
pardon?" And he became aware that with the new-found
pity awakened for No. 245 mingled a certain egotism of hope,
that then he could speak frankly to the prisoner — one no
longer — and say: **Signore, I may be a fool, but all the same
I have fallen desperately in love with your sister, whom I
have never seen. Will you give her to me for my wife? "

Paola telegraphed at once that she had sent another photo-
graph by registered mail. In the eagerness for the peace
of her poor prisoner, she pretended she had not sent a picture,
and had been unable to write on accotmt of a lot of reasons,
which she detailed at length, principally she had been unable
to be photographed before.

"How good she is!" thought the Direttore in admiration,
and he felt inclined to write and tell her everything.

But of course he did not do so. ** She will think I am mad,
and will fear for her brother."

And so the stunmer passed and autumn approached;
prisoners came and went. In the office the three clerks were
not only resigned, but even happy, but showed an ill-concealed
dislike for the haughty Sardinian, who, to an extent, was
himself resigned. Only amid the sweetness of the autumn,
when the dawn flooded the pure sky with crimson and gold
or the setting sun threw his red beams on the sad walls, he
was tortured with longing for freedom and home; and he
fretted like a horse taken from his free pastures and shut up
in confinement; but he was learning to control these rebel-
lions and to immerse himself to the lips in hope and dreams
of the future, till the present seemed scarcely a reality. But
when winter came and the Apennines were black with storm

48 Two Men and a Woman

clouds, and the angry rain pelted incessantly the grim fortress,
Cassio felt his nerves snap like cords stretched too far. Dur-
ing the day the three heads of the clerks, pinched with cold,
the blear blue eyes, the transparent profile, the head like the
Roman emperor, appeared to him as in some tortured vision,
awakening within him a brutal desire to seize some object
and crush them to pieces. This desire increased from day to
day, and was at times so intense that Cassio experienced the
strange sensation of having realized it. Once in his cell he
would come to himself and understand that he hated the
three unforttmate clerks because they represented during
those terrible winter days all the human powe?* that was
torturing him, against which his inmost soul revolted. His
nights were almost sleepless. Outside the wind was roaring
with a suggestion of distant torrents. Amid the darkness
and roar of elements Cassio lost all perception of time, and
as he tossed on his narrow bed, blessed visions came at last
to his storm-tossed heart. The sighing of the wind in his
distant well-loved mountains; the prints of the wild boar
among the green ferns; the noisy stream bounding from rock
to rock; the partridges flitting among the flowering oleanders;
the jo3rftil neighing of his black horse, and above all else, the
smile of Paola.

But with the gray dawn, the sweetness of dreams was
turned into bitter reality, and no one knows what might have
happened to the three clerks had he not been one day
providentially summoned to the Direttore*s office.

The Signore Direttore deigned to ask a favor. He had been
sent a little fragrant plant with a few slender, dry branches;
it had come from Sardinia, and he wanted to know if the
prisoner could tell him anything about it.

Cassio took the slender branches in his long, delicate hands,
and inhaled its fragrance with closed eyes. The perfume
brought him a vision of the green mountains of Gennar-
gentu. An intense homesickness thrilled him.

"It is the tirtillo."

''The tirtillo. I thought so. The precious secret of the
Sardinian shepherds, that gives its especial aroma to the
Sardinian cheese.

Cassio bowed in assent.

**The famous tirtillo," continued the Direttore, "the new
cure for epizootic."

Two Men and a Woman 49

"In Sardinia it has been used for centuries," replied Cassio
humbly. "Many things that on the continent pass for dis-
coveries are well known on the island.'*

The Direttore did not reply, but turned his back and
resumed his writing, and apparently all was over, when sud-
denly ttuning aroimd, he addressed Cassio without looking
at him.

"Has a pardon been asked for you?"

"Yes; after the sentence in the Court of Cassation I
appealed in the Giudiziarie of Cagliari."

"To whom did you appeal?"

"To the Ministry."

"That was unfortunate. The Ministry when appealed
to never decides. Often the prisoner has finished his term
before they arrive at any conclusion."

Cassio looked very grave.

"It wotdd be better to send your request to the Queen; it
would sooner be obtained."

"Pardon me," returned Cassio, bowing his head, "but is
there a chance that it would be obtained? "

"If the request should be made by your sister, it would
be granted," answered the other brusquely, and again he
turned his back so that he should not see the prisoner's
emotion, and the latter should not see the Direttore 's con-
fusion.

This time the conversation was really over, and Cassio was
reconducted to his office. But he was really another man;
the presence of his three unhappy companions aroused his
compassion, but no longer his hatred. Aroimd his thin
fingers still lingered the fragrance of the tirtillo, and raising
them to hi« mouth, he inhaled the fresh sweetness of his
distant meadows.

And probably for the first time, the Direttore was sincerely
loved by one of his prisoners.

Cassio wrote to Paola begging her to ask the Queen for a
pardon.

"You can make the request for yourself, without having
recourse to the formal process of the law. Explain things as
they are. I hope and bless him who has counseled it."

And so the winter passed. In the limpid dawn of a Feb-
ruary day, Cassio was standing before his grated window;
his face was pale and bloodless, but his eyes were shining with

so Two Men and a Woman

hope. From the Apennines which raised their lofty, white
crests into the crystal azure of the sky, there came a delicious
odor of snow; long strips of vivid green were scattered over
the valley, and already in the garden the apricot trees were
displa)ring their rosy blossoms.

Cassio felt his blood dance through his veins with the
mysterious expectation of coming happiness; all the glories
of the opening spring seemed reflected in his soul.

Another man, free, in his cold and melancholy rooms, felt
the same tumtdtuous, though sweet sensation; his green
eyes reflected the tender splendor of the budding season, his
heart inclosed a precious shrine.

There came a day when the inquiry of the Ministry into the
conduct of the prisoner, Cassio Longino fu Isidoro, reached
him. The Direttore's reply was of the best. He did not
know why No. 245 had been guilty of forgery, but he believed
him to be an honest young man, of fine morals and excellent
education. By the same mail he also seglr to an intimate in
the Bureau a letter that, coming from such a person as Signor
Longino, could not fail of effect.

Whether it was instrumental in bringing about the result
or not, the decree of pardon and order for freedom arrived
very soon after — ^when Cassio had been there just a year.

Once more he was summoned to the Direttore's ofiice.
Outside, the air was balmy and fragrant, and the sky of
deepest blue. Inside, the shadows of distant branches
trembled in the sunshine that poured in through the barred
window. The Direttoie was seated at his table, but this time
he rose as Cassio entered. The youth noticed it, but did not
dare to give words to the wild hope that sprtmg up within
him, but he felt his heart beat with a violence that well-nigh
choked him.

''The decree has arrived," said the Direttore, and he was
holding something in his hand.

"The decree?"

"The decree of pardon."

"For whom?" asked Cassio eagerly.

The Direttore began to lose patience.

"For whom but for you?" And he rejoiced in the deep
emotion shown by the yotu7g man. So much the better;
if the thing was so great as to seem impossible, so much the
greater would be his gratitude. But then he thought sadly

Two Men and a Woman 51

"Suppose his efforts shotild restilt in failure! If in the excess
of his gratitude Cassio shotild give him false hopes! "

**Por me! for me!" stammered the poor youth. For me!
For how long?"

**Por all the rest of your sentence. You are free — that is,
not at once, but after a few formalities, in a week at most."

Gradually Cassio pulled himself together. At first he had
gazed at the Direttore without seeing him. Now he began
to look at him. He observed his pale face was flushed, that
the air of physical suffering had disappeared, that the small,
green eyes were shining.

He, on the other hand, was trembling violently, his face
was ashy, his hands cold, and a mist floated before his eyes.

"This man is fine, when he is rejoicing in the happiness of
another. How I have misjudged him, " he thought. Then
he asked himself, '* But why did he do it ? "
He was to know very soon.

The Direttore begged him to be seated; he showed him the
decree, and profited by the moment in which Cassio was
looking at the King's signature to begin:

"Now, I have something else to tell you. Listen and do
not judge hastily. I have long been awaiting this moment
and the thing seemed easy, but now I see I need great courage
and you great indulgence if we are to understand each other."
He smiled sadly, and the old expression of suffering re-
turned once more.

Cassio looked at him stupidly, still confused with the
weight of his happiness, but beginning to gain his self-control.
The other tmderstood that his opportunity was slipping away
and hastened to speak though, in spite of every effort, his
voice trembled.

" I scarcely know how to express myself so you may under-
stand everything; but I have confidence in your intelligence.
Listen. I have done everything in my power to obtain that
piece of paper there" — and he pointed to the decree, and
Cassio, following his gesture, sat gazing at the sheet — **and
above all, I did so because I felt you deserved it." (" Does he
know my story?" Cassio asked himself, feeling that his deserts
in prison had been very few.) " I do not ask for gratitude,
indeed I will be thankful, if you will not allow that sentiment
to influence you at all. I wish to speak to you as one gentle-
man to another." ("Heavens! does he think me a gran

52 Two Men and a Woman

Signore and wish to ask me for money?" thought Cassio. '* I
am not ungrateful, but what can he want of me?") "Now
you are free and are at liberty to act as seems good to you.*'

**Speak," returned the other, witha sad impatience, ** what-
ever lies in my power — "

"I do not know if it lies in your power."

"Speak! Speak!"

** Listen, but do not ill-judge me, nor think me insane.
While reading your sister's letters, I have learned to ap-
preciate so good and noble a soul, and — " (**0h, Diomio! he
has fallen in love with her!" cried Cassio to himself , and the
worid grew suddenly dark.) **I have learned to love her.
Do not laugh at me. I am still young! "

But Cassio felt small inclination to laugh.

"Have you written to her?" he asked brusquely.

"No, certainly not. Pray do not be offended. I have not
allowed myself so great a privilege. Only to you — "

"But it is impossible, not to be thought of — impossible!"
interrupted Cassio, striking as he spoke the paper which was
laying on his knees, till it rustled.

"It seems impossible, but it is true; and though it may be
strange, it is not the first time it has happened. My demand
is serious, Signor Longino. Can your sister accept it?"

"What demand?"

The other thought a moment* "This young man is laboring
under too much excitement, I was wrong to speak to him so
suddenly. He is not in a state to hear it."

"My proposal of marriage."

Cassio did not reply at once. By a terrible effort he con-
trolled himself. When the mist cleared from his eyes he
turned and looked at the Direttore and beheld him as in the
past, pale, suffering, and ugly, and into his terrible pain there
fell one drop of comfort — she would not accept him — ^he felt
sure.

"But," he asked, "have you reflected what you are doing?
Have you written to my country and obtained information?
In such cases — "

"I have not written. What would be the good? I know
your sister, that she is good and noble, I desire nothing more.
I, too, am all alone."

"You are too good. I do not know how to properly ex-
y gratitude. Do not fear you are not understood. I

Two Men and a Woman 53

both understand and admire you. I feel myself greatly
honored by your offer, and if it remained with me — but let
me assure you I will do all in my power. Do not despair."

He rose and rolled up the pardon, looking at it with ill-
concealed bitterness as he towered over the small person of
the Direttore, who approached with extended hand to express
his thanks. He asked permission to return to his cell and
imroU his bed. Ever3rthing was granted him. As he threw
himself on his comfortless cot he groaned in agony. Paola
was not his sister, but his fiancfe. For her he had soiled his
honor, compromised his future and broken with his family.
She alone remained to him. She had feigned to be his sister
in order that she might write to him. And must he lose her
now.? That other possessed a splendid position, was good
and noble. Had he a right to snatch such a brilliant future
from Paola? He had sacrificed to her his honor and well-
nigh two years of liberty, but she had not asked the sacrifice of
him, and was it right that in exchange he shotild ask for her
whole life? In any case she must decide for herself, and at
the bottom of his heart he felt secure of her — ^but it made him
wretched to think he had deceived and was still deceiving so
noble and excellent a man.

"I will tell him everything, come what may," he decided
after an hour of anxious thought, then tmcertainty took
possession of him once more. "No, I will say nothing.
After all he has no right to know, and I will write when I
reach home. After all he did it only because he wanted to
on his own account. His cat-like eyes fill me with distrust;
perhaps he would do me some harm."

Later he grew ashamed of his distrust and cried out loud in
his lonely cell, "Am I indeed vile?"

Approaching the grating he stood gazing at the white,
diaphanous clouds piled up on the horizon; they had assumed
the shape and coloring of an alabaster staircase whose lumi-
nous steps disappeared into the unsealed heights. Cassio, as
he looked, was overwhelmed with an intense homesickness
and suddenly he felt good and pure, as if he had indeed
mounted to the last step of those silver stairs and caught
from that height a glimpse of his beloved native land. He
murmured :

"Had it not been for him I should have languished here for
yet a weary time. I might have died or committed some

54 Two Men and a Woman

madness. I will tell everything, let the restilt be what it
may."

He waited anxiously the hour when it would be possible for
him to see the Direttore, then addressed him in clear tones :

**See, Signore Direttore, I have been thinking of what you
were good enough to tell me this morning."

"Very well," answered the other, though he feared for the
result-

"Before entering upon the subject, please allow me to tell
you in a few words of the strange circumstances of my con-
demnation, for," he added, smiling sadly, "I am bold enough
to believe you do not think me guilty."

The other man said never a word.

"Listen. For ten years I have loved a maiden of my own
country. She was rich, but an orphan living with her guard-
ian. I was sent away to college and was absent many years.
On my return I learned that the poor girl, although she had
attained her majority, was kept in subjection and badly
treated by her guardian, who had possessed himself of all her
property. He gave her nothing, but kept her shut up and
frightened with terrible threats. I succeeded in commu-
nicating with her and, finding that she loved me, I vowed
to free her and restore her property. 'Let us be married.'
she said, 'and I will fly with you.* But as my intentions
might involve me in many difiictilties, I would not accept her
offer. I assisted her to take refuge with friends, and when
she was in safety, I began my operations.

"And can you guess what I did ? I almost think so. I forged
the name of her guardian, and since he was very rich and well
known at home and\broad and hife credit was illimitable, I
obtained a good deal of money. I placed all in the name of
the yotmg girl and waited. When the notes fell due, all
became known. I had fooHshly hoped I shotild be considered
a hero. Instead I was seized, villified, condemned. My
little property was taken, my family disowned me. She,
alone of all the world, remains to me and she, Signore Direttore,
is Paola."

The Signore Direttdre remained absolutely silent. What,
indeed, could he say? He only felt that Cassio's story and
his own seemed impossible, though he knew but too well it
was but too true. Cassio understood him perfectly.

Two Men and a Woman 55

'*It is strange, impossible, is it not? Had I been told it, I
would not have believed it."

*'Life is strange," said the other at last, and he clenched his
hands till the nails penetrated the flesh. The ways of destiny
are indeed mysterious."

"He is resigned," thought Cassio, and he hazarded another
remark.

"Life is often a terrible romance." But looking the
Direttore in the face he saw an expression of such agony im-
printed as caused him to retract his thought of a moment
before.

"But see," he continued, "in spite of everything I will do
all in my power to prove my gratitude."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me speak. It was my duty to let you know the exact
truth, but you have been so good to me that I give you my
word of honor, as a gentleman, that I will do everything — "

"What are you saying? What are you sa)ring?" repeated
the other in a strange tone, as if he were listening to distant
voices, and not to Cassio's words. "After all, Paola alone
can decide. I will tell her everything, as if I were indeed her
brother and nothing more."

"Oh, no! No! What are you sa)dng?"

"Nay, if you will allow it I will write this very day and we
will await her reply. Perhaps when it comes I will not need
to return to my own country."

"What are you sajdng?" repeated the Direttbre; but now
his voice had regained its strength and, raising his eyes, he
looked Cassio full in the face. "You must not write, but
return at once to your home where, I prophesy, every hap-
piness awaits you. Prom the bottom of my heart I hope so.
And yet, who wotild ever have imagined it! You are right,
Life is a terrible romance."

"But," Cassio persisted, "let me write. I beg it of you as a
personal favor. You will see the debt I owe you can never
be canceled, and duty shotild be stronger than love. Paola
will be much more fortunate with the Direttore than with me,
and above all things I desire her happiness and well-being."

The other listened patiently; once his eyes flashed with a
vivid light, but he remained immovable.

"See," he concluded, after having expressed his apprecia-
tion of Cassio's generosity, "if your duty is to prove yourself

S6

Two Men and a Woman

grateftil and generous toward the signorina, her duty is no
less to make you happy and recompense you for all you have
suffered. "

**But — *' interrupted Cassio.

"One moment — let me finish, please. If the signorina were
to act otherwise, she would not be the noble, lofty being I
have imagined her, and then my offer would no longer exist.
Do you understand? Am I not right?*'

But Cassio answered never a word and the Direttore turned
toward the window. And the soul of each was full to over-
flowing. Cassio thought but of his happiness, and the
Direttore reminded himself with bitterness that in any case
his dream was lost to him forever.

SMAI^I^ Bventt The

Story of a Strolling Player, by
L. Allen Harker*

All service ranks the same with God :

If now, as formerly he trod

Paradise, his presence fills

Otir earth; each only as God wills

Can work — God's puppets, best and worst,

Are we; there is no last nor first.

Say not *' a small event " ! Why " small " ?

Costs it more pain than this, ye c^

A "great event" should come to pass.

Than that? Untwine me from the mass

Of deeds which make up life, one deed

Power shall fall short in or exceed! — Pip pa Passes.

EVERY night the ** Alfresco Entertainers" gave their per-
formance on a little platform set right under the
shadow of the great clifif ; while in front of them, not a dozen
yards away, the rhjrthmic wash of the sea on a rocky shore
seemed a sort of accompaniment to their songs, much softer
and more tuneful than that of the poor, jingly, rhetmiatic
piano, which had nothing between it and every sort of weather
save an ancient mackintosh cover.

The village itself was but a shelf of shore with one long
straggling, lop-sided street; cottage and shop and great hotel
set down haphazard, cheek by jowl, all apparently somewhat
inept excrescences on the side of the green-clad cliffs rising
behind them straight and steep, a sheer five hundred feet, and
just across the narrow line of red road lay the Bristol Channel,
with, on a clear day, the Welsh coast plain in view.

At ten years old, people are generally found more interest-
ing than scenery, and Basil took a great interest in the
variety entertainers. The men looked so smart and debon-
air, he thought, in their blue reefers, white duck trousers,
and gold-laced yachting caps — though they none of them

*Prom Longman's Magazine.

53 A SmaU Event

ever put out to sea. There were five of them altogether, two
ladies and three men. Basil did not care so much about the
ladies, in spite of the rows of Chinese lanterns that outlined
the little stage and shone so pink in the darkness; there
seemed no glamour or mystery about them. They were not
transcendently beautiful like the gauzy good fairy of panto-
mime, or the peerless, fearless circus lady in pink and spangles ;
neither did they possess the mirth-provoking qualities of the
datmtless three clad in yachting garb. One always sang
sentimentally of "daddies," or "aunties," or "chords" that
had somehow gone a-missing; and the other — Basil almost
disliked that other — sang about things he could in no wise
understand, in a hoarse voice, and danced in between the
verses, and she didn't dance at all prettily, for she had thick
ankles and high shoulders.

But the three "naval gentlemen," as Basil respectfully
called them, sang funny songs, and acted and knocked each
other about in such fashion as caused him almost to roll off his
chair in fits of ecstatic mirth. Nearly every fine night after
dinner, if nobody wanted him, Hamet, the tall manservant,
would take Basil, and they sat on two chairs in the front row
and listened to the entertainment. Sometimes Grandfather
himself would come, but he generally went to sleep in his
chair at home; for when a man goes peel-fishing all day, walk-
ing half a dozen miles up the rocky bed of a Devonshire
trout stream to his favorite pool, he is disinclined to move
again, once he has changed and dined.

The bulk of the audience attending the "Alfresco Enter-
tainment" sat on the wall separating shore from road, or on
the curbstone, but there were always a few chairs placed
directly facing the stage, which were charged for at six-
pence each. Hamet was far too grand and dignified to sit
on either wall ot curbstone, and as Grandfather always gave
Basil a shilling to put in the cardboard plate, Hamet pre-
ferred to expend it in this wise.

Now, all that company had high-sounding, aristocratic
names, except one, who was called, as Basil said, "just simply
Mr. Smith." There was Mr. Montmorency, the manager,
whose cheeks were almost as blue as his reefer, and his wife,
the lady who danced in the evening, but in the dajrtime
affected flowing tea-gowny garments and large flat hats;
there was Mr. Neville Beauchamp, who sang coster songs, to

A Small Event 59

whom the partictilar accent reqtiired for this sort of ditty
really seemed no effort, as all his songs were given in similar
pronotmced and singular fashion. The lady of the melan-
choly ballads was called De Vere; she looked thin and young,
and generally cold, as well she might, for she played every-
one's accompaniments, and never wore a coat, however cold
the night. But it was for Mr. Smith that Basil felt most
enthusiasm. In the first place, his speaking voice was as the
voices of "Grandfather's friends." In the second, he was, to
Basil's thinking, an admirable actor — changing face and voice,
even his very, body, to stiit the part he happened to be play-
ing; and thirdly, he was funny — ^funny in a way that Basil
understood. Even Grandfather laughed at Mr. Smith and
applauded him, and when the cardboard plate went round, he
sent Basil with the first bit of gold they had had that season.
•"Clever chap that," he said as they strolled homewards
under the quiet stars; "reminds me of someone somehow —
looks like a broken-down gentleman; got a nice voice, and nice
hands — ^wonder what he's doing with that lot?"

Basil, however, was quite content to admire Mr. Smith
without concerning himself as to his antecedents. He forth-
with christened him "the jokey man," and it rather puzzled
him that, except at night, the jokey man was hardly ever with
the others, but went wandering about by himself in an aim-
less and somewhat dismal fashion. Could it be that Mr.
Montmorency and Mr. Neville Beauchamp were proud, Basil
wondered, because they had such fine names?

Basil's face was as round as a full moon, and fresh and fair
as a monthly rose. Tall and well set up, he was good at
games, and keen on every kind of sport. Long days did he
spend up the river with his grandfather fishing for trout — he
was to have a license for peel next summer, but had to be
content with trout dtiring this. He went sea fishing, too, in
charge of a nice fisherman called Oxenham, and caught big
pollock outside the bay, and every morning Oxenham rowed
Basil and Hamet out from the shore that they might have
their morning swim, for the coast is so rocky and dangerous
that bathing from the land is no fun at all, though the rocks
are very nice to potter about on at low tide, when energetic
persons can find prawns in the pools.

One day as Basil was busily engaged in this pursuit, who
should come up behind him but the jokey man, looking asmel-

6o A Small Event

ancholy as though there were no sunshine, or blue water, or
pleasant pools full of strange sea beasts. Indeed, although he
was by profession such an amusing man, he had by no means a
cheerful face. Tired lines were written all round his eyes, his
shoulders were bent, and his long slim hands htmg loose and
listless at his sides, yet it was plain he was by no means old.
Moreover, he had changed his smart yachting suit for an old
tweed coat and knickerbockers, and a gray billycock dragged
over his eyes bereft his appearance of all traces of a jokey
man. So that for a minute or two Basil did not know him,
even though he sat down on a rock close by and lit his pipe.

Basil was standing bare-legged and knee-deep in water in
pursuit of a particularly active and artful shrimp, so that it
was only when he at last lifted his head with an emphatic
"Bother!" that he noticed the stranger; then he beamed, for
chance had tossed plump into his lap the opportunity he had
long been seeking.

*'How do you do?'* the little boy inquired politely, taking
off his muffin cap with one wet hand while he grasped his net
with the other. "I am so pleased to have met you; IVe
wanted to for ever so long."

"That's very nice of you," said the man, and when he
smiled he looked quite yotmg. "I am sure the pleasure is
mutual."

"Fve something most pertickler to ask you," continued
Basil eagerly, scrambling out of the pool to sit on the rock
beside him, "and it seemed as if I was never to get a chance.
It's not for myself either, it's for Viola — ^you know Viola by
sight, I dare say.?"

Now, it happened tliat the jokey man, like most other
people in that village, knew Viola by sight very well indeed.
In fact, Viola, and the General, and Basil, were as speedily
pointed out to every stranger who arrived as though they had
been bits of the scenery. For they came every summer, and
the village was proud of them.

*' Is she your sister?" asked the jokey man, suddenly taking
his pipe out of his mouth.

"Yes, and she's two years older than me, but she doesn't
go to school — I've been for a year — she has a ma'm'selle. I
dare say you've seen us with her. It's been such a bore hav-
ing her here, but she's going to-morrow, and then we shall do
just what we like, for there will be only Hamet and Polly, and

A Small Event 6i

we like them. Grannie had to go off quite suddenly to nurse
Aunt Alice, and won't be back for a week, so there'll be
nobody but Grandfather and us; it'll be simply ripping," and
Basil paused breathless, beaming at the pleasant picture he
had conjured up.

The jokey man put his pipe back into his mouth and waited,
but it had gone out, so he just laid it on the rocks beside him,
saying, ** What was it you wanted to ask me?"

*'It's rather difficult to explain," Basil began, turning very
red and rumpling his hair. *' It's Viola, you know; she wants
so dreadfully to come to your entertainment; I've told her
about it, you know, but Grandfather says — " here Basil
paused, and turned even redder than before; '*one has to be
so particular over one's giris, you know," he interpolated
apologetically, **and she's the only girl in our family. Grand-
father never had any sisters or any daughters, so he thinks no
end of Viola, and father and mother are in India, and he
says — "

"That some of the songs are vulgar," said the jokey man
shortly; **so they are, he's perfectly right."

The jokey man looked at Basil, and Basil looked at the
jokey man for a full minute. Then the little boy said very
earnestly, **Do you think that you could persuade them —
those other gentlemen I mean — to leave out one or two songs
one evening? There's that one about the ** giddy little girl
in the big black hat" that Mr. Montmorency sings; grand-
father doesn't like that one, and it's not very amusing, is it?
And Viola does want to come so dreadfully."

The jokey man made no reply, but stared straight out to
sea with a very grave face. Perhaps he was thinking of all
those other Violas who listened night after night to the songs
the General objected to, and were perhaps, unlike his Viola,
not "cared about, kept out of harm, and schemed for, safe in
love as with a charm."

Basil waited politely for some minutes; then, as the jokey
man didn't speak, he continued earnestly, "You see, she can
just hear that there is music and singing when the windows
are open, and it's so tantalizing, and you see it would be rude
to walk away when we'd heard you, and come back next time
you sang, wouldn't it? It doesn't matter for boys — "

"I'm not all at sure of that," said Mr. Smith hastily; "it
matters very much for boys too, I think — especially if they

62 A Small Event

don't happen to have wise grandfathers with good taste. I'll
see what can be done, and let ygu know."

'*0h, thank you so much!*' cried Basil, **that is kind of
you. Viola will be so pleased; she's up the village now with
Polly, or I'd fetch her to thank you herself."

Now, while Basil was talking he noticed that the jokey man's
coat had got leather on the shoulders, and that the leather
looked as worn as the coat, so he rightly deduced that at
some time or another his new friend must have been some-
thing of a sportsman, and asked, "D'you fish at all.?"

**Not here," said the jokey man, "but I've done some fish-
ing in my time. Have you had good sport.?"

Then, immediately ensued a long discussion on the relative
merits of flies, and Basil gave forth his opinion, an opinion
backed up by the experience of numerous natives, that the
** Coachman" was the fly for that neighborhood, but that
there were occasions, especially early in Jtily, when exceed-
ingly good results might be obtained by using red ants. They
told each other fishing stories. Basil confided to the jokey
man that he had just got a beautiful new split cane rod from
** Hardy Brothers," promised to show it to him at the earliest
possible opportunity, and they speedily became the best of
friends. For it is a curious fact that although the actual
sport itself is a somewhat taciturn pursuit, there are no more
conversational sportsmen in the world than ardent followers
of the gentle craft.

Another thing — ^they were always courteous listeners, and
generally full of good stories themselves, yet have the most
delicate appreciation of other people's anecdotes. You can
nearly always tell a member of a fishing family by this rare
and pleasing trait.

Next morning the jokey man called at the hotel and asked
for Basil at the door. He wouldn't come in, and when Basil,
greatly excited, appeared, only waited to say hastily, "If you
like to bring your sister to-night, I think I can promise you
that it will be all right." Then fled before Basil could thank
him, and was soon pounding up the steep hill that ends
abruptly at the hotel door, as though he were training for a
moimtaineering race.

Basil tore back into their sitting-room to lay the case before
his grandfather, who, for once, was lunching in the hotel.

A Small EvetU 63

"He promised, you know," he concluded jubilantly, *'so she
can come, can't she?"

Grandfather pulled his mustache and laughed. Then
Viola came and laid her fresh soft cheek against Ms, murmur-
ing pleadingly, "Darling, it wotild be so lovely," till he
pinched Viola's cheek and n:iade stiptilations about heavy
cloaks, and the children knew the day was won.

And the end of it all was that, at half-past eight that eve-
ing, Grandfather, BasU and Viola were seated on three chairs
in the very middle, of the road that ran past the "Alfresco
Entertainers' " stage; but as the road ends abruptly in a pre-
cipitous rock some thirty yards further along, there is no fear
of being run over by traffic.

What an evening of delight that was! How Basil and
Viola laughed, and how pleased was Grandfather! Another
thing is quite certain — ^that the "Alfresco Entertainers" in
no way lost by the alterations they had made in their pro-
gram; the rest of the audience seemed as pleased as Basil
and Viola, and no one appeared to miss the "giddy little girl
in the big black hat " the least little bit in the world.

"Really, it's vastly civil of Mr. Thingummy," said grand-
father, on their way home.

Grandfather and Hamet had gone fishing for the whole day.
Mademoiselle had departed, only Polly was left in charge, and
she had so bad a headache — she put it down to the close,
cloudy weather — ^that she was fain to go and lie down directly
she had waited upon Basil and Viola at their Itmch, having
given the children permission to go for a walk along the beach.

It was a gray day, humid and still, and, being low tide,
there seemed no fresh wind blowing in from the sea as usual.
The children scrambled over the rocks, very happy and
important at being, for once, left to their own devices, and
they decided to make an expedition to a little sandy bay that
can be reached from the shore at low tide, and to come back
by a steep winding path up the cliffs which terminates in a
coach road just above the village. They had ;iot considered
it necessary to confide their intention to Polly, who would
certainly have objected. They reached the bay all right,
paddled for a little time on the hard, smooth sand, and then
set out to climb the path which winds in and out of the side of
the cliff for all the world like a spiral staircase up to some
nine hundred feet above the sea. This path is so narrow that

64 A Small Event

travelers can only walk in Indian file. On the one side is the
steep face of the heather-clad rock, on the other a sheer drop
on to the rocks below.

When the children had climbed about a third of the way
they found themselves enveloped in white mist — a mist so
thick and fine, and clinging that you cannot see your own hand
held before your face. It was no use to go down again ; the
tide had turned, and soon the sea wotild be lapping gently at
the foot of the pathway. There was nothing for it but to go
on slowly, carefully, step by step, feeling all the time for the
rocks on the inner side; by and by the path would widen.

" Don't be frightened, Viola,*'* said Basil cheerfully. '* It'll
take us a goodish while, but a bit higher up we can walk
together."

**I*m not exactly frightened,'* said Viola, in a tremulous
voice, "but I rather wish we hadn't come."

**So do I," Basil answered fervently. **If I hadn't been
such a juggins I'd have looked up and seen the mist on those
cliffs long ago. Probably you can't see that there are any
cliffs in the village now."

On they toiled, slowly and painfully. It is really a most
unpleasant mode of progression, walking sideways up a hill
with your back against a very nubbly sort of wall.

*' Hark! " cried Basil presently. '* Didn't you hear a call? "

The children paused, leant against the cliff, and listened
breathlessly. Sure enough, someone was calling. It sounded
very muffled and far off; but it was plainly a man's voice, and
he was calling for help.

** Do you think it's above or below?" Basil asked anxiously.
**I can't seem to tell in this fog."

" It must be above, or we should have heard it before. Call
out that we're coming."

Basil shouted with all the force of his young lungs, and again
the faint, muffled voice answered with a cry for help.

**Come on," answered Basil in great excitement; ** we'll
find him!" and sure enough in another bend of the path Basil
nearly fell over the prostrate figure of a man lying right
across it, for here it suddenly grew wider. The man raised
himself on his elbow, exclaiming:

** I say, do you think that when you get to the village you
could send help? I'm very much afraid that I've broken my
leg. I can't stand, and moving at all hurts no end."

A Small Event 65

"Why, it's the jokey man!" Basil cried out in dismay.
"However did you do it?"

"Oh, dear— oh, dear!" added Viola, "this is sad."

None of them could see the other, but nevertheless the jokey
man knew in a minute who had come to his rescue, and forgot
his injuries in his surprise, exclaiming, "Whatever are you
two doing here? Is the General with you?"

" Oh, dear, no," said Viola proudly ; we're quite alone, or we
shouldn't be here, but isn't it a good thing we are here; how
did you fall?"

"I was mooning along, not thinking where I was going,
when down came the mist. I made a false step and went bang
over the edge, but only fell on to the path below, not right
over as I might have done. . . . Perhaps it would have
been better if I had," he added to himself.

"You'd better go and get help, Basil," said Viola decidedly,
" and I'll stay and take care of Mr. Smith till they come.*'

But Mr. Smith wouldn't hear of this. The children helped
him to crawl as near the inner side as possible, and when they
left him he nearly fainted with the pain of moving. It began to
rain, the cold soft wetting rain of a Devonshire summer, and
Mr. Smith groaned and shivered. "I am so sorry for you,"
said a soft voice close beside him. " Is there nothing I could
do? Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you were to rest
your head in my lap? It would be a sort of pillow. Daddie
used to go to sleep like that sometimes out on the moors last
summer, when they were home."

"Oh, Viola, Viola!" exclaimed the jokey man, with far
more distress than he had yet shown, "why did you stay?
You will get cold. It's raining already, and they will be
ages."

"There's no use worrying about that," said Viola, edging
herself nearer. ' * We couldn't leave you here all alone and hurt ,
and Basil wouldn't let me go on to the village 'cause of the fog,
so of course I stayed. I hope you won't mind very much; I
won't talk if you'd rather not, but I think I'd like to hold
your hand if you don't mind. It would be comforting."

The kind little hand was ctuiously comforting to the jokey
man; he insisted on taking off his coat and wrapping Viola in
it, in spite of all her protests. Presently the white pall of mist
lifted a Uttle and they could see one another, and it certainly
was a great pleasure to the man lying against the cliff to watch

66 A Small Event

the little high-bred face with the kind blue eyes turned in
such friendly wise towards him. Viola was so like Basil, and
yet so entirely individual. Basil's face was round, hers was
oval. Basil's nose was broad and indefinite as yet, Viola's
nose was small and straight and decided, with the dearest
little band of freckles across the bridge. Basil's manner was
extremely friendly; Viola's was tender and protecting, and
it was such a long time since anyone had taken care of the
jokey man, that he almost crooned to himself in the delight of
being so tended. She was very tender in her inquiries after
his aches and pains, expressed a pious hope that he always
wore ** something woolly next him," and being reassured on
that head, proceeded to suggest that he should smoke if he
found it comforting. Then she told him a great deal in very
admirative terms about daddy, and Grandfather, and Basil,
for Viola was of that old-fashioned portion of femininity that
looks upon her own mankind as beings of stupendous strength
and wisdom. The man lay watching her very intently, but
it is not certain that he heard half of what she was saying. He
had the look of one who was trying to make a difficult decision.
The voices of habit and tradition called very loudly to him
just then — dared he listen.?

Presently Viola's voice ceased. She was evidently waiting
for an answer, and none came. **Have you any sisters, Mr.
Smith?" she repeated.

Mr. Smith shook his head, then raised himself on his elbow,
saying earnestly, **Look here, Viola! I want you to tell me
exactly what you think about something. Suppose Basil —
of course it's utterly impossible, but still — suppose that when
he was grown up he did something that annoyed you all very
much, something disappointing and entirely against his
father's wishes," he paused, for Viola looked very grave and
pained, **and then," he continued, **if he went right out of
sight, and you, none of you, heard anything more about him
for nearly a year — supposing then he was sorry, said he was
sorry — "

** We should never lose sight of Basil," said Viola decidedly,
her eyes dark and tragic at the mere thought. **At least,
I'm sure I shouldn't; whatever he did I should love him just
the same. You don't love people for their goodness — you
love them because they're they.''

**Are you sure?" asked the jokey man earnestly.

A Smdll Event 67

Viola looked hard at him, turned very red, and said shyly,
" Do you think you could tell me just what you did ? I know
it's you."

The man leant back against the wall again. " It's not an
interesting story," he said wearily, "but it may pass the time.
I was at the 'Varsity, Cambridge; I was always very fond of
acting, and I was extravagant and lazy, too. The very term
I went in for my degree I was acting in the A. D. C., and
— I was plucked. My father was furious. Then came a
whole sheaf of debts. He said I must go back to a small col-
lege, live on next to nothing, work, and take my degree.
Instead of taking my punishment like a man, I quarreled
with everybody, vowed I'd go on the stage, and came to this.
I have kept body and sotd together, and I don't think I've
done anything to be much ashamed of since, but I'm sick and
sorry at the whole business. Yet now that I'm all smashed
up and useless it seems somehow mean to go back. My
father's a parson, you know, not over well off, and there are
a good many of us."

All the pauses in his story, and there were a good many,
had been ptmctuated by Viola with reassuring little pats, and
now that the pause was so long that he seemed to have
finished his story, she turned a beaming face toward him.
"How glad they will be!" she exclaimed. "You must write
to-night directly you get back. How glad your mother will
be!"

A spasm of pain crossed his face. "My mother died just
before I left school," he said.

Viola's eyes filled with tears, and she had just exclaimed,
"And you have no sisters either, 3^ou poor dear!" when the
rescue party, accompanied by Basil and the nearly fi antic
Polly, appeared just below them. They carried the jokey
man to the foot of the clif! and took him back to the village
in a boat ; and as his ankle proved to be very badly broken he
elected to go into the cottage hospital on the hill. The long
wait in the wet, that had not in the least hurt Viola, proved
altogether too much for the jokey man. That night he
became feverish and delirious, and when the children and the
General went to ask for him next day, they were told that he
was very ill indeed, and that the broken ankle was quite a
small matter in comparison with the pneumonia. That eve-
ning the doctor called on the General, and directly the per-

68 A SfftaU Event

formance was over, the General went to see the Alfresco
players at their lodgings.

** Do you happen to know who his people are?" the General
asked Mrs. Montmorency.

"He never let on that he'd got any folks, poor fellah," she
answered with a sob. She had a kind heart, if her ankles
were thick. **He was never one to talk about himself, and
he's never had so much as a postcard by post since he's been
here, that I do know. His real name's not Smith at all; his
linen — ^beautiful and fine his shirts are, too — ^is all marked
'Selsley.'"

*' Have you no idea what part of the country he came from.^"
the General asked, **then we could look in a directory. It
would be a horrible thing if — "

**He joined us in London," Mrs. Montmorency gasped
between her sobs, while her tears made little pathways on
her painted cheeks. **He hadn't any references, but I per-
suaded my husband to take him. He carried his references
in his face, I said, and so I'm sure we've found it, for a nicer,
more obliging, gentlemanly — "

*'Do you think, sir," Mr. Montmorency interrupted, "that
he told the little lady anything about himself when they were
upon the cliff together?"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the General in great
excitement, "of course he did; I have it. Who has got a
Clergy List?"

Naturally none of the Alfresco players possessed such a
work, and it was already too late to knock up the vicar of
the parish. But next morning the General called on the
vicar very early, and they dispatched an exceedingly long
telegram to the post-office and several bottles of champagne
to the cottage hospital, where Polly, Basil, and Viola hung
about the doors all the morning hoping for better news. The
Alfresco players got out a green leaflet to the effect that there
would be that night a benefit performance for that talented
artist, Mr. Smith, who had been suddenly stricken down by
serious illness. The General seemed to send and receive a
great many telegrams, and did not go fishing all that day. At
sundown there was no better news at the hospital, and it
seemed exceedingly probable that the jokey man would joke
no more. The General met the last train, and drove away
from the station accompanied by an elderly, severe-looking

A Small Event 69

clergyman. They stopped at the hospital and the clerg3anan
went in.

The jokey man was so noisy and talked so continuously
that the hospital authorities had him moved from the men's
surgical ward into a little room by himself. As the matron
showed the strange clerg3rman into this room, a nurse rose
from the chair at the bedside. The jokey man's voice was no
longer loud, but he kept saying the same thing over and over
again. "All day long he keeps repeating it," she whispered.
"I'm so thankftd you've come, for he can't possibly last if
this restlessness continues."

'* I'm sure he'll come if you send," the weak, irritable voice
went on. "Why don't you send? I want my father —
"father, I have sinned" — ^that's it — "father, I have sinned"
— ^but I know he'll come if you send. I want my father, I tell
you — ^why won't you send? I want my father."

The whispering voice persisted in its plaint, the hot hands
plucked at the sheet when other hands closed over them, hold-
ing them firmly, and the voice he was waiting for said quietly,
"My dear son, I am here."

As the sick man raised his tired eyes to the grave gray face
bent over him, his troubled mind was flooded with an immense
content, his poignant restlessness was calmed. "Good old
father!" he said softly, and lay quite still.

The jokey man thought better of it, and didn't die after all.
In another week Basil and Viola were allowed to go and see
him. They stood very hushed and solemn on either side of the
bed, for he looked very thin and white, and was still lying
right on his back, which made him seem more ill somehow.
For qtute a minute nobody said anjrthing at all, till Basil, who
held a large folded bracken leaf in his hand, laid it down on
the jokey man's chest and spread it out. A fish speckled
with brown reposed in solemn glory in the midst. "It's for
your dinner," whispered Basil. "It's only four ounces off
the potmd. I caught it myself two hours ago. Viola saw
me do it. I think a * Coachman ' 's the best fly after all."

^^^

_^.-

SITTINGs An Episode of
the Studio, by Virginia Woodward
Qoud*

** V/'OUR expression has changed to-day."

I "You say that ef-ry day, monsieur!**

**You do not come every day, although I told you that it
were better if you did. I wonder if women who have little to
do themselves ever realize that art is hard work."

Her smile was un-telltale, as she stroked with her right hand
the leopard skin on which she reclined, then adjusted a heavy
gold band which clasped her arm that hung over the pillar of
the marble couch; but the painter did not raise his eyes.

"You mean that if the picture fail, if it is not so much a
lik-a-ness to me, it is because I do not come ef-ry day? Oh
fan-cy, ef-ry day!** She glanced out a vine-clad opening to
where a long, yellow road stretched glaringly to the northward,
and yawned. "I should die of it!*' The movement was, like
every indescribable grace, a part of her significant person-
ality. The painter's blue eyes suddenly darted across the
intervening space something between a challenge and a com-
pelling question.

"Women have died, but not for art, madame."

' ' Hear him, the wise one ! * ' she murmtu-ed. Her eyes smiled
tolerantly between half-closed lids, the expression best
adapted to her rectunbent posture. But he dropped his own
and compressed his lips as if restraining a retort. "You speak
often like this,*' she pursued, "what do you know of women's
art and — death, monsieur? Do you gain your knowledge
from these ex-cel-lent Engleesh ladies who invite you to dec-
orate their Teas?"

He flushed to his ingenuous brow. "You know that I do
not go — ^when I can help it!"

"Ah — ^when you can help it!"

♦Written for Short Stories.

A Sitting 71

"It is professional policy then/' he added hastily, as he
stood broad shouldered and erect beside his easel, ttiming a
camel's-hair brush in vermillion; a manly combination of
athletic strength and artistic delicacy. **I have to do it. A
woman cannot understand the btisiness part of it — a woman
such as you, I mean."

'*Such as I, and what sort is that?" Her eyes darkened
slightly in their sea-like change.

"You would not have me be personal?"

"Per-son-al — um — ^that is to speak but the truth?"

"We will call it so this time, yes." He inspected her from
another side. "Wait until I alter the shades above. 'Tis too
light for a twilight effect. Women do not like the truth," he
resumed.

"Oh! Oh—"

"I mean that it is harder for them to hear it without modi-
fication, and to speak it without reservation of that which is
harsh. Otherwise they would lose their charm. They
naturally reserve one-third and speak two-thirds irrelevantly.
They, what we should call in hunting, double and cover."

"And is it so hard for you to speak the truth to me, mon-
sieur?"

His face was hidden by the canvas now. "Harder not to,"
he began, then added, "anjrthing that I may say to you will be
the truth, madame. . Make your left hand a little less listless,
please, as it hangs over the couch."

"List-less? It does not listen enough? Oh, I see!" she
laughed softly with pleasure. " He is wonderful, this painter ! ' '

"Not I! It is the model who is wonderful, I assure you.
Now I shall tell you a truth, madame. When you described
the picture you wished, I hesitated."

"And why?"

"Because the pose was so full of artistic possibilities, so
much more like a tragedy queen than the portrait of a lady,
that I doubted your ability to sustain it."

"Ah!" she leaned forward and scrutinized him keenly, but
he was looking at the picture.

"You have done it superbly, madame, and I have followed
your suggestion in letter and spirit. In all this time I have
merely lived in the present, asking not a question about you,
spectilating none concerning you, I have no idea which one of
the many splendid villas here is yours, nor do I even know

72 A Sitting

your true name. You have appeared and disappeared twice
a week, and it has pleased my fancy to think of you in this
way — as the subject of the picture," he broke off rather
lamely.

**It is my real name that I gave you," she said gently. "I,
too, have spoken the truth to you, monsieur, and have but
re-served, as you say, all commonplace detail about myself
that you might better employ your imagination. Has it not
been well?'*

**Yes, yes; most well, that part."

**And what part has not been well?"

**0h none, none, of course! Fool! Fool!" he muttered,
adding aloud, **but you must always make allowances for the
whims and vagaries of the artist, madame. They are hard to
endure. I 'm awfully rough on a model ! * *

'*I do not think so. You speak much about art, monsieur,
you think that there is no art but that of painting?"

** Heavens, no! But one always must think one's own the
greatest."

**Ah, yes!" Her eyes grew suddenly dreamy and, regardless
of the pose, her hands slipped under her head. The brush
before the canvas stopped and there was silence for a moment,
then he spoke with a forced note of brusqueness making his
tone harsh.

**I do not know which is the more beautiful. How can one
untrained to it pose to such perfection! It is exquisite."

She laughed softly with an underlying cadence of tenderness.

"No, no, 'tis the painting. It is easy to pose for you, mon-
sieur."

He shook his head. "You are a mystery!"

"True, monsieur, being a woman."

"How can one reared in a convent — "

"Oh, not always — educated, I said."

"Educated in a convent, and afterwards leading the life of
society — "

"No, no, monsieur! I did but say that you know the lives
most women lead. I — in truth, I go into the world less
tnan most of them."

"It is all the same. I have wondered why a woman sur-
rounded by conventional life should choose such a pose.
The majority of them wish to be painted in a Gainsborough

A Sitting 73

hat and plumes, or a long skirt and hounds behind them, or
a white d6collet^ with a black fur boa, but you — **

"I nef-fer said what my pose is, monsieur. That is for
you to feed your imagination upon. I saw a portrait by you
and was pleased with it, and with the idea that you needed
less conventionalized subjects, I wished to give your imagina-
tion what you call 'fair play.' Therefore, I chose a pose out
of the ordinary and did not tell you many stupid things about
myself, but left you to paint me what you would."

"I think that I know our subject, madame. At any rate
your suggestion was as a draught of life to the thirsty. You
have been my greatest inspiration — for the time."

•* Ah— for the time I"

He sighed slightly. **Must not the next subject be like-
wise an inspiration?"

"Yes, yes; 'twill be one of the pretty young En-gleesh, I
sup-pose."

** I wish that it were, but I have an order which I am truly
not keen about."

**And who is it? You know we speak the truth to-day,
monsieur!"

"Oh, I have been as recklessly confidential with you, mad-
ame, as I should have been with a fellow artist!"

"Thank you."

"I am to paint Suzanne Vemot, the actress."

He painted in silence. Presently she said, softly:

"You say you do not wish to do that — ^paint Mademoiselle
Vemot — and why not?"

"A trite reason. I find them pretty much alike — capri-
cious, uncertain about their appointments, impatient, vain,
and utterly spoiled. She is living some miles to the North,
I believe, and hearing that I am wintering here in seclusion,
she has taken a whim to spend next month here and have
me paint her. I cannot very well refuse, but — Oh well, this
is treason!"

He painted steadily, and her eyes rested upon his head
with a peculiar and sad gentleness.

"The truth is no treason, monsieur, besides, I shall not
tell your — Mademoiselle Vemot, if I see her."

"Not mine, Heaven forbid!" he murmured.

"I do not quite understand why you dislike her — this
Mademoiselle Vemot," she said.

74 A Sitting

**No one reason, perhaps. Most of the women who gain
eminence in an art are so arrogant, so — audacious," he laughed
a little retrospectively, ** women of her stamp, I mean." The
hand hanging over the marble pillar contracted as if it clinched
involutarily, then she said:

**Do you know aught of her, monsieur, other than through
her playing — ^her acting, I mean?"

"Nothing at all," he said, lightly.

**Then why judge her? May she not be an artist also?"

** Yes, yes, by all odds — a great tragic artist, too."

**Ah!" she breathed, "then what is the reason for this
dis-like, monsieur? "

** Oh, I suppose, only an Englishman's antipathy to seeing a
woman made public property — ^her name on every lip. I
have no desire to paint her after — after you. Jove! I read
the other day that she keeps a tiger whelp as pet, and carries
a chameleon by a diamond chain on her neck. Her neck,
fancy!"

Her expression slipped back of her white lids in a hidden
smile.

*'May it not be, monsieur, that our press is not altogether
like yourself — a truth-teller? She may only keep the creatures
in the public's imagination. Ah, it is a peculiar thing, the
public's imagination!" A slight sarcastic smile touched her
lips with bitter meanmg, "When you give it food, it refuses to
be fed, but starve it, and — ma foi! — how it feeds upon noth-
ing!— perhaps, too, this Mademoiselle Vemot has struggled, has
made herself, as you say — has fought her fight. It may be a
hard life, the life of a professional women, monsieur" — ^if her
voice had not been always full of pathetic cadence it would
have sounded impassioned, pleading.

"I doubt that it was ever intended that they should be
professional," he said.

"Ah, sup-pose someone had said you should not be painter,
then?"

"I shotdd have been one anyhow," he retorted. She
laughed enjoyingly.

"And sup-pose they had said * You cannot paint!*"

"I should have known better!"

"And sup-pose they had said: *What, artist? painter? —
mon enfant, you cannot be that because I have said you shall
be un bon mari — a, husband Eng-leesh, being attentif to

A Sitting 75

what you call the far-r-m, riding many hours a day in the
rain over much very dirty earth, and having an attachment
to cat-tie, and the school peek-neek/ what should you have
done , monsieur ? "

He laughed. ** Run away ! "

She clapped her hands delightedly, then fell back into pose.

"Ex-actly. It was what I — ^it is maybe what a woman
would do, monsieur, if they say to her, 'mon enfant, you can-
not go to be the artiste ! True, true, you may be bom artiste,
but what does Le Bon Dieu know of art? It is more — what
you call — important to marry. I have choose you shall
marry a little vis-compte, who looks like a monkey; a very
little and black monkey. 'Tis true, but what of that? I
choose ! You must marry and be obedient to the monkey " —

He stopped painting suddenly and turned his eyes pierc-
ingly upon her with something escaping suppression.

"Madame! Do not forget that we are under the ban of
confidence — did you marry the vis-compte?"

" Monsieur? I speak of artists."

"One may be artistic and not trained to any art," he said.
"You are an artist by instinct to your finger-tips! Yet
you have no art. I mean. — Oh, you know what I mean!"
She smiled gently.
- "It may be that I do — play a little, monsieur."

"Play a little! What every English school-girl says!
What has that to do with art?"

She smiled contentedly at what he would have called his
"bullying."

It was a delicious novelty. "Superb!" she murmured.
"He is real-ly what they call r-r-rude!"

Suddenly his look compelled hers, and he flushed to his
brow, then flung his brush down, and strode toward her,
defiant, fearless.

"If I am only rude," he muttered, "sometimes you — some-
times I cannot — Oh!" he broke off, and wheeled again
to the easel, all imaware of the strange look bent upon him, a
look blent of tenderness, possible joy, and yearning regret.

He took the brush up again without looking at her.

"You did not tell me if you married the vis-compte,
madame."

"And why, monsieur? What has it to do with — ^the
picture?"

76 A Sitttng

"Everything!** He threw his head back suddenly, and
blazed upon her, but she met his look with such unflinching
gentleness that his own lowered. **I beg your pardon —
you are right — nothing," he said.

**No; I will tell you, monsieur," she said softly, ** although
you call me * Madame ' I did not marry the monkey-man. I
was very young, and had ambitions, as the young will have —
ideas about being an artiste — I told you that I play a little."

** Violin or piano?" he said mechanically, and she smiled
again.

*' What matters that? I am speaking now of the past. I
had the feeling that an artist shotdd not marry."

** Right!" The word was forced through his teeth.

Suddenly her tone changed, in spite of her, to something
almost motherly, **An artist, monsieur, is one apart — ^un
solitaire. Art is the creative life, and its wings are the wings
of the immortal butterfly — beauty. They must not be held
too close-ly."

''How do you know that?" he muttered. "There, do not
move your hand, it is perfect so. It speaks."

"Oh, monsieur! First it does not listen, now it speaks!"

Suddenly he flung his brush down again. "It is no use, I
cannot paint to-day! Do you know the pose you have
chosen, madame? It is in Shakespeare's 'Cleopatra* — do
you know it?**

"I have read it in the Eng-leesh,** she said demurely.

"Caesar's messenger should kneel here,** he bent before
her, "but it is implied in your pose. 'Shall I say to Caesar
what you require of him?*'* he said.

" *Tell him that I am prompt to lay my crown at *s feet!* **
she murmured.

"Madame! You know the text — Shakespeare's text!*'

"I said I have read it in the Eng-leesh,** she answered.

Suddenly his eyes grew reckless.

" * Give me grace to lay my favor on your hand * . . . **
he murmured.

Her hand relaxed slightly, and his lips were upon it, broken
by stifled and impassioned words. It was but an instant,
then she drew it away and it touched his hair with an almost
motherly touch of tenderness.

"No, no, monsieur. You have been most good to me — I
am honored."

A Sitting

77

But he stood before her maddened by the light of the
moment, and threw his hands out blindly:

"It is no use — I have struggled all these weeks — have
mercy — I am yours!"

For a second there broke through the wistfulness of her
face something beyond words — ^the yearning of a wave-
beaten soul towards a sure haven, and her hands involun-
tarily moved outward, then they dropped to her sides and
she slipped past him with a broken sound that was not quite
a sob.

** Yes, yes! Mon ami — I will have — ^mercy — " ,

"Stop!" he^^sprang after her, but her hand was on the
dressing-room door.

"Never!" she said. "Monsieur! The picture; it is nearly
finished. Remember a line to go beneath it :

" * Say to him that I hear the doom of Egypt . . . ' "

A few moments later, heavily veiled, she sank back in her
carriage.

HC Furnishing of
Pat Mag^uire: An Irish
Love Story, by Winifred Boggs*

BY a certain Irish hamlet on the Atlantic there are cliffs
that rise sheer from the sea; beneath them, far down,
the black waters seethe and bubble as they dash into grim
dark caverns, rushing past out-jutting crags with a whirling
roar of foam, breaking with a deep crashing boom against the
impenetrable sides of the gloomy cliffs, which, in their cold,
stem grandeur, seem to gaze at the impotent fury of the
waters in calm, measureless contempt.

Here, on the top of these northern Irish cliffs, Biddy
M'Shane stood motionless one night, watching for signs of
life to pass into the field track which led zigzag to where she
waited.

The night grew later; the wind died down; the moon, com-
ing out of a small rift in the sky, turned the great gleam of the
waters into iridescent pathways of silver; but still the girl's
eyes turned westward.

There was a great stillness lying over all the land ,^ so deep,
so quiet, that Nature and all things living seemed at rest; the
spirit of silence seemed brooding in the air, save when, now
and then, the dark sails of a fishing-smack came, like dreams,
drifting through a silver sea away to the Isles of Sleep.

Presently a welcome sound struck upon the girl's strained
ear — ^the sotmd of merry-makers as they came home rejoic-
ing with song and shout from Kilbahkarrak Fair.

Up the winding path streamed a group of men, with here
or there a woman in their midst, wives or mothers, and Biddy
M 'Shane leaned eagerly forward to scan the faces of the
advancing figures as the moon revealed them one by one to
her.

♦ Prom The Leisure Hour.

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire 79

Then she drew back with bitter disappointment — ^the face
she looked for was not there. She shrank into the shadows,
hoping to remain unobserved while the roysterers passed.
The first few noticed nothing, but the second lot, composed
chiefly of women, were less easily deceived; one of their
ntunber sprang forward and caught the girl by the arm. ** Why
shurc an* it's Biddy M'Shane, no less!" she exclaimed shrilly,
then letting her go, with a loud laugh, **Is it waitin' for the
fairin' ye be?"

**Let me be, Kate Flanagan," cried the girl angrily, darting
down the path out of reach.

With a laugh and a jest the fairers passed on, and as their
voices died away in the distance, silence reigned once more.

The girl restmied her old station, and presently a man's
solitary figure made her heart beat high with anticipation;
then as the moon shone on fair, not dark, hair, and a man of
large instead of small stature, her hopes fell again, and she
stood sullen and resentful awaiting his approach.

"Why, Biddy, can it be yezsilf?" cried the man, amazed,
as catching sight of her watching figure, he sprang lightly to
her side; ** 'tis little I hoped to see ye this noight," and he
came closer, looking eagerly into her eyes.

She returned his gaze with indifference.

" 'Tis not for ye I be waitin*, Pat Maguire," she replied,
turning away.

The young man's face fell.

"Arrah, now, Biddy, 'tis teasin' ye be," he said anxiously;
"wait till I tell ye what I bought at the fair."

She looked up with a faint glint of curiosity.

** 'Tis nothin' to me, thin," she said, tossing her head, add-
ing in the same breath, ** Ye can tell me if ye like."

"Well, thin, an iligant rockin'-chair an' no less," with
triumph.

"Ye niver did!" incredulously.

"It's thruth," he replied solemnly. "An' that's not all,
either," fumbling in his pockets as he spoke. "See here,
Biddy allannah."

Something flashed in the moonlight, and Biddy gave an
exclamation of amazement as a little paste butterfly brooch
was dropped into her hand.

Never had she seen anjrthing so beautiful before; she gazed
at it with dilated eyes and parted lips.

8o The Furnishing of Pat Maguire

** Rale Oirish dimons the sellar tould me,*' said Pat Magtiire,
proudly bending his fair thatch of hair low over the girl's
palm, and taking jewel and all into his own brown fingers.
"It'll look lovely in yez shawl on Sundays," he murmured
admiringly; **shure an* it'll be breakin' the hearts of all the
other colleens ye'U be, with yez beautiful face and rale Oirish
dimons!"

The girl hesitated; then she turned away from the glittering
bauble.

**I cannot take it, Pat Maguire," she said in a low voice;
"kape it for yez swateheart,"

**But it's yezsilf that I want for me swateheart," began
the tall young Irishman blankly.

** Haven't I tould ye now," reproachfully, **that I'd niver
take ye for me bhoy?"

"Och, Biddy, don't!'* cried Pat in a sharp, pained voice,
**shure it*s the loight of me eyes ye are, the — "

The girl pushed him away with no gentle hand. "Grit
away, ye great nuisance," she cried, with an angry sob, "it's
no peace I have wid ye at all, at all. Ye know what I am
waitin' here for, and niver a word of him, good or bad. Where
is Harry-Bagh?"

"I moight have known," whispered Pat bitterly; "always
that wastral, that — "

She turned on him like a wild cat. "Ye shall not say a
word against him!" she replied fiercely. "Where is he,
thin — ^where did ye lave him?"

Old Adam was too strong for Pat Maguire, he told the
crude truth when a little softening of the facts would have
been more gracious.

"Dead dhrunk in the ditch comin' along," he answered
roughly.

**Ye — ^ye coward, ye mane-spirited coward!" cried Biddy,
with flashing eyes, "lavin' the poor darlint to catch his death
of could in a damp ditch — for shame on ye, Pat Maguire, for
shame! 'Tis no dacent Oirish bhoy ye are, but a low croil
murthering thafe. Take that," and reaching on tiptoe, the
young virago struck the big Irish lad a stinging blow on the
right ear.

Pat caught the offending hand and held it tightly, shaking
the girl gently.

" It's a damon ye are, for shurel" he muttered admiringly,

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire 8i

liking the girl none the less for her show of spirit. **It's
locked up or married ye should be."

"And it's rather locked up for life I'd be than married to
ye," was the reply.

For a few moments there was silence, then —

"Well, what do ye want me to do?" the young man asked
unwillingly.

"Ye know what any dacent bhoy would do."

"Fetch him home?" sulkily.

"Yes."

Another pause, a longer one this time.

" Well, I'll do it," he said at length, in anything but cheer-
ful tones, "if ye'U give me — " he paused, confused by the
scathing light in the girl's eyes, "if — if ye'U kape the brooch,
I mane, an* wear it on Sunday."

For answer, Biddy pinned the jewel in her bodice, and
pointed down the path.

"Now, thin, be quick wid ye," she said imperiously, "it's
gettin' damp."

The young man turned away, murmuring savagely —

"/ could be layin' in wather all noight before ye'd moider
yezilf about me.*'

"The loikes of ye are big enough, and ugly enough, to look
after yezselves," was the reply, "an' ye can stan' more dhrink
than Harry-Bagh."

"'Deed, thin, if I took half — " began the young man,
injured, but Biddy was already pushing him down the slope.

"It's slow as death ye are!" she cried impatiently;
"what are yez great long legs for?"
1 m gom .

An extra hard shove down the steep incline, and the angry
Pat was indeed "goin'."

" Good-noight, an' hurry now," called out Biddy before
running home, and slipping into the small, full cabin without
waking the slumberers within.

It is to be feared that Harry-Bagh 's passage home was a
trifle tmcomfortable, and that he would not have blessed
Biddy for being the cause of the disturbance ot his sweet
slumbers in the ditch.

Biddy M 'Shane was the prettiest girl in Limnagarry, a
place where pretty girls were the rule rather than the excep-
tion. Needless to remark, she had numerous admirers, the

82 The Furnishing of Pat Maguire

most eligible, as well as the most persistent, being big, .plain
Pat Maguire, a distant kinsman; the least eligible, and most
indifferent, was the village Adonis, the black-haired, black-
eyed, natty Harry-Bagh.

Pat had a cottage of his own, and almost enough land to
constitute a small farm, in the imagination of Biddy's mother.
He lived entirely alone, yet his cottage was a model of neat-
ness; it even boasted a few articles of real furniture, and
besides the living room and kitchen combined, had two
others.

It was the envy, the despair, the secret hope, of all the
unmarried women from fifteen to fifty.

While Harry-Bagh — ^though his hair was a mass of purple-
black curls, his black eyes fringed with dark, thick lashes,
his teeth of dazzling whiteness, his merry mouth red and
shapely with health and youth, and his small form the essence
of dandified elegance — had nothing.

He had friends and sweethearts galore, spirits that nothing
could damp, and a humorous view of life that infected even
the most destitute, but of worldly wealth not a sou.

He occupied, in company with his parents, nine brothers
and sisters, his grandmother and an aunt, and — ^the pig, a
small tumble-down cabin on the Limnagarry road just where
it branched off into Blackberry Lane. It was perhaps the
most picturesquely situated cabin in the whole country side;
a winding lane with high wild hedgerows led to it; behind it
rose the purple mountains of Donegal; beside it, to the right,
lay the sea, with grassy slopes, one blaze of sea-pinks. Out-
side the most picttu*esque, and inside the dirtiest in all Done-
gal!

By trade Harry-Bagh was, like his rival, a fisherman; yotmg
and old, for many miles round, all earned their living in this
manner. To see Harry-Bagh off to the shore with his black
eyes twinkling, the gleam of his teeth showing through his
merry lips, his red fisher-cap set jauntily on his thick dark
curls, was to behold a joyous sight that many a blue-eyed
colleen waited to see.

To see him come back with his share of the spoil, whistling
lightly as he sorted it out, his red cap farther back, his hair
dashed with spray, while his dark Spanish face glowed with
the sea's brown health, was to see, if possible, an even more
joyous sight. Nothing disturbed the even tenor of his

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire 83

^PPy-go-l^cky way. He went to a fair whistling *' Kathleen
Mavoumeen"; he came back after a night spent quite hap-
pily in the ditch or lock-up, still whistling ** Kathleen Mavour-
neen/' a smile of good-fellowship on his devil-may-care face.
Though by far the most worthless of all the young men
about, and the one that cared least about Biddy, she, out of
sheer perversity, set her fancy upon him. When she wanted
anything, when she was in trouble, when there were grave
matters to be settled, the honest, well-meaning, stalwart,
but plain-feattu*ed Pat was the one she took cotmsel with.

Ever since he had been old enough to know what he wanted,
Pat had wanted Biddy, and Biddy alone; for him no other
girl existed. Till Harry-Bagh's conquering black eyes had
glanced into hers, Pat's suit had prospered well enough, and
he had worked hard early and late, at his little patch, cul-
tivating the grotmd and rearing pigs and potdtry with well-
merited success.

Owing to his industry, he was at last able to buy a small
boat and fishing-tackle, so that ever}rthing was clear tmdivided
profit, and he grew, in the eyes of the primitive Irish poor,
almost a man of wealth.

It had become second nature to him to make fair his home
for the time of Biddy's coming. He still toiled on doggedly,
hoping against hope, for he told himself, not always with con-
viction, that come she would in the end.

Early the next morning after Harry-Bagh's late arrival
home, he was on the beach as usual, none the worse for his
little indiscretion. He strolled about from one girl to the
other, exchanging jests and compliments, saying the same to
Biddy as he said to all the girls with any pretensions to
beauty, while Pat Maguire stood a little apart looking on with
a jealous scowl, and perhaps expecting a word of praise from
Biddy for carrying out her commands.

On her part she wondered why he did not come up and
speak to her, and something akin to annoyance seized upon her
spoiled whims when he went off with the boats without one
word.

Harry-Bagh waved a smiling good-bye all round; Biddy
could not flatter herself it was intended more for her than the
others. She knew and deplored his light, fickle nature, but
went on coveting his love all the same.

In the evening, when the boats came home, it was much the

84 The Furnishing of Pat Maguire

same; again Hany-Bagh jested with all alike, while Pat
Maguire, without a word, walked dourly home.

For a few days things went on in this very unsatisfactory
manner. Biddy wore the brooch on Sunday to the und)ring
envy of all the other girls, but Pat never came to mass, and
when she took it off and put it away in an old tin box,
angry tears marred the brightness of the jewel.

The next day Harry-Bagh*s mother, Mrs. O^Grady, waddled
up to her with a wide, good-natured mouth gabbling long
before she was in earshot.

She came up panting and breathless, her hands pressed
against her fat sides. "Arrah, thin, Biddy, me jewel, 'tis
yezsilf I've been wantin' to see all this long weary day," she
began rapidly. ** I've been insulted that never was, wid that
wastral Harry-Bagh's foine yotmg English miss."

"Who?" faltered Biddy.

"Haven't ye heard? Shtire it's the bad bould heart the
bhoy has!" lifting up her hands in mock horror, and trying
hard to suppress unbecoming signs of pride. "Ye know that
foine English lady's-maid her ladyship brought down?"

"What has she got to do wid Harry-Bagh?" asked Biddy
uneasily.

" Shure 'tis his latest swateheart she is — no less, but wait
till I tell ye. Harry-Bagh was for bringin' her in to tay, so
I put out the china, an' gave her the uncracked mug, I did
too — the cratur! An' I dusted the seat of the chair, an' set
boxes roun', an' aproud woman I was the day, Biddy M'Shane,
wid the foine choilder, an' ducks, an' hens, an' the sides of the
pig hangin' up to dry, an' fresh eggs for me foine lady, an*
rale bread an' butter, an' everjrthing so genteel an' iligant."

She paused for breath, the girl waiting anxiously for her
to continue.

Presently Mrs. O'Grady got started again. "Yes," she
went on, "all so foine and iligant, an' I waited for her in me
grand new clothes I'd bought second-hand at the fair, an'
where the body of me wouldn't meet, I wore Tim's Sunday
waistcoat, an' it was a rale trate I was, me dear, though I
says it as shouldn't. An' presently came Harry-Bagh an*
his English miss, an', by St. Pathrick, what do you think the
cratur wore?"

"I can't think," breathlessly.

"A rale silk petticoat, no less," in awed accents.

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire 85

Biddy's amaze and disgust were great enough even to please
that lover of sensation, Mrs. O'Grady.

**It's thrue, an* that's not all, for she lifted her skirts that
hoigh, when she come in, and there were silk stockin's an'
shoes that small, with tremendjious heels, just like her lady-
ship's. An' she walked like this, tumin' up her long nose," —
Mrs. O'Grady walked in absurd imitation of her guest's man-
ner, turning up her ridiculous little nose sky high — ** an' when
she saw the ducks — the darlints — ^in the cabin, she squealed
and said, 'Oh, gracious! the /ranimals have got into your
'ut' — called it a * 'ut.' An* was so ignorant she didn't know
where the fowls lived! Thin, after I put tay in the taypot,
she got up and held her foine hankerpiece to her face an'
walked off wid Harry-Bagh, saying she couldn't stand *the
low, common //irish.' Now," speechless with indignation,
"what do you say to that?**

Biddy could have said a good deal, but more of Harry-Bagh's
fickleness than of his mother's injuries.

She walked home rather thoughtfully. She could not help
contrasting Pat and Harry-Bagh. On her way she paused,
and looked wistfully at the former's well-kept potato-patch,
but no stalwart form was working there, and heaving a sigh
she went on with dragging footsteps.

Half-way done the lane she met Pat Maguire, who turned
and walked by her in silence.

"Have ye lost yez tongue?" asked the girl pertly, at
length.

"No, Biddy, but I've bought a taypot an' two china cups
an' saucers widout a crack."

"Have ye, now?" with affected indifference. "What
would. ye be wantin' wid two cups, Pat Maguire?"

"Biddy, ye — " he began.

"Well, good-night to ye, shure I see me mother lookin' for
me;" and before he was aware of her intention she had caught
up to Mrs. M 'Shane's small wrinkled form in front.

He had no choice save to turn and go home, dwelling on the
hardness of his lady-love's heart.

A few days later, flushed and eager, he stood at the comer
waiting to see her pass on her way to the well. No sooner had
she appeared than he was by her side.

"Biddy!" he cried breathlessly, "Biddy, I've bought a
chest-o* -drawers / "

86 The Furnishing of Pat Maguire

The girl's great Irish eyes grew yet larger in amazement.
** I don't believe ye," she cried disdainfully ; "only the quality
have chest-o'-drawers; what for would the loikes of ye be
bu)dn' one?"

"For me woife," boldly.

" Arrah, thin, I did not know ye was married at all, at all."

"Biddy," reproachfully, "ye know my manin'."

Biddy tossed her head. "I don't," she declared imtruth-
fully.

"Come an' look at it, thin," he pleaded, "just one little
peep, now."

The girl hesitated, and then turned resolutely away. " No,
it's nothin' to me," she insisted, "an* I must be goin', Pat
Maguire."

He stood looking after her retreating form in bitter disap-
pointment.

" It's no good at all, at all," he thought wretchedly. Then
the gloom lifted again as a vision of his green enameled chest-
of -drawers rose before his eyes. "Shure it's a foine tlimg
entoirely," he muttered, "an' wait till I buy a cow,''

The news that Pat Maguire had bought a "rale iligant"
chest-of-drawers spread like wildfire through Limnagarry,
and incredulous groups rushed up to the cottage to see the
wonder with their own doubting eyes.

When they beheld it, one and all were speechless with envy
and admiration, and went home scarcely believing the evi-
dence of their own eyes. What would not every woman there
have given to possess that wonderful piece of furniture for
her very own? And to think that Biddy M 'Shane might
have it, and all the glories of the cottage, for the lifting up of
her little finger!

•"Shure 'tis a proud woman I am this day!" said Mrs.
M 'Shane, with a gasp.

Biddy was^ot as indifferent as she pretended, to the event
of the year, and she hoped Pat would ask her again to view
his purchase. When he did so she decided to give in grace-
fully after a decent show of resistance; however, as Pat,
much to her bitter mortification, did nothing of the kind,
keeping instead strictly out of her way, and even leaving her
to learn from others that he had added a cow to the establish-
ment, such condescension was not asked from her.

By this time she had forgotten all about the fickle Harry-

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire 87

Bagh and was thoroughly in love with the stalwart yotmg
fanner — for so her mother insisted on speaking of him since
the arrival of the cow.

The cow calved, and there was a large litter of pigs, but still
Pat went on his way regardless of Biddy's wistful, watching
eyes, and one day when she heard he had added a small
wooden dresser, with dishes, and plates, and three jugs to
place upon it, she felt she could bear his strange conduct no
longer, and lingered in Blackberry Lane at twilight time,
waiting to see him pass.

He paused as he came along, and looked at her eagerly,
then made as if he would pass on unheeding, but the girl's
entreating face, raised to his, weakened his resolution. He
stopped and grew suddenly very shy and tongue-tied, stand-
ing there big and awkward, his heart full of the love he cotdd
not find words to express.

The golden light was just resting on the purple of the
mountains; a soft haze of crimson lay behind them, cutting a
fleecy cloud into flecks. The purple mountains, the gold, and
the crimson, and all the glories of the setting stm were reflected
in the azure waters. The bees hummed lazily down the lane,
their drowsy buzzing a lullaby; butterflies twinkled from
flower to flower, fluttering up and down like tiny gorgeous
blossoms, and the smell of earth and peat, and all the sum-
mer of Nature, came sweet and strong to the young couple
standing side by side.

** It's a stranger ye are now entoirely," said the girl at last,
coyly.

Still Pat made no remark.

** How is the chest-o'-drawers? " asked Biddy, looking down.

His face brightened. **Ye should just see it," he cried
enthusiastically. **Shure it's the loight of the cottage, an'
the iligant side-board, an' plates, an* dishes an' jugs an' all!
Kate Giligan came in yesterday, an' she said 'twould hould
■ all a body's clothes " (he was referring to the chest-of -drawers),
"an' lave room for tay an' sugar besides, an' she tried the
rockin' chair an' said it was the most comfortable she'd ever
seen."

Biddy looked at him with jealous, blazing eyes. ** I won-
der it didn't break wid the weight of the cratur — a great ugly
elephant I"

88

The Furnishing of Pat Maguire

"It's as strong as nivir was; shtire 'twould hould me an*
another."

He looked at her shyly.

**An' her Sunday clothes in my — your chest-o'-drawers!
As if a great ugly colleen like Kate wanted clothes at all."

*'Why, Biddy!" exclaimed Pat, mildly shocked, "ye
wouldn't have a dacent body goin' about — "

"Fm not sure that she is a dacent body," retorted Biddy,
tossing her head.

**For shame—"

'*Well, thin," hotly, **is it dacent ye call it, to go to a
bhoy's cottage an' thry his things, an' his rockin '-chair, an' —
an' — ?" She broke off with a stifled sob.

The idea of that hateful thing trying to rob her of Pat's
affection, and — his furniture! She sobbed wildly at the mere
thought of it.

Pat stood opposite trying to look into her eyes. "Why,
Biddy, me jewel, what is it?" he asked tenderly, pulling her
hands down from her face; "tell me now, darlint."

" I think it is a pity the chest-o'-drawers, an' the iligant
side-board, an' the rockin'-chair, an' the jugs an' the dishes
should — go out of the family," she whispered, blushing.

Pat put his arms around her without more ado, and drew
her wet face against his own radiant one. " Is it yezsilf that
will be wantin' of thim, thin, darlint?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," cried the girl, her arms stealing round her lover's
neck. "I do want that chest-o'-drawers mortal bad, but —
I want ye more, Pat — darlint."

\M

SPLIT InHnitive: The

Profcssor^s Love Story, by
Mary F. Leonard*

•* I MUST deplore " began Professor Wentworth, re-

i moving his glasses.

"You have no idea how funny you look without them,"
interpolated his companion; whereupon he hastily replaced
them, for nothing could have been farther from his wish
at the moment than to appear funny. However, as he
hooked them over his ears he reflected that Miss Sherman
probably meant odd. He had not^d with disapproval her
careless manner of speech.

"You began to say something, Professor; I did not intend
to interrupt," Miss Sherman added after a considerable
pause, as she shifted her fluffy white parasol from one shoulder
to the other.

** I beg your pardon, I am very absent-minded, — I do not

recall *' he hesitated, wondering how long it had been

since he last spoke.

'*ril excuse you upon one condition. You must tell me
what you were thinking about; you looked as solemn as an
owl."

The Prtfessor blushed like a girl under the scrutiny of
those mischievous blue eyes, in whose sight he felt he must
appear a sort of lightning-change artist. " It was your use
of the word fimny. I was reflecting that you perhaps meant
odd," he replied.

"I have noticed that you reflect too much," said Miss
Sheiman severely. "It makes me feel as if I were being
dissected."

This was so like his own sensation the Professor was sur-
prised. "I am far from presuming to criticize," he said;
"you remember you insisted."

♦Written for Short Stories.

90 A Split Infinitive

Miss Sherman again shifted her becoming background and
gazed out upon the lake. "How did you like 'Across the
Storm'?" she asked, "I believe that is what we were dis-
cussing,"

**I have to confess that a story of that kind is not in my
line, yet I do not deny its merits, — ^a certain sprightliness,
and some not unworthy characterization — but as regards
style one must deplore the colloquialisms, and among other
things, the frequent use of the split infinitive."

The sun had gone under a cloud, and Miss Sherman closed
her parasol and clasped her hands around her knees. An
tmconventional attitude, but not without its charm when
assumed by a graceful girl.

"It may be true, but for all that it is a delightful love
story. It is quite clear to me, Professor, that you have
never been in love;" she looked at him archly over her shoulder.

"I must beg to know upon what you fotmd that conclu-
sion," he answered, moving nearer.

"On this same habit of reflection. Now all you find in
this story is split infinitives. At most it is to you an tm-
grammatical romance."

"And you ? I am to draw the inference "

She laughed. "No, it is not necessary you should draw
any."

It would be unjust to Miss Sherman's penetration to sup-
pose she did not know what was coming when some minutes
later Professor Wentworth, in language as clear and con-
cise as he was master of, made her an offer of marriage, but
she was surprised at herself that she did not find it more
amusing. She upon whose word a multi-millionaire and a
novelist of wide fame, not to mention certain lesser lights,
were at this moment hanging in eager suspense.

The Professor might be stilted, but he was earnest and
manly, and she felt a strange reluctance to wound him.
" It wouldn't do at all," she told him. "We have been very
good friends this summer, and you have perhaps fotmd me
entertaining; but after a while that would wear off. You
would begin to — ^to se^ nothing but the split infinitives.
I shotdd shock you in various ways, and you would bore me,
and we'd both be miserable. I am dreadfully sorry, but — "
He accepted her decision quietly, but she remembered
long afterwards how white he looked*, and also how fine were

A Split Infinitive 91

the lines of his profile as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the
expanse of cool, green water. Was it her fault? Had she
encouraged him? Never before had her conscience trouble
her thus. On the coaching party that evening she found
her escort inexpressibly tiresome, and yet Charlie Townsend
was considered a particularly bright fellow.

Professor Wentworth was delivering a course of lectures
on Philology at the Simmier School across the lake from the
home of his collie friend Arthur Sherman. Mr. Sherman's
pretty wife and no less attractive sister made their cottage
the centre o*f social life on the lakeside, and in accepting their
cordial invitations the Professor had found himself in an
imwonted atmosphere of careless gayety.

"No flirting with the Professor, Carolyn," Mr. Sherman
had said, laughing, never dreaming that the rather silent,
bookish man, a dozen years her senior, would be attracted
by his gay young sister. But so it was, and much of the
time he had planned to spend on his new book was spent
instead somewhere in Carolyn's vicinity.

Several days after the episode by the lake, Mr. Sherman
one afternoon came upon his sister ensconced in a large wicker
chair on the porch, some salts in her hand, and a disconsolate
expression of countenance.

'* By the way, Carolyn, Wentworth asked me to say good-
bye for him. His lectures are over and he leaves to-night.
He had intended to call this afternoon, but I told him Helen
and I were going to Jamestown, and that you were not well."

"That was very tiresome of you when I wanted particu-
larly to see him," was her pettish reply.

" I fear Carolyn is in for nervous prostration," her brother
remarked to his wife as they drove away.

Something did seem to go wrong. The millionaire who
appeared at this inopportune moment was dismissed with
scant courtesy, and then, left to herself, Carolyn b^an to
cry silently. It was thus the Professor found her.

"My dear Miss Sherman," he exclaimed, " I hope nothing
is the matter."

"Oh, nothing; I was only feeling tired and bored," she
replied, hastily drying her eyes. " I have a tiresome headache."

"Then I fear I shall not help matters, but there is some-
thing I'd really like to say to you if it would not bore you
too much."

92 A Split JnfinUive

'* It is only myself that bores me, '* Carolyn replied, en-
couragingly.

** Well, I have just discovered that I must be something
of a bore;*' the Professor spoke, cheerfully: "I have been
thinking over what you said to me, and I see I have grown
into the habit of laying too much emphasis on corrections
of form. As you expressed it, where others fotmd a charm-
ing story I found only some grammatical inaccuracies. It
is alas! the sin of the specialist, but I want to thank you for
opening my eyes. I hope you will believe how I value your
friendship — "

"Oh, don't!" cried Caroljm, putting her handkerchief to
her eyes again.

"Is anything wrong.? I don't want to distress you "

the Professor felt greatly embarrassed. "It is impossible
for me to— to — ^adequately express my — "

Carolyn sat suddenly erect. "Do you know what you
have done.?" she cried. "You have split an infinitive!"

He looked at her in astonishment, then said, recklessly,
"Well 1 don't care!"

" But / care, for it alters the case!"

For a second Professor Wentworth's grammatical mind
was bewildered, but he was not dull, and in the flushed,
tearful, smiling face he read that which thrilled him as no
masterpiece of language had power to do. He bent over
her. " My darling, I came back because I couldn't stay away,
and now I begin to believe you wanted me," he said.

'*I should never have acknowledged it if you had not
split that infinitive," was her mischievious reply. "That
showed me you really cared."

IS Great ^Vorkt A Story
of Incompatibility, by Henry dc

Forge. Translated from the

French by Lawrence B. Fletcher*

mmsMi

**r)OOR boy! I am afraid your great work will never be
1 written." Marthe spoke jestingly, but there was
something in the tone and the words that made Pierre wince
and bend his head lower over his manuscript.

It was probably the twentieth time that his wife had made
this unpleasant remark, and the worst of it was that Pierre
had to admit to himself that her words were amply justified
by the facts.

Yes, he was incapable of producing anything really worth
while and must content himself with laboriously grinding
out hack work at so much — or so little — a line.

Years ago, when he had timidly published his first novel
— at his own expense — he had been happy for a season in the
glamour of his hopes and illusions. Then his friends had
confidence in his talent. Now his mother and sister and a
few others still read his work with the indulgence of affection,
and that was all. But what really opened his eyes to the
truth was his wife's bitter contempt and cutting sarcasm.

A htmdred times he had thought he felt the spur of inspira-
tion and had set to work with enthusiasm on the novel or
play that was to make him famous, and as often he had torn
up his few finished pages in anger and said to himself that
he was becoming duller every day and would better give up
writing altogether. He made no reply to Marthe's taunts
but suffered in silence, recalling the brief rapture of their
engagement and hone)mioon.

He felt guilty. He had failed to keep an implied promise.

Three years ago, in return for the great gift of Marthe's

♦Translated for Short Stories.

94 His Great Work

love, her youth and beauty, he had vowed to her his talent, his
dreams, his hopes of fame and forttme.

As for her, her illusions had long been shattered and she saw
herself condemned for life to a commonplace existence by
the side of a commonplace husband.

Once, when her disappointm'fent and discontent had come to
unmistakable expression, he ventured to say:

**Well, my dear, we shall have to find our happiness in
our mutual love."

But Marthe*s answer was a ringing laugh that froze the
poor man's heart.

** People don't live on love, Pierre," she said, coldly. " Not
in real life, though they may in the novels you write — I
mean the novels you dream of writing."

Then something in Pierre's heart snapped, but he replied,
simply :

"You feel the need of amusement, Marthe. Very well,
you shall have it." This was the end of intimacy and con-
fidence between them, of the long evening chats in the firelight
and the thousand delightful nothings that make up the sum
of happy married life.

Marthe loved the world and its pleasures, and Pierre's
journalistic connections made it easy for him to secure admis-
sion to a gay and brilliant society. Besides, he took her fre-
quently to theaters and the opera. In spring they attended all
the races and exhibitions, and in summer went to a fashion-
able seashore resort. The earnings of Pierre's pen did not
suffice for so expensive a life and he often had to dip into his
wife's private purse. To these loans, as they were charitably
called, Marthe never objected.

"I cannot refuse so polite and attentive a husband,"
she would say, with a smile.

Her smiles were rare nowadays, carefully doled out — at
least, to her husband — and he accepted each one gratefully,
like an alms, and treasured it.

Ever)rwhere she was f^ted, admired, flattered. She was
very pretty and knew how to make the most of her natural
advantages, and she was visibly proud and happy over her
success.

Strangers who saw the new beauty inquired who she was
and were informed that she was the wife of Pierre Dubrenil,
the penny-a-liner, the journalist without ability or ambition

His Great Work 95

who was content to remain in obscurity and indifferent to his
wife's triumphs — and reputation.

Soon people of importance interested themselves in her.
Her name began to appear in social gazettes and presently
a very elegant sportsman who was also a count — a real count
— did her the honor to make a formal declaration of his
devotion.

She thought this very amusing and told her husband
about it.

"Don't be alarmed," she said. **You know that I am an
honest woman, but I must have some amusement and, really,
I find this cotmt and his compliments quite entertaining."

Whereupon Pierre Dubrenil's dull suffering asstuned a
more acute form. The thought of this titled ass braying
his equivocal compliments into Marthe's ears almost choked
him. Often when he met the fellow in society he was tempted
to fall upon him and throttle him, or at least knock him down,
but prudence restrained him, for he knew that the count
was a person of much influence and must be handled with
gloves.

The count deigned to interest himself in Pierre and patron-
ized him.

''Write a play, write a play, my young friend," he said.
**I will recommend it and see that it is produced. Talent?
The devil! A writer with such a wife has talent enough."

Marthe sang the same song in a different key.

" Oh, Pierre! " she said. '* Why can*t you write a play that
will make a sensation? A strong, realistic, psychological
thing — a problem play? Stu*ely you can find material enough."

One summer night at the seashore, while Marthe, weary with
much dancing, was sleeping soundly, Pierre sat brooding at
his desk. The sum and substance of his reflections, as usual,
was that Marthe's former love for him had evaporated into
thin air and that his life was a wreck.

"Pshaw! Why go over it all again?" he said, finally.
** But I can't sleep, so I may as well try to write."

And he did write. Not having any definite purpose, he
allowed his pen to transcribe the thoughts that had been tor-
menting him. So what he wrote was dreary enough, a tissue
of remembered joys and present sorrows. Then characters
began to grow and take shape under his pen — first himself ,
clearly recognizable, then Marthe, and finally the count,

96 His Great Work

his contemptible but bated livaL And so he wtw icd all
night on this drama of teal life and real emotioas.

"What! Up so early?" Marthe exclaimed as she awoke
at dawn. "What in the world axe yon woridng at so hard?'*

" Oh, nothing/' he said, coldly. " Nothing of any accoimt.
at least. How could it be?"

Every night after this, when Marthe was asleep, he rose
silently, stole to his desk like a thief in the night and worked
diligently and enthusiastically at his task. And this time
he felt sure that the task would be accomplished and that
the result would be good.

In due time they returned to Paris, Pierre with regret, but
Marthe with delight, for had not the count, her ^thful adoier,
promised her a series of entertainments to which tout Paris
should come to do her homage?

"We will launch your husband on the sea of fame," he said
in his most patronizing manner.

"Do set to work, Pierre," said Marthe to her husband.
" Don't throw away such a splendid opportunity. The count
has great influence and his recommendation will be invalu-
able."

Pierre made no reply. He seemed to have become indif-
ferent to ever3rthing and scarcely to notice what was passing
around him. One day, however, as he sat facing his wife
at their dismal dinner table, he surprised her by saying:

"By the way, a play of mine is to be produced at the
Gymnase next week."

" Of yours ? Why, Pierre ! And you never told me a word
about it!"

"Why should I? I have never had luck enough with my
stuff to care to talk about it, even to you."

This first step toward success was really very gratifying
to Marthe. She was not malicious or vindictive. Besides,
the thought of the premiere of her husband's play, of what
the critics would say of it, above all, the thought of herself,
exquisitely gowned, the cynosure of a fashionable audience,
was a new pleasure and suggested vague but delightfid pos-
sibilities. She kissed her husband on both cheeks.

"Are you glad, Marthe? I have been working, you see,
working hard."

"Yes, dear boy. I am very glad." Pierre smiled wearily.

"Am I, I wonder?" he said. "Ah, if it were not too late!'

His Great Work 97

The approach of the fateful evening filled Marthe with
joyous excitement. The newspapers had given a good deal of
space to the forthcoming dibiU of the young playwright, and
it was rumored that the piece was of uncommon strength
and excellence.

"What is it about, you man of mystery.?" Marthe asked
her husband.

'*0h, you will see. It is a lively sort of thing and will
make all the women laugh."

But it turned out not to be a farce nor even a comedy.
On the contrary, it was a serious drama which dealt with emo-
tions capable of causing the keenest suffering of which the
human heart is susceptible.

It waked up the jaded public and stirred it to enthusiasm.
Its success was immense, triumphal, without precedent.

It stood revealed as a masterpiece which was to have a
run of five htmdred nights and give its author a place among
dramatists of the first rank.

Marthe, prettier than ever in a most becoming mauve
costume, sat in a proscenium box with a few friends, including
her incorrigible count.

The first words of the play gave her a little shock of surprise.

Why, this was an old story to her! It seemed like a faith-
ful transcript of the memories of her bridehood, of her van-
ished happiness.

She clapped her little hands together until she nearly ruined
her dainty gloves, happy and proud to hear such pretty
sentiments, to see so lifelike a reproduction of her own hap-
piness, and she smiled gratefully on her husband who lurked
behind a curtain to escape the curiosity and the bravos of the
audience.

If the first act was idyllic, the second was full of action.
Then the storm burst and it added to Marthe's amazement,
for it recalled vividly the first storms of her matrimonial
voyage.

Evidently Pierre had put his own story upon the stage.
This was clever and interesting, but — what would the out-
come be? Marthe had long been so estranged from her hus-
band, so indifferent to his thoughts and feelings, that she
was totally tmable to forecast his development of the theme.

The third act was a cold, pitiless, masterly analysis of the
torture of the husband vacillatingbetween forced resignation

98 His Great Work

and unavailing love and of the character of the wife, frivolous,
careless and cjmical.

Marthe listened and her heart stood still. Every word was
a stab. Was it possible that Pierre had suffered like this —
and through her? For now there could be no doubt. It
was his life and hers that she had seen enacted.

Yet he had never uttered a word of complaint!

But oh! how terrible a revenge he had taken! How cruel
a punishment was this mirroring of their lives upon the stage !

This was she, then — this actress whose business it seemed
to be to twist the knife in the wound. And that was Pierre,
grave, generous, honest, smiling in company and weeping
in solitude.

Amid the acclamations the voice of the count (to whom,
of course, all this was caviare) was loudest.

'* Bravo! Bravissimo!" he shouted, then turning to
Marthe, he added: **My dear friend, that husband of yours
is a bright lad, a wonderfully bright lad. We shall be able to
make something of him.**

But Marthe, who was very pale and felt as if she were suf-
focating, made no reply.

The count offered his arm, but she exclaimed: **My
husband ! Where is my husband ? * '

Pierre conducted her to the carriage, fighting his way
through the cheering crowd and cutting short the congratu-
lations of friends and fellow craftsmen.

She gave no sign of the awakening which she had just
experienced until they reached home. Then, when they
were in their own rooms and the door locked, she fell on her
knees and embraced his.

** Forgive me! Oh, forgive me, Pierre!" she sobbed.

Y Polly's Aid: A School-
Tcax:hcr's Story, by Eleanor B*
Porter* lUtistrations by Marie
Latasa*

THE schoolroom was very quiet. The master sat at
the desk, wearily leaning his head on his hand, his
eyes fixed on a boyish scrawl decorating the blackboard
across the room.

"This world is all a fleeting show for man's delusion given,"
he read with a mild wonder as to how Bobby Green chanced
to express so pessimistic a doctrine.

The misquotation, as it stood, was certainly in sad accord

♦Written for Short Stories. ^ , , . ._ ^ ^^

lOO

By Polly's Aid

with his own ideas, but that was no reason why the children
should leam the truth thus early in life. He could remember
a time in his own past existence when he had believed quite
the opposite of this dreary sentiment, but that was before
She came into his life — or rather it was before She went out
of his life. Unconsciously he heaved a sigh, and equally
tmconsciously, Polly, on the front seat, echoed it.

Scott Fairfield, the new master of the district school at the
Comers, had the name of being a '* powerful hand for gram-
mar and composition," but to-day he had outdone himself.
After a lengthy and painstaking explanation of the word
''biography*' he had startled the children by requesting each
one to write the biography of some friend or relative; and it was
with many laborious sharpenings of pencils and much rattling
of paper that the youthful writers had begun their task.

As closing time drew near, Polly's sigh was echoed in all
directions, and the abstracted gaze and fiercely bitten pencils
of the discouraged biographers plainly
testified that more time was needed for
their unaccustomed task; so it was with
the assurance that they could complete
their work in the morning, that Fairfield
sent them home at four o'clock.

Polly Dean walked down the street in
a brown study. She had listened faith-
fully to all the master said — that is,
as faithfully as she could, when all the
time Tommy Brown across the aisle was
drawing on his slate those queer-looking
pictures for her especial benefit — but
now she was not qtiite sure that she
knew what "biography" meant.

At the Deans* supper table that night,
during a momentary lull in the conver-
sation, came Polly's opportunity.
** Mamma, what's a biography?"

"Bless the child — ^what is she up to now!" exclaimed Mrs.
Dean in gentle surprise.

" It's writing a whole lot of nice things about somebody —
praising him way to the skies, when it isn't true at all!"
snapped Aimt Madge, who had just been reading the eulogy
of a man she cordially disliked.

By Polly's Aid loi

*' It's telling of everything a person did do, and a few things
he didn't," declared brother Ned with a shrug of his shoulders.

**My dear, it's a full account of one's life which one would
never recognize as one's own, "said her father, as he pushed
back his chair; and in the general laugh that followed, Polly
slipped away.

The biographies were to be read on Friday afternoon.
When the appointed time arrived, the youthful authors
betrayed some excitement and nervousness as they rose one
after another to offer their contributions. The master looked
down very kindly at Polly's flushed cheeks and shining eyes,
but he started slightly as she announced in a shrill treble —
"The Biography op My Aunt Madge.

"This beautiful lady was bom, oh, I don't know how
many years ago, but ever so many — ^much as twenty, maybe.
She isn't dead, yet, so I don't know when she died. She is
tall and slim, and has got a lot of shiny gold hair piled way up
on top of her head, and she is the prettiest lady I ever saw.
I love her very, very much. She is never cross, and never
says * Run away.' I don't know anybody else who don't say
* Rim away ' sometimes. But this beautiful lady is very sad.
Sometimes when I look at her I want to cry,but I don't know
why, so I don't. Once upon a time she had a lover. I know
this because she has got his picture upstairs in her room. I
don't think he is as pretty as she is, and I told her so one day.
She looked awful funny, and took the picture away quick.
He looks a little like my teacher, only my teacher has got
whiskers, and he hasn't. This lovely lady has not been here
very long, but I wish she would stay forever. That is all I
know about her."

"Polly Ann Dean."

Scott Fairfield's face was white and his voice was very low
and husky as he called on Tommy Brown for the next biog-
raphy.

When Polly started for home that night, she found the
master beside her.

"May I walk with you, dear?" he asked, with a wonder-
ftdly sweet smile.

Polly was raised at once to the seventh heaven of delight.
She blushed and hung her head, but she looked sideways out
of her eyes to see if Mary Ellen and Susie were watching —
the master was not wont to be so gracious.

I03

By PoUys Aid

"Do you think your Aunt Madge is at home to-night?"
questioned Fairfield again, with a strange diffidence.

Polly nodded.

"Perhaps you will take me to see her/* he suggested,
almost deferentially, and then he was strangely silent.

Polly trotted happily along, vainly trying to bring her short
steps to the long strides of the preoccupied man at her side.

-^e^

Now and then she stole an upward glance at his face, ai d
once she found him smiling.

** It must be Madge," he was- thinking. ** It is just like Ler
own proud self to make no sign. Pride? What was pride
worth, anyhow! He was sure he would throw his to the winds.
He would humble himself, too — way in the dust. Madge was
worth it — the dear girl! Misunderstanding? Bah! — away
with the whole thing! He had found her at last — Madge!"

By Pollys Aid 103

His blood was coursing madly through his veins and he
was tingling to his finger-tips when Polly opened the gate
before a pretty white cottage ; but he contrived to walk with
proper sedateness behind his small guide, who was fairly
quivering with the delightfid importance of the occasion. He
was pacing nervously up and down the parlor, however,
when Polly disappeared in quest of Aunt Madge.

** Teacher wants you!" exclaimed the child as she burst
unceremoniously into her aunt's room a minute later.

"Wants meT' queried the mystified young woman, with a
fleeting memory of the dread import of those words in the
long ago after some schoolgirl prank. **Me — did you say,
dear? It must be your mother, Polly" — ^in sudden stern-
ness— **is it possible you have been up to mischief?"

Polly shook her head with decision.

"No, not the littlest bit! He said he wanted my Aunt
Madge," asserted the small girl, excitedly.

With a furtive glance into the mirror, and a hasty touch
here and there. Aunt Madge allowed herself to be escorted
to the parlor.

Scott Fairfield started quickly forward as the door opened,
but his impassioned "Madge" died on his lips, and his out-
stretched hands dropped to his side. Polly was leading a
small, dark-haired, bright-eyed woman up to him and saying —

"This is my Aunt Madge, Mr. Fairfield."

Every vestige of self-possession left the master of the village
school, and he stumbled and blundered in hopeless confusion,
while his face went from white to red, and red to white.

"I — er — oh — there is some mistake — er — I'm delighted,
Fm sure — " then to Polly with wrathful recklessness —
"Why, child, you said she was tall and — " he stopped short
with a sudden realization of the vivid color that was staining
scarlet the face of the pretty little woman at his side.

"Apparently my niece has been favoring you with my per-
sonal description — and the reality disappoints you," she
began frigidly, but with the suggestion of a twinkle in her
eyes — ^there was something wonderfully ludicrous iii the
picture of confusion before her.

The poor man opened his mouth to speak, but Polly came
to his rescue.

"Papa said you wouldn't recognize it!" said she, gleefully.

I04

By Polly's Aid

** Recognize what?" questioned Aunt Madge, ttiming to
Polly in surprise.

**Your biography, of course, and you said it was praisinfy
*em way to the skies when it wasn't true, too!*'

Aunt Madge colored and bit her lip, and the ghost of a
smile flickered for an instant across the distressed face of the
man; then he gathered all his scattered wits and made a
mighty effort.

*' I sincerely beg your pardon. The fault was all my own.
I was led, by what this little maid said in her biography,
to think that in her Aunt Madge I had discovered a long-lost
friend. I only hope you will kindly excuse my awkward
stupidity when you realize how great must have been my
surprise as I saw, not my friend, but an entire stranger
enter the room." Then he turned to Polly with a faint smile,

By Pollys Aid

loS

but a deep pain far down in his eyes. **I fear, my dear,
that my meaning was not quite clear to you about the biog-
raphy. I did not intend that you should imagine it all."

**I didn't!" asserted Polly, stoutly. '*I was telling all
the time about a beautiful lady that I love very dearly, and
it's all true, every bit of a word. It's Miss Weston, over at
Cousin Mabel's. I just wrote about her for Aunt Madge's
biography — ^that's all," added Polly with a sob in her voice.

"She means Madge Weston who is visiting my brother's
family across the street; the young lady has suddenly become
Polly's idol," explained Aunt Madge hastily, marveling
at the great light which transformed the face of the man before
her, as the name passed her lips.

Five minutes later, he had mingled hasty adieus and apolo-
gies, and had turned quick steps toward the house across the
way.

Aunt Madge, with a sympathetic little thrill for that other
woman's coming joy, saw through the window the door of
the opposite house open and close on Fairfield's stalwart form;
then Polly was surprised with a spasmodic hug and a fervent
kiss from her usually undemonstrative auntie.

The next morning Bobby Green's scrawl on the black-
board had disappeared, and in its place, in the master's bold
handwriting, was:

Life, believe, is not a dream

So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day | :

@

N An Alpine Frontier:

The Story of a Chase, by Arthur
H* Henderson*

^ ^ tjB tJB

HIGH above the giant mountains of Dauphin^, where
range on range of unfrequented Alps rise athwart
the eastern frontier of France, lies a lonely mountain tarn.
The snows of summer scarcely seem to lighten its black
waters. The sad winter shadows watch the snowdrifts
softly deepening over its frozen surface. For long months
at a time its solitude is undisturbed, its desolate shore un-
trodden. Pallid August moonlight glistens on the hard
descending couloirs where no foot of man can ever pass.
Autumn breezes sigh round the still unmelted icebergs
floating sluggishly on its gloomy waters. Even in the height
of summer long icicles hang from the frozen rocks. White
mists are ever gathering in the ndv^-filled hollow above the
great ice wall of the Pic Glacier and whirling fantastically
upwards at the bidding of the cold mountain wind. Gaimt
black splinters on the ar^te of the Pic du Minuit stand out
against the leaden sky beyond. The sullen silence of the
spot is seldom broken save by the dull boom of a distant
avalanche or the sharper crack of a bowlder rolling to destruc-
tion down a neighboring stone-shoot. Not even the boldest
native cragsman, the most reckless chamois hunter of the
district, but dreads to find himself in its grim vicinity as the
twilight steals up the mountain side. A tragic memory
hngers yet round its lonely side.

The story runs on both sides of the frontier. In the tiny
French villages the last desperate stand, in the days that are
past, of the small detachment of imperial troops against the
invader is still spoken of with eager pride. Across the moun-
tains among the Italian hamlets the old peasants will relate
to a sympathetic listener the tale of their fathers* time.

♦From The Comhill Magazine.

On an Alpine Frontier 107

More than eighty summers have come and gone since the
fierce struggle on the wind-swept summit of the frozen Alpine
pass. But in the local patois the tarn is known as '*The
Lake of the Dead" to this day.

And this is the reason.

Years ago when the Great Napoleon escaped from Elba
for the last wild campaign that was to end in his utter ruin,
he marched across the mountains of Dauphin^ to Grenoble.
Thence his call to the soldiers of his armies of the past radiated
in all directions and penetrated to the remotest valleys.
The little French garrison on the Italian frontier tore off
their white Bourbon cockades and vowed enthusiastically
to die for their old Emperor. As the armies of Europe mus-
tered for the fray, instructions were sent to the detachment
guarding the pass under the Pic du Minuit to defend it at
all costs against invaders from the east. The young officer
in command was engaged to be married to a beautiful girl
who was living in a frontier village on the Italian side. A
gathering thunderstorm was muttering restlessly among
the mountains when Marie Davigno heard from the villagers
that a surprise attack on the French post was impending.
The girl never hesitated a minute. Alone and unaided
she stole away up the steep hillside and breasted the slippery
rocks on to the Pic Glacier. Already the foe was en route,
for the pass and the longer easier way was impossible. Skirting
treacherous crevasses and wading through deep snow plateaus,
she struggled bravely upward to warn her loved one of the
coming danger. The fact that her name has lived to this
day is a proof of the wonder her daring evoked even among
a mountain race. And she was just in time to warn — ^no
more.

The French troops — barely two dozen in all — veterans who
had soldiered under the imperial eagles from Austerlitz to
Leipzig — crowded round the girl with rough devotion. Then,
her story told, they took up their position with grim set faces
that augured ill for the foe. The yoimg lieutenant had barely
time to kiss his betrothed and whisper a few words of love
ere the first shots rang out on the lonely mountain side.
In vain he begged her to leave them now her task was accom-
plished and while it was still possible. **Jtisqu*(^ la mort, et
apres'' — ^till death, and after — said the girl in quiet refusal.
And the thunder rumbled stem approval from afar.

io8 On an Alpine Frontier

It is a sad little episode the record of which has been for-
gotten amid the turmoil of the great war. Marie Davigno
fell dead at the second volley, and then the Frenchmen, out-
flanked and outnumbered, fought it out fiercely to the last
man. After all was over, such as were left of the victors flung
the dead to rest for ever beneath the icy waters of the moun-
tain tarn. The storms which leveled stately pine trees
in the valleys, swept men and cattle from the pastures and
flooded with furious torrents each neighboring dale and
plain, seemed a fitting conclusion to the deed of blood.
The evening of June i8 was long remembered in the Dauphin^
valleys. And not in the district alone. For it was at the
very moment that the storm burst — or so tradition says —
that far away in another land the Imperial Guard had charged
for the last time up the slope of Hougoumont, and the great
Emperor was swept away amid the debris of his army from
the field of Waterloo.

All this happened more than three-quarters of a century
ago. Young children of the villagers who had sheltered sur-
vivors from the raging of the elements are now old men and
very feeble. Children's children tell the tale first learned
by pitying grandparents from wounded lips. Sometimes
a bent, grizzled old native harps back on his memory's store.
If so, he is sure to finish with a solemn injunction to his
listenerjto avoid the locality during certain days in June.
**Ju$qu*h la mort, et aprh" he will whisper significantly.
"And, monsieur, it is not good to meet again with those
who should be sleeping together beneath the waters of the
lake. For it is even said by some — "

But here the legend generally ends with a significant shake
of the head, for the peasant of the mountains, superstitious
though he be, is apt to keep his real fears for his own people
only. Above all does he conceal them from wandering
English or German mountaineers. The former laughs at,
the latter seriously investigates, all folk lore, ^and both proc-
esses are repugnant to the true child-like faith of the hills.
Consequently the travelers' knowledge of the reason why the
Lake of the Dead bears so ill-omened a name is as a rule
derived from the three-lined paragraph in the pocket guide
book. This simply states that "the tarn is reported to have
been used as a burial place for the French soldiers slain in a

On an Alpine Frontier 109

skirmish on the pass during the invasion of France in the
wars of the Great Napoleon."

Such is the story — ^nothing more. Monsieur Jean Maltre,
of the Hotel du Pic du Minuit, perhaps will tell it you if he
likes you, and if he is not too busy.

For in these days there is no nicer spot in fine weather
in the whole Southwestem^Alps than the Val du Minuit.
Far from the crowded centers, it is known to but few English-
men. These are mostly climbing men who visit it to tackle
the difficult rock ar6te of the Pic du Minuit which gives the
valley its name, or else who use the glacier pass under the
mountain leading from Italy to France. But to the military
guardians of the frontier it is very well known indeed. Picked
soldiers from the Alpine battalions of Chasseurs-k-pied haunt
the mountain paths in spring and manoeuver unostentatiously
along the border line as the stimmer advances. White-
mustached generals — perchance a real divisional com-
mander— may be encountered on totirs of inspection. Work-
manlike staff officers map the mountain positions and keen-
eyed patrols wander over the glaciers. And if things happen
as they sometimes do on a European frontier — ^for who can
be certain where a purely imaginary boundary line lies in
a fog, for instance? — why then the news has to filter far ere
it reaches the pestilent newspapers, and methods exist for
closing sources of information to the outside world where
necessity compels. For European complications are to be
avoided tmless diplomacy desires them. And if govern-
ments cannot always control their agents,'they can generally
suppress the details of their deeds.

One afternoon in early summer, darkness was rapidly
approaching and thick mists were rolling downwards in
great white waves from the cold mountains overhead. The
interminable s^racs of the Minuit Glacier seemed to a cer-
tain English mountaineer and his two guides, who were
cautiously picking their way through them, to loom a ghostly
gray in the gathering twilight. The mighty shape of the
Pic du Mintiit was almost hidden from view, and the gaunt
crags on its broken ar^te were fast disappearing in a veil of
cloud. In fact, the weather was atrocious and had com-
pletely spoilt John Forrester's attack on the Pic. This was
the more annoying inasmuch as it was probably the result of
attempting to mountaineer so early in the season. He had

no On an Alpine Frontier

been assured by a man at home, who ought to have known
better, that the Dauphin^ peaks were easiest before the sims
of the later summer had melted the snows that climg to the
gullies. And he had been fool enough to believe it.

Th« three men were all rather weary. The snow was in
bad condition and the wind was bitterly cold. There was not
much sensation in the Englishmen's feet or fingers by the
time they had scrambled off the glacier onto the rocks of the
moraine. These at first proved wet and slippery with a thin
glazing of ice, and all the energies of the party were needed
to avoid the surroimding pitfalls in the shape of unexpected
holes and insecurely perched bowlders. But at last they were
fairly on the grass-grown slopes of the hillside, descending
rapidly toward the little moimtain inn where dinner and dry
clothes awaited them.

Here in the doorway a girl was watching impatiently for
their return. Her slight active figure was dressed in a ser-
viceable costume of some gray material. Without being
exactly beautiful her regular features and large black eyes
would anywhere have attracted attention. Her rather pale
face was surmounted by a wondrous mass of dark wavy hair,
and her every movement displayed that quick gracefulness
sometimes inherited but rarely acquired. She came forward
imptdsively to meet the returning mountaineers with frank
unceremony.

"Have you been on the Pass?" she asked Forrester, eagerly,
speaking his language with a quaint foreign accent.

"No," answered the Englishman, raising his rather ragged
shooting cap. "We have been on the Pic Ar6te."

"On the Pic," she repeated quickly, "and you have seen
no one on the way ? "

"Not a soul," said Forrester promptly. "And from the
state of the weather up there I don't wonder at it."

A disappointed look crept into the girl's dark eyes, and
she half opened her lips to speak. But she checked herself
abruptly, muttered some words of thanks, and turned away.
Not until the rough mountain dinner had begxm did Forrester
learn the reason of her questions. Her brother should have
long since rettimed from his day's work in the mountains,
and every hour that passed made his absence the more
inexplicable.

Forrester's acquaintance with brother and sister extended

On an Alpine Frontier iii

over a foiir days' stay in the valley. His knowledge of the
Ruvignys was derived from occasional conversation at meal
times. By this means he had learnt that the father had been
connected with the French Embassy at Washington, where
he had married an American lady, which accotmted for the
daughter's independent ways — ^so foreign to French ideas —
and also for the English speech. The son was a captain in the
nth Alpine Battalion of Chasseurs-k-pied, and was now
engaged in important secret survey work on the frontier.
During the sunmier Denise Ruvigny had come to live with
her brother, enjoying the free open-air life immensely and
acquiring a considerable knowledge of climbing. This
partictdar day, however, the weather had been so bad that she
had not accompanied him as usual among the mountains.

All that dismal dinner time the wind moaned restlessly
outside and the hail drops splashed fitfully against the window
panes. The girl was growing visibly more and more restless
and anxious. As soon as the meal had ended she left the
room. Forrester was smoking a cigarette and idly turning
over the leaves of the visitors' book when the landlord of the
inn came up to him with a perplexed look on his round red
face.

The mademoiselle was much concerned as *o the absence
•f Monsietu" le Capitaine her brother. For his part — ^though
of a truth it was evil weather in which to be benighted on the
mountains — mine host intimated he had but. little fear as to
the safety of that brave officer. Doubtless he had been
forced to seek shelter in one of the neighboring climbing huts
— ^at the worst an experienced soldier such as he was would
be sure to find some nook in the rocks in which to shelter
till daylight dawned. But the mademoiselle insisted on
setting out as soon as morning broke to search for him, if he
had not in the meantime arrived. And herein lay the dif-
ficulty. She could not go alone, and there were no guides
in the place except those with monsieur the Englishman.
Did he intend to avail himself of them both on the morrow?

Forrester pondered a moment. He shoidd have no objec-
tion at all to guiding her himself if necessary. The more he
considered it the more he decided he should rather like the
task. In fact it became quite clear it was a good idea. But
would the girl accept his assistance?

On this point the landlord soon reassured him. The stout

Hi On an Alpine Frontier

Frenchman was only too pleased, and waddled away in
search of his lady visitor. In a very short space of time
Forrester's offer had been accepted with grateful promptness
and he was watching the charming play of expression in the
dark eyes whose owner was trustftilly confiding to him all her
anxieties. And Denise Ruvigny could have made no better
choice of a helper. The young English engineer was a first-
rate climber, a man of cool head and infinite resource, and
above all a gentleman. Long after she had said good-
night and left him he sat smoking thoughtfully by the embers
of the dying wood fire. His thoughts turned persistently
to the girl who was to be his companion on the morrow.
The soft tones of her voice, the smiles that had once or twice
hovered round her small mouth, the appeal for assistance,
interested him strangely. So he mused in pleasing laziness till
a sleepy guide, coming to ask at what time his monsieur
intended to start in the morning, broke up his reverie and
drove him away to bed.

In the cold and dark of the early morning Forrester was
roused with difficulty by an agitated French ** boots" and
informed there was no news of the missing man. Out of doors
the weather showed no signs of improvement. Indeed it was
so bad that the two guides protested energetically at leaving
the shelter of the valley for the storm and labor of the glacier
regions above. But their employer was tmreasonably reso-
lute in a manner quite new to those stalwart experts, and
they were compelled to start, despite vehement protestation
that it was folly or worse to attempt their errand on such a
morning. Denise Ruvigny had looked so bitterly disap-
pointed at the idea of giving up the search that Forrester
was determined to set forth on it if possible. And since her
brother's survey work on the previous day would have taken
him in the neighborhood of the Col du Pic du Minuit — ^the
pass on whose summit lies the little Lake of the Dead — it
was proposed to make for that point first.

The little party as it left Monsieur Maitre's inn was not a
very lively one. The girl was full of foreboding at her
brother's absence and shyly conscious that she was with strange
companions. The guides were openly incredulous as to the
possibility of finding anyone or anjrthing in the mists and
rain that enveloped the hills. Englishmen are always apt to
be taciturn at 6 a.m., and John Forrester was no exception

On an Alpine Frontier 113

to the rule, though undoubtedly on this occasion he was the
most cheerful of the four. There was a spice of adventure
in the whole proceeding that charmed him. It is of course
the bounden duty of a member of the Alpine Club to help all
mountaineers in distress; that he remembered to have vaguely
gathered from its publications. On the question whether
such a duty extended to French surveying officers he could
remember no precedent. But no such incentive was neces-
sary when Denise Ruvigny's dark eyes were looking distress-
fully into his, and her soft voice was urging him onward.

**I fear I am indeed a great trouble to you, monsieur,*'
she said once with slightly heightened color as Forrester
adjusted the rope rotmd her on reaching the lower Minuit
Glacier. "But for me you would doubtless be resting your-
self below at Monsieur Mattre's breakfast table. Is it not so ? "

And her small head nodded, half archly, in the direction
of that worthy's distant abode in the valley below.

**Much more likely to have been soimd asleep in bed,**
asserted the Englishman with a cheerful laugh, "instead
of taking a morning walk in the mountains and enjoying
myself. See, the mists show signs of clearing. We may
have a fine day yet. But the snow on this glacier is in a rotten
bad condition, so we must be careful,** he added. And he
proceeded to impress on Gaspard, the leading guide, not to
go too fast.

As the party tracked cautiously up the glacier it dawned
on him that the girl roped between the guide and himself
was no novice at such work. She trod firmly and with con-
fidence in the steps of the leader, and when he stopped to soimd
for hidden crevasses she watched his doings with the accus-
tomed interest of the mountaineer familiar with such ob-
stacles. Once, however, there was an awkward slip. It
proved necessary to cut up a steep little ice slope swept clean
of snow. Gaspard was in an ill humor and used his ice-
axe carelessly. The steps cut in the ice were bad and the
girl suddenly stumbled. In a moment, with a little cry of
alarm, she slid downward to the full length of her rope toward
a nasty crevasse just below. But the jerk of her light weight
found the two men roped on each side of her steady as rocks.
Pierre the other guide, the moment that it was seen that
they were firm, cut down quickly across the ice to her assist-
ance. In less than three minutes Forrester was brushing

114 On an Alpi^i^ FrofUier

the snow off her dress and angrily demanding of Gaspard
what on earth he meant by scratching the ice with his axe
instead of cutting his steps properly.

Denise, however, took it all much as a ntiatter of course, and
strove to soothe the angry Englishman.

**Ah! it was my fault, monsieur, do not blame the guide,"
she cried with a little gesture of appeal. " I was careless, for I
thought of other things and not of my footsteps. And it was
wrong of me truly! "

"Are you sure you are not hurt ? " queried Forrester bltmtly.

*' Quite certain, monsieur," she replied with eager emphasis.
"It was — how say you in English? — ^a good tiunble, nothing
more."

And her lips parted in a half-smile, which, however, faded
away quickly.

"But oh! let us hasten on," she added impatiently. "We
have yet to find my brother. Why do we wait here?"

No more was said. Again the little party got tmder way,
with renewed vigor. Gaspard's ice steps for the rest of the
morning were exemplary. And an hour later the missing man
had been found with unexpected ease, but also tmder wholly
tmforeseen circumstances.

The searchers had quitted the glacier for the rocks which
on the French side lead ^o the summit of the Col. These are
steep and broken, and need care in climbing. The leader was
ftdly occupied in choosing the easiest route upward, and all
Forrester's thoughts were concentrated on helping the girl in
front of him. Suddenly Pierre, in the rear, gave a startled
shout. A few yards to their right a white handkerchief
caught between two stones fluttered in the breeze.

Pierre's loud exclamation was followed by a faint cry for
help from the same direction. A hasty scramble brought the
others to the spot in no time. Under a great mass of over-
hanging rock was a low natural shelf where a man could
shelter in bad weather. Here, protected in some degree from
the rain and wind, a man was lying wounded and alone.

The girl flung herself down beside her brother with a little
piteous cry. Forrester promptly dragged a flask from his
pocket, and its contents brought back some color to the pale
face and lips. The guides leant helplessly against the rock
wall with staring eyes.

A moment later Pierre touched the Englishman's shoulder

On an Alpine Frontier 115

and pointed awestruck to the ground. Gradually his meaning
became clear. All round were the signs of a savage struggle.
The drifted snow was trampled down and stained with blood.
A broken surve)dng instrument lay at one end of the ledge
of rock, and some spent revolver cartridges were scattered
about the other. No ordinary accident had caused the
disaster. What coxild it all mean ?

It was soon to be clear enough, however. Revived by the
cordial, the wotmded officer dragged himself up into a sitting
posture, and poured out a torrent of impetuous French sen-
tences. The girl listened eagerly, and her face whitened
at his tale. He pointed to the stalwart Englishman standing
beside her, vainly endeavoring to understand the rapid
foreign tongue. He was evidently urging on his sister some
course of action she was tmwilling to take. She expostulated ;
he implored. She hesitated and he gesticulated strenuously
with his tmwounded arm — ^the other hung limp and useless —
toward the frontier. At last she turned reluctantly and
looked John Forrester full in the face.

**My brother's story is a strange one, monsieur,*' she said
slowly in English. **He bids me tell it you and ask you to
help me yet again for the second time."

The Englishman nodded cheerfully. '*A11 right," he said,
smiling a little. '* It is all in the day's work. What is to be
done next?"

"We must try to catch the thief," was the unexpected
answer.

Forrester's stare of astonishment showed the speaker that
he was still qtiite ignorant of the situation. Rapidly she
explained it with the same frank trustfulness she had shown
the previous night.

Captain Ruvigny's work on the frontier was in connection
with secret plans for the mobilization of troops in the event
of war. A most important part of his duty was to trace the
position of certain fresh fortifications which it was proposed
to make. The sketches x>i these new forts with their positions,
ranges and armaments were in fact on the point of completion.
In a few days the general in command of that portion of the
eastern frontier was to reach the Val du Minuit, and to him
the plans were to be submitted for transmission to Paris.
It was of the utmost importance that no details of their con-
struction should become known across the frontier. In order

ii6 On an Alpine Frontier

not to awaken suspicion the designers worked singly and
unostentatiously. But now it was clear that part of the
secret was known to someone on the other side.

Overtaken by the bad weather on the previous evening —
so the girl explained — Louis Ruvigny sought out this shelf
of rock which he had used once before on a similar occasion.
Here he passed a fairly comfortable night. In the early
morning he awoke with a start from an uneasy slumber to
find a stranger bending over him in the act of rifling his
pockets.

"An Italian spy/" cried the wounded officer in fierce
parenthesis.

**In a moment Louis grappled with the newcomer, mon-
sieur, and there was a great fight," Denise continued, "but
the other was strong and eager, and my brother was numbed
with the cold. How it all happened is hard to say. The
spy crushed Louis back against the rocks, so that his arm
is broken, as you see. From the pain he nearly faints. Then
the paper is torn from him in triumph. With a mocking
shout the thief botmds away up the motmtain side to the pass
Louis fires — again and again — with his pistol. But ah! in
vain. Now but one course remains. My brother cannot go
in pursuit, for he is hurt. We must do so instead."

**It will be impossible to overtake him," muttered For-
rester as the narrator stopped breathless with indignation.

**0h, no, monsieur!" urged the Frenchman eagerly. **He
is certain to stop at the Pic Hut on the other side. He too is
doubtless much fatigued. But you must depart at once with
speed."

**We cannot leave you here," Forrester objected strongly.
"It is absurd!"

Denise Ruvigny knitted her small dark eyebrows and spoke
with a firm decision almost odd in so young a girl.

"One of the guides must remain with my brother, mon-
sieur. They will return with slowness to the valley. You
must pretend that you cross the pass for the pleasure of the
mountaineering — is not that how you say it? Also you must
affirm that I am of your party, and I will talk the English,
thtis, like an English lady. So shall we be able to follow
over the frontier without suspicion."

"But how will you know the man when you see him?"
demanded Forrester brusquely.

On an Alpine Frontier 117

*'From my brother's description,** said the girl quietly.
** It is in my head. I shall make no mistake.'*

"It is a tremendous grind right over the pass to the
Pic Hut," the motmtaineer still protested doubtfully. **Can
you do it?'*

**Yes,'* replied Denise simply. Then her voice dropped a
little as she spoke.

"If you help me, monsieur.**

The Englishman watched her for a moment in growing
wonder — wonder that gave place to admiration at her pluck.

**My brother is ruined if the paper is not recovered,"
she added. "Its loss will never be forgiven in Paris, never!
Will you go? I wait your answer, monsieur.*'

The other stood silent. It seemed a wild, mad idea to the
Bnglishman unaccustomed to the amenities of a land frontier.
To abandon a sorely wounded man — ^to chase an entirely
unknown foreigner into his own country — to obtain forcible
recovery of a compromising document — such was the task
proposed to him. But he could think of no other plan.
Moreover Denise Ruvigny had never looked so charming as
when, with her large eyes regarding him gravely, she pro-
posed this ridiculous scheme. And even while outwardly he
hesitated, inwardly he knew he should do as she wished.

"I wait your answer, monsieur," repeated the girl with a
slight tinge of surprise in her tone.

John Forrester gathered up the loose coil of Alpine rope.

" I will do my best," he said slowly. " But I do not think
we shall succeed all the same.**

"And I am sure we shall,'* cried Denise Ruvigny confi-
dently.

"Come, monsieur, let us go.**

And so the first pursuit began.

The route over the Col du Pic du Minuit is none of the
easiest even in fineweather. Still, though it is rarely traversed
now except by mountaineers bound for the Pic itself, it
presents no insurmotmtable difficulties on the French side
at least. But on the Italian side it is qtiite different. There
is, it is true, a long roundabout way taking many hours, by
which the descent is possible and by which it is generally
accomplished. The direct route from the summit of the pass
into the nearest Italian valley is exceedingly difficult and

ii8 On an Alpine Frontier

trying. Owing to one of those strange glacial oscillations
which are the puzzle of scientists, the ice of the Pic Glacier
has so altered in formation since the beginning of the present
century that even the wild daring that carried Marie Davigno
up its slippery slopes in the old days would probably now
fail to accomplish its task — at any rate unaided. Both routes
— the long devious one and the short dangerous one — ^ulti-
mately meet m Italian territory. Here on the rocky floor
at the head of a lonely mountain valley the Italian Alpine
Club has built a climbers* hut. The nearest village is some
miles lower down the valley.

It was a gloomy afternoon. The daylight was already
waning sullenly by the time that Forrester's party, descending
by the usual route, at last struck the rough track which
leads from among the moraine heaps of the Pic Glacier to
this refuge hut known by the same name. Forrester him-
self was uncommonly glad when Pierre pointed out to him
the insignificant little building in the distance. The mists
that had clung so obstinately round them in the higher regions
had rendered their progress, even by the easier descent, slow
and difficult. And his girl companion, despite her pluck
and endurance, was nearly worn out.

Not that Denise would admit it for a moment. But for the
last hour or two she had tacitly allowed the leader to help
her in places where she would have scorned his assistance
earlier in the day. And the steadying grasp of her small
white fingers on his arm, the natural way in which she turned
to him for necessary directions, the feeling that he was respon-
sible for her safety, brought a new sensation to the stalwart
Englishman accustomed only to shift for himself or his guides.

Past fatigues were soon forgotten, however, when the hut
came in sight. As they neared it a man became visible out-
side gazing earnestly in their direction. Soon they were close
enough to distinguish his features. He was a tall, thin-faced
individual with a hooked nose, shifty dark eyes, and stray
locks of unkempt black hair escaping from beneath a rough
mountaineer's cap. Next moment, as Denise Ruvigny sprang
suddenly forward, the stranger as suddenly retreated into
the hut and shut the door in their faces.

''Monsieur, that is the thief!" cried the girl excitedly.
And she rushed impetuously past Forrester on the narrow
path.

On an Alpine Frontier 119

The latter was after her in an instant, and Pierre followed
with a bound. The hut door was wrenched open roughly and
the eager pursuers burst into the little room, only to recoil
in overwhelming consternation.

The hut was full of Italian soldiers. As ill-luck would have
it, a frontier patrol was in occupation for the night.

The surprise was complete. Fortunate it was that the
Englishman's presence of mind rose at once to meet the
unexpected danger. Concealing his chagrin he raised his
cap in customary salutation and stolidly set about asserting
the mountaineer's right to a share at all times in the refuge
huts. He qtiietly uashipped the rucksack from his shoulders,
unconcernedly cleared a place on the nearest bench for Denise,
and proceeeded to stow away rope and ice-axe in a con-
venient comer. With sharp admonition in his voice he
ordered Pierre to unpack the provisions and boil some water as
for the usual evening meal. Then he turned to look about him.

The hut was but dimly lighted, and tobacco smoke hung
heavily in the air. The man they had seen outside the hut,
and whom Denise had declared she recognized as the thief, sat
on the straw sleeping bench staring fixedly at the newcomers.
Five frontier guards under a sergeant crowded the little
interior.

But these *'Alpini,** as th^y are called, by no means im-
pressed him unfavorably. They had returned his greeting
politely: one of them moved aside to give the girl a more com-
fortable seat, and another began to help Pierre resuscitate
the low fire in the little iron stove. There was no suspicion
or unfriendliness in their looks. On their part indeed they
recognized at once from Forrester's dress and speech that he
was tmmistakably English. The curious islanders who
loved to scramble about their mountains for pleasure were
mad doubtless, but quite harmless and often amusingly
good fellows. They were quite different from the hated
French across the frontier. And Denise Ruvigny's drooping
form, and face pale with weariness and disappointment, evi-
dently excited sympathy.

Perhaps it was just as well that conversation proved impos-
sible. The sergeant made several gallant attempts, but For-
rester knew no Italian, and the girl stuck to her Anglo-Ameri-
can, nearly upsetting her companion's gravity by some of
her naive expressions. The Englishman passed his tobacco

I20 On an Alpine Frontier

pouch round, and its contents met with decided approval.
There was much smiling and gesticulation, and also some
headshaking, when it became clear, chiefly by signs, that the
newcomers were from over the pass. And as Pierre professed
a profound stupidity, their intercourse of necessity stopped.

Till suddenly the unexpected happened again. Forrester's
movements, as he sorted out the best of their scanty store of
provisions for his companion's supper, had carried him beside
the hitherto silent stranger. The latter touched him on the
shoulder and spoke in a low tone.

** I should like a word with you, monsieur," he said in excel-
lent English. **And alone if you please."

Forrester was conscious of a distinctly disagreeable shock
of surprise. But he strolled casually after the speaker out-
side the hut amid the wilderness of bowlders great and small
that surrounded it on all sides. Pierre was preparing food
within. The soldiers were lounging lazily on the benches.
Darkness was gathering fast. No one was near.

" I scarcely think you crossed the Col du Pic du Minuit for
pleasure in this weather," said the stranger sarcastically.
** Perhaps there was another motive."

'* Indeed!" was the laconic answer. "What was that?"

**One moment," said the other with a smooth wave of his
hand. * ' But first — mademoiselle ? * *

"Yes."

"Or madame, should I say?"

Forrester stared impassively at the blinking eyes peering
into his without answering, till their owner seemed to think
it wise not to press the point.

"Speaks curious English, it appears."

"Ah!" observed Forrester blandly. "American, you see."

"No, French!" cried the other with a scowl.

"Look here, monsieur," he continued harshly. "I can
guess the errand on which you have come. But the game
IS in my hands now. Yonder girl has a brother in the army
of France. You start — you know it is true. What then,
shall hinder me from denouncing her to the patrol as a spy?"

Forrester turned on the speaker savagely. But the latter
went on unheeding.

"It is no use to threaten me, monsieur. Here on Italian
soil I am safe. It is you and the mademoiselle — or madame —
to whom the danger comes. Do you follow me? "

On an Alpine Frontier 121

"Well?" asked the Englishman with a scornful assurance
he scarcely felt. **What do you propose to do?*'

"This," said the other promptly. "Let us bargain. It
is true — I confess it — that I took from that pig of a French-
man the paper with the plan of the new forts. To me it
is worth much money, for I shall sell it in Rome to the Minister
of War. But I do not reveal it to these frontier fools here.
If they knew of it they would perhaps take it from me and
I should then lose all. Now I have been in England and
know the English gentleman — "

"Really!" observed the representative of that class in
parenthesis. ' * You surprise me. ' '

The other scowled fiercely at the interruption, but went
on rapidly.

"You must pledge me your word of honor, Englishman,
not to attempt to recover from me the paper which I have
taken. To-morrow I go down the valley and I take the
train to Turin. You will recross the frontier or do whatever
you will except deprive me of that which I have won. Are
you agreed?"

"And your side of the bargain is — "

"That I keep my silence. Otherwise the girl shall be
arrested as a spy this night — instantly. And, monsieur,
let me tell you in this country scant consideration is shown
to spies, male or female."

"My passport, however," began Forrester thoughtfully.

"Contains no mention of a lady," cried the other with a
sneer. "Not even a sister or a wife."

The Englishman's eyes flashed ominousl)^ but the other
kept his ground with defiant ease. For 4 full minute the
two men stood looking at each other steadily face to face.
The very darkness seemed to deepen round them. A stream
murmured dully in the distance. The night wind moaned
dismally among the rocks.

But the die was cast. Forrester saw clearly that he had no
choice. Denise Ruvigny's safety came first. He spoke at last
with grim decision.

" I agree to your proposal. I will make no effort personally
to recover possession of the paper from you. You on your
part will keep silence before these men about her."

"Monsieur is wise," cried the other triumphantly. "It is,
as you say in English, a bargain. You indeed I might have

122 On an Alpine Frontier

cause to fear; the woman and the guide — bah! they are help-
less— fools!"

And the speaker turned with a little exulting bow toward
the hut.

A sudden impulse moved the Englishman to call after him.
With some curiosity Forrester asked his last question that
night.

**So you trust an Englishman's word absolutely, then?'*
he said.

**Betwee^ two gentlemen,'' retorted the spy with a lower
bow and an evil mocking face, **such is quite sufficient.
Adieu, monsieur."

And Forrester's muttered rejoinder was not a blessing.

Indeed he grew quite sulky as he retraced his steps, for when
was a fellow ever placed in such an abominable position? On
the one hand he had pledged himself to help Denise, on the
other he was condemned to absolute inaction. And sulky
he remained even after he had helped the girl to roll herself
up, fully dressed as she was, in the best blankets the hut pro-
vided and settle down to sleep in the cleanest straw with his
rucksack as a pillow. He could only ponder over his troubles
in silent perplexity and curse the world at large.

Matters seemed worse in the morning. For a time a dense
mist enveloped everything, and while it hindered anyone
leaving the hut it did not prevent the arrival of another party
of a dozen soldiers from the valley who came crowding noisily
inside under a stout, dirty, little lieutenant. Forrester glow-
ered at them darkly. He made no attempt to explain the
situation to the girl who on her part watched him with a half-
puzzled expression he could not understand. The spy rolled
numberless cigarettes, smoked them gracefully the while,
and looked amused. The whole affair was simply maddening.

A puff, of cold wind from the icefields above rolled the while
fog aside as a curtain is drawn back across a window. Peak
and pass, valley and glacier, stood revealed in the gray light
of a sunless morn. A bustle of preparation promptly per-
vaded the hut. In an incredibly short time all the troops
with one exception had taken their arms and filed away
toward the Col du Pic du Minuit. The man Idft behind was
chopping up firewood outside the hut. The spy was on the
point of departure also. But he was two minutes too late.

What followed was the work of a minute. Denise Ruvigny

On an Alpine Frontier 123

and Pierre the guide did it together without a word. The girl
suddenly flung a heavy Alpine blanket over the stranger's
lace as he stooped to fasten a bootlace. Without a moment's
hesitation the yotmg Frenchman brought the heavy iron
cooking pot, which he had been making a pretense of cleaning,
down on the struggling head muffled under the blanket.

It fell with a mighty crash. The spy was stretched sense-
less on the ground with a dull thud. Flinging himself down
beside him Pierre coolly tore open his coat and handed the
contents of the pockets to the girl for examination. Her
face was white with excitement, but the small hands never
faltered. The paper so eagerly sought was soon found.
Pursuit had .indeed ended in capture. Escape remained.

Yet the first thought on Forrester's part was not of safety.
He had stood inactive at the supreme moment. Painfully
he began to explain his enforced inaction.

The girl checked him with a smile.

"Monsieur, last night I did hear all you would tell me now."

"You heard!" cried Forrester in wonder. "How.'*"

"The big bowlder," confessed Denise, half ashamed, "hid
me quite easily. You never saw me, but I heard you well.
So truly I understand it all. And now, monsieur, how do we
return to France?"

The latter remark opened a serious question. It was indeed
no time to talk of anything else. Pierre too deemed this the
best moment to volunteer the cheering information, gathered
from the soldiers, that the troops now on the hillside between
themselves and the Col were but an advance guard. Others
were on the way up from the valley, and were to be expected
shortly at the hut. The little party was between two fires.
What was to be done?

The hut door was closed, and Pierre leant against it stub-
bornly. The girl concealed the paper in her dress. Forrester
picked up his rucksack and reached down rope and ice-axe.

"Are you sure we cannot return the way we came?" he
asked Pierre doubtfully. " Is there no avoiding them some-
how on the glacier? "

The guide shook his head decisively.

"None, monsieur," he said with emphasis.

"And we certainly cannot go down the valley."

"Impossible, monsieur."

1 24 On an Alpine Frontier

** What then remains?*' demanded the English mountaineer
abruptly.

" Only the Davigno ice slope," was the grave reply. ** There
is nothing else."

Forrester whistled softly. *' My word! we can never do it,"
he muttered in surprise. "That slope — with a lady!"

Denise heard him. Confidently she looked up at the two
stalwart men before her.

** We must try," said she.

"And if we fail—"

"The good saints will help us," remarked Pierre piously.
But he evidently did not regard the prospect with pleasure,
all the same.

At this moment the sound of wood-chopping outside sud-
denly ceased. The soldier had finished his task and fumbled
at the hut door. The inmates heard him swear wonderingly
at the obstruction. Forrester flushed angrily.

**At least I have made no promise about this fool,*' he
muttered. And flinging open the hut door he hit the unsus-
pecting Italian a blow that rendered that worthy incapable,
even of profanity, for a short space of time.

After that they tied the indignant Alpino up scientifically
with the spare hut rope and put him inside to keep company
with the still senseless spy. They closed the wooden shut-
ters, leaving the hut in darkness, and rolled a large stone
against the door. Then they tramped resolutely away
toward the Pic Glacier with occasional anxious glances
behind them. But for a while all was still.

The route by which they had come was soon left. Two
hours' steady grind took them over the moraines and across the
easy low-lying glacier. Once only when they stopped to
rope was the grim determined silence broken.

"Did you hear everything that was said last night?**
Forrester asked, fumbling with a knot without looking at
Denise — "When you were behind the bowlder, you know?"

"Yes, quite clearly,'* answered the girl in surprise at the
question. " Oh ! — ** She stopped suddenly in some confusion.

"That scoundrel well deserved what he got," muttered
her companion with seeming inconsequence. The tangled
knot was really a very awkward one.

Denise*s cheeks had flamed suddenly. Her eyes dropped
unaccountably at the same time.

On an Alpine Frontier 125

"It was all in English, too!'* remarked the other casually,
looking up as the rope straightened itself in wonderful fashion.

"And I have forgotten my English dreadfully," murmured
the girl with a little laugh. "But, hark, monsieur, what is
that?"

That was a rifle shot. A moment later a shrill bugle call
blared out on the quiet mountain side. Would its' echoes
never die away?

Now began the strangest time in all those two wild eventftil
days. The hut with its tell-tale captives once discovered,
angry avengers drawn from some of the finest mountain troops
in the world would be hot on the track. The pursuers of the
first day became themselves the pursued on the second.
And the task before them ere safety back again across the
frontier could be reached was formidable indeed.

Above the little band of three rose a gigantic ice-slope many
feet in height. Inclined at an abnormally steep angle it
is one of those comparatively rare examples in the Alps of a
large expanse of hard blue ice. Up it every step must be hewn
with painful labor and then must be trodden in with careful
steadiness. There exists no possibility of turning that slope
on either hand. To right and to left the overhanging cliffs
are absolutely unclimbable ; down them the water drips with
dismal persistency from melting snows above. The mists
which had cleared from among the lower icefields, over which
the keen-eyed Italians were now doubtless in eager chase,
still clung heavily over the higher parts of the slope, conceal-
ing the exact direction of the Col. But retreat was now out
of the question. They could only advance.

Well was it for the little party that the girl had nerves of
iron and the men muscles of steel? Perhaps the former's face
was rather paler than usual; certainly Forrester's wore a defiant
frown as another signal rifle shot rang out in the valley below.
But without another word they turned to the ordeal before
them.

Upward, ever upward, step by step, toiling, persevering,
panting, Forrester cut his way onward with unfailing vigor,
and the others followed in their leader's track. Ever above
them glimpses of the unending ice-wall in chilling vistas higher
still ; ever the monotonous chipping of the sharp steel and the
hissing slide of the ice fragments dislodged by the axe. Despite
the cold surroundings, large beads of perspiration clustered

126 On an Alpine Frontier

thickly on the tanned face of the Alpine clubman, but the
strong arms never ceased their everlasting chop, chop, chop,
and behind him the girl moved forward with patient skill.
Pierre watched the steady progress with keen admiration,
steadied his mademoiselle when necessary, and kept a watch-
ful look out on the glacier below. Time was passing on.
If they could but crawl up into the mists above ere their
pursuers had traced them to the ice-wall all might yet be
well. But it was not to be.

A line of little black dots crept into sight in the distance,
winding their steady way across the lower glacier in the foot-
steps of their predecessors. Once indeed they stopped, but
it was to point upward to where, just below the bank of
writhing mists, Forrester's party was visible to them against
the dull white slope of ice. Pierre's warning shout to the
Englishman made him cease for a moment from his labor and
look downward. He took in the seriousness of the situation
at a glance, and his face hardened stubbornly to meet the
danger. With a gruff word of encouragement to his two
companions he recommenced his dogged cutting in the
terribly steep hard ice.

** Let me go to the front now, monsieur, to make the steps,"
cried Pierre anxiously. *' Surely you are tired with the toil."

**No time to waste over changing places," said Forrester
grimly. '*You attend to the mademoiselle. If either of
you slip, I cannot hold you. See to her."

The guide grunted acquiescence. The girl's lips were
moving as in prayer. The men on the glacier beneath had
stopped and were leveling their rifles. An irregular volley
spluttered out on the quiet of the morning.

Now it is an exceedingly difficult thing to fire straight
upward with accuracy when the shooters are unsteadied
by having had to travel over very rough ground in haste.
Moreover the distance was still considerable. Consequently
where those bullets went to no man ever knew, and before the
Italians could empty their rifles again the fugitives were
hidden in the mist.

Forrester was furious with rage at the audacity of the
foreigners in firing at an Englishman. But the girl's restrain-
ing presence — and his own general breathlessness — kept him
from uttering his feelings aloud. Besides, the summit of the

On an Alpine Frontier 127

Col must now be close at hand ; once there they would be across
the frontier in no time.

Then suddenly came the realization of another peril — ^the
last and the greatest. While the pursuers below had halted in
hesitation at the foot of the dreaded ice-slope up which was
scored the thin track of Forrester's ice-steps, their comrades
who had left the hut earlier in the morning, warned by the
firing from below, were hastening at their best pace toward
the Col. Up the longer easier route they scrambled fast
in order to intercept the fugitives. The mist was blowing
about before the cold mountain wind in great wreaths of
white. A momentaiy rent in the opaque mass revealed
to the climbers the break in the dark rocky ridge fringing
the great ice slope where the pass lay.

Forrester set his teeth hard. A few more hastily cut steps
an<l he had hauled the girl unceremoniously over the edge
of the ice onto the welcome rocks above. There the ground
at least was level — thank Heaven for that ! Their lives were
no longer staked on every single step taken by each member
of the little party. The relief in that one fact alone was
indescribable. He seized the girl's hand and tore across the
debris with which the top of the pass is strewn. Pierre fol-
lowed with a run.

Grim figures with leveled rifles came bursting through the
mists in chase. Angry voices called on them to stop. Threats,
imprecations, pistol shots, came hurling, as it seemed, on
every side. Through the chilling death-white vapors it ap-
peared to Forrester's overwrought senses as if a conflict had
broken out all round them. With grasp tightened on the small
hand that lay in his, he sped on, dazed and doubting. Already
through the driving dampness the watery gleam of the Lake
of the Dead shimmered dully before his straining eyes. Yon-
der lay the frontier, its Ime marked by the battered old
wooden cress, weathered by countless storms. There was
refuge, there safety, from the rushing foe behind. Something
— ^was it a bullet ? — spattered on the ground at his feet. Some-
thing else whistled keenly past his cheek. But surely the
direction was reverse. Were there enemies, then, in front
as well as behind?

Onward still — onward ever!

Shadowy men seemed to rise on either hand, as in a dream,
queer shapes of a bygone age loomed for a moment and were

128 On an Alpine Frontier

gone. What was that vision — ^it could have been nothing
more — of tall square caps, old-fashioned imperial uniforms,
muskets such as no army uses now gripped by weird soldier
forms of a forgotten generation ? What was that curious echo
ringing in his ears, "Vive TEmpereur!"? That was impos-
sible and yet —

A quick biting puff of cold mountain wind rolled, as by a
magic-dispelling power, the mists from before his path. The
lake lay on his right hand somber and silent. The old cross
rose gauntly on his left. A dead hush seemed to fall of a
sudden on the desolate scene. In the distance the French
mountains stood outspread before him; the frontier line was
passed. The vision, if such it was, had vanished. The
noise of shouting and of shots had died away. A wondrous
quiet had come. They three were alone.

Denise Ruvigny's face was white as the snow around her.
Pierre the guide staggered forward into safety like a drunken
man. An unaccountable feeling of fear had seized on For-
rester— he knew not why. He stared back fixedly across the
now deserted pass, to where its crest cut the sky line beyond the
tarn, till his eyes ached. No living thing was visible anywhere.

"Did you see them too?" whispered Denise in awestruck
tones, creeping closer as if for protection to her companion.

"Whom do you mean?" asked Forrester uneasily. He
shivered slightly as he spoke. The afternoon had fallen;
it was cold and sunless.

" Surely, monsieur has not forgotten," said the girl solemnly.
" It is the eighteenth of June — the day of Waterloo — the hour
of the coming of Marie Davigno."

Then she added softly the words of the tale of old.

**Jusqu'a la mort, et apres.'' ,;<•'

"Come, monsieur, let us go."

The story may be doubted. Another explanation of the
sudden panic flight of the Italian soldiery at the moment of
successful capture may be found. Whatever John Forrester
saw in the whirling mists on the lonely mountain pass he
keeps to himself. And you must know that charming little
French lady, who is now his wife, very well indeed before you
mention the matter in her presence. If you are wise you will
understand that silence is indeed a golden garland to be pre-
served on some occasions with a wondrous care.

PROFESSION for a
Lady: The Story of a Busi-
ness Venture, by Alice Duer
Miller. Illustrations by Florence
England Nosworthy*

^ ^ ^ ^

''TpHE question is,'* said Axmt Julia, "how my brother
1 ever came to lose so much money."

**The question is," said Aimt Henrietta, **how Jane is
to support herself."

'*The question is," said Axmt Lily, **what are we going to
do for her?" And to judge by the ladies' expression this
was the most pertinent of the three.

'* Really, Lily," said Atmt Henrietta, who was the only

♦Written for Short Stories.

130 A Profession for a Lady

one of the three sisters who had married, and was respected
accordingly, **I do not feel under further obligations toward
Jane. She has been, well, let us say unfortunate in some of
her speeches to me. As soon as I heard of the condition
in which my poor brother had left his affairs, I sent for Jane,
and said: *My dear child, from this day you will make your
home with me. You shall have the North bedroom — No,
no,' I said, as I saw her about to make difficulties, *this
shall not be mere charity; you shall be my secretary and
keep the Orphan Asylum accounts.* *Dear Aunt Henrietta,*
she said, in that soft purring way of hers, just like her mother,
*it isn't charity I mind, so much as the North bedroom.' "

'*Well, it is like a barn in winter," said Miss Julia, re-
flectively.

Mrs. Boggs allowed it to appear that this remark had failed
to please, but the other ladies were too much absorbed to
observe her.

**0f course," Miss Julia continued, **she could live with
us at Lawnwood, but it wotdd be a great change for her after
what she has been accustomed to."

**I can scarcely hope that your accommodations would
please her better than mine," said Mrs. Boggs, bitingly.

**I should at least offer the poor child the best we have,'*
returned Miss Julia. Aimt Henrietta looked as oblivious as
if a little boy in the street had just thrown a snowball at her,
and Miss Lily chipped in innocuously with :

**What a pity it is that Jane has no taste for needlework.
Some of those skate-bags at the fair brought very good
prices and were not hard to do."

''Needlework!" said Aunt Henrietta, with a sniff. "Do
you know that one of her ideas was to become a dressmaker? "

"Oh, dear," said Miss Lily, "I should not like to see the
name of Woodman on a sign in the window! "

"/ should riot like to order my dresses from Jane," said
Mrs. Boggs. "She could not even darn her own stockings.
I ' have seen her throw them away if her maid was not
there to mend them for her."

"No, no," said Miss Julia, "I'm sure our"first plan was the
best. She can live with us at Lawnwood, and come in here
every morning to the Parish house, where, the Bishop says,
he will give her a position to check the sewing-school children's
hats and coats and overshoes. She could get away by three

A Profession for a Lady

131

and be home with us before five, and she will earn twenty-
five dollars a month, for eight months in the year. As soon
as she comes back from New York we will arrange it."

** There!'* said Aunt Henrietta, "and may I ask why she
ever went to the Daytons at such a time? Why did not she
prefer to spend Christmas with her own family? Her fare
to New York was an item, and feeing all that retinue of ser-
vants— for you may be sure that Jane will fee them down to
the kitchen maid — were all expenses she ought not to have
afforded in the present state of her finances."

"She is rather headstrong, sometimes,'* sighed Miss Lily,
reluctantly.

*'If," Aunt Henrietta continued, "she had an ounce of
energy or executive ability she might attempt something
like this. She fumbled in her reticule and produced an
oblong envelope. "I received this circular this morning.
It struck me at once as an excellent idea.'* She put on her
glasses and read:

Miss Gates,
Room 503, GoHath Building, New York City.

Ladies unwilling to undertake the physical exertion and

132

A Profession for a Lady

mental anxiety of Christmas shopping may be asstired that
by emplo)ring Miss Gates their purchases will be carefully
and economically selected, attractively tied up, and promptly
delivered. Miss Gates will buy designated articles at defi-
nite prices, or if it be desired to avoid the whole problem
Miss Gates will undertake, on being furnished with a list of
the names, ages and occupations of those on whom it is in-
tended to bestow presents, to select and dispatch such stiit-
able objects to each, as will instire complete satisfaction to all.

Charges will be five per cent.
of amount of purchase.

Out of town expressage ex-
tra.'^

"Now that," said Aunt Hen-
rietta, laying down her glasses,
^^ ^'''^^■ft *'^^ what 1 call an intelligent

y^Uv i^WWlS\ ^^^^' ^^ ^^^^ ^® ^^^^ worth my
^ ' I / fe'WI^MB^ while to save myself the fatigue

of elbowing my way about the

crowded shops, to say nothing

Vr --^BK^ /MIIIIMK °^ ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ York. Old

W '/"^^^t"-!^/^ mmm^* ^^* Forbes is

\\' /^'^^^^^^ ^^mt^^^ ^^^^^^/\. going to send

A^K \ to her for a
case of cham-
pagne, and
knitting needles
and all sorts of
things ; and Mrs.
Herbert, who I am
sure spends thous-
ands at Christmas
time, has turned
over everything to this woman — just sent her a descriptive
list of all her relations. She was telling me how amusing it
was to make it out."

"Why, do you know," said Miss Lily, who had been in-
dustriously calculating, '*that that wotdd be fifty dollars on
every thousand? Five orders like that wotdd be more than
the Parish house all the year round! Fancy! "

A Profession for a Lady 133

*'I doubt if there are many orders like Mrs. Herbert's/''
said Mrs. Boggs.

The Herberts were new arrivals at St. Albans. He was
the owner of large mills in the neighborhood, and their wealth
and gaiety were rather dazzling to the older residents.

For the next few days the approach of Christmas kept
the three ladies busy, but the day after Christmas they were
again in solemn conclave examining the possibility of raising
the Bishop to thirty dollars a month in consideration
of the great number of children whose goloshes must be
checked.

Aunt Henrietta had written to Jane advising her immedi-
ate return as a "great opporttmity" (she thought it unde-
sirable to be more specific) had presented itself.

**Have you heard from her?" asked Miss Lily, as soon as
the Ubrary door closed behind them.

Aunt Henrietta did not answer but she held out a letter
with a gesture more eloquent than words. Miss Lily took
it and read it aloud :

Dear Aunt Hen : —

Thank you so much for thinking of me. The gray ulster
is extremely warm, and will, I am sure, serve a useful pur-
pose. As for the opportunity you mention, I must express
my gratitude to you all for your solicitude on my account,
but another opportunity has presented itself here, and as
Wall Street is the financial center of the world, I think I had
better keep next this one. Yours,

Jane.

Miss Lily's voice fell in horror at the last words. The ladies
were still exchanging glances of disgust when the footman
opened the door and announced :

*'Mrs. Herbert!"

Mrs. Herbert ran in all sables and pe^rlc, and in evident dis-
tress. She kissed all three of the ladies, or rather flung her-
self from the arms of one to the other, while she gasped:

*'0, dear, Mrs. Boggs, forgive my coming in like this, but I
know so few people here, and you have been so kind to me,
and I'm in such an awkward position! "

* ' My dear, what is the matter ? Frederick, a glass of sherry
for Mrs. Herbert. Sit down, my dear! "

134 A Profession for a Lady

* Mrs. Herbert sat down in the center of the circle, undoing
her furs, while the ladies bent forward in attitudes of sym-
pathetic attention.

**Well, you know that dreadftd Christmas shopper, Miss
Gates ? " she began. The ladies nodded.

*' Well, she'feaid she would take charge of all my Christmas
presents, if I would send her a list of the people I wanted to
send them to, and so I did.'* She was approaching tears.
** I sent a description, and little cards with messages on them
to go in each box, and I pinned the description to the right
card, so that there should not be any mistake. " Here her
handkerchief went to her eyes. *'And what do you think
she did?" A pause. **She forgot to unpin one of them —
the worst!'*

"How unfortunate! How careless!" cried Miss Julia.

"It was for my husband's stepmother." continued Mrs.
Herbert. "A dreadful old woman-^no, I don't mean that,
but I like her much less than some of his relations, and it is
most important to keep on good terms with her, as she owns
half the mills. I shall never dare tell him! "

"And what had you said of her? "

"I can't remember quite all, but I know I said, "This old
lady is sixty-five, though she is always talking about what
she means to do when she is fifty. Her tastes are literary,
but don't give her books. She doesn't like them. It is not
so important that her present should be tasteful, as that it
should look as if it cost a great deal of money."

"My dearV said the ladies together.

"That is not all," Mrs. Herbert went on sadly, shaking
her head to the consolatory glass of sherry, which Frederick
was presenting on a tray. "She wrote and asked me if it
were my handwriting — fortunately it did not look like mine,
because I had hurt my finger and could not hold a pen the
way I usually do. Of course I wrote back that it was not.
So then she found out about this Christmas shopper, and she
thinks it was she. I've just heard that she is sending my
husband's brother, who is her lawyer, to New York to see
Miss Gates and get an apology from her, on the threat of a
libel suit. Of course this woman won't apologize for what
she did not do, and it will all come out, and what shall I
do?''

* 'What shall you do, my dear," said Mrs Boggs, with firm-

A Profession for a Lady 135

ness. 'Xalrn yourself. The woman must apologize. See
your brother-in-law, explain the case to him.**

Mrs. Herbert moaned and shook her head. *'I can't do
that. I am afraid of Richard. He might tell my husband.*'

"You must make it clear that he cannot do so. He can
represent to this woman that if she will accept the situation,
which is after all of her own making, and write a satisfactory

letter to your mother-in-law, that you will** Mrs. Boggs

hesitated, as others have done before her, in search of a polite
expression for bribery, and finally ended rather lamely with
**you will do something kind for her?**

Mrs. Herbert protested that it would be a dreadful ordeal
to tell her brother-in-law, who was a superior sort of person,
but she admitted that she would have ample opportunity,
as he always came to luncheon with her when he passed
through St. Albans. At length, upheld by the sympathy
and advice of the ladies, she took her departure.

At luncheon her brother-in-law was more unbending than
she had expected. Indeed he laughed himself speechless at
the description of his respected stepmother, and went away
declaring that he would have no difficulty in obtaining the
apology for nothing. He would have nothing to do with
bribes.

It was with a stem and legal manner that he stepped from the
express elevator in the Goliath Building that very afternoon,
and opened a glass door, which was simply inscribed 'Miss
Gates, Shopper.** The room was small and bright. A large
table littered with parcels and paper and string, took up most
of it. Near the window stood a small desk on which Her-
bert saw a number of catalogues and advertisements of sales
and disordered correspondence. From these arose at his
entrance one of the most elegant young women that Herbert
had ever beheld. She and her appointments seemed to him
absolutely perfect from the top of her conspicuous blonde
head to her little well-clad feet.

His sentiments became less legal, but his manner re-
mained the same.

**Miss Gates,*' he said, **My name is Herbert. I am the
lawyer of Mrs. V. T. Herbert.**

Miss Gates looked vaguely at her pile of letters. *' Oh, yes,"
she said- '*You want to talk about that absurd libel suit.
Pray, sit down. Or,*' she added, with what he knew she

136

A Profession for a Lady

considered a good business manner, "perhaps you had bet-
ter see my lawyer."

*'Who is your lawyer?"

She looked hopeless. ** I have not got one," she answered,

A Profession for a Lady 137

but the next moment, added cheerfully, **but I coidd get
one, cotddn't I?"

Dick Herbert could not help smiling, but recovering his
gravity hastily, he said: "It will not, I think, be necessary
for you to go to that trouble and expense "

**You are expensive, aren't you?" said Miss Gates, as if
she had scored a point.

"The matter," Dick continued, "can be settled more
simply. It would be, of course, very bad for your business
if this became generally known, and "

"I shall not keep on with this business. It is horrid and
troublesome, and people are so ungrateful."

"Ungratefidl" said Dick, foolishly allowing himself to be
thrown off the track.

She nodded. "Think what a beautiful umbrella I selected
for Christmas for you.'* She sighed. "It was fifty cents
more than Mrs. Herbert wanted to spend, and so I f)aid it
out of my own commission."

"Upon my word," cried Dick, "I had forgotten that I was
on the list, too. And it was you who bought that umbrella.
It is, I may say, an ideal umbrella. The only perfect ex-
ample of the sort I ever saw. An umbrella I am proud to
carry. My dear Miss Gates, how can I thank you? "

"You can thank me," replied Miss Gates, with directness,
"by going away and letting me finish my letters. It is get-
ting late, and I want to get up town in time to dress for din-
ner."

It was at this point that his evil genius persuaded Herbert
to say, while he persuaded himself that his professional in-
stinct was at work:

"You really ought not to work any more to-night. I have
a hansom at the door now, and if you will permit me the pleas-
ure of dining in your society, we can, I am sure, settle this
business before we have finished soup. I am a stranger in
New York, Miss Gates, but I think I know where as good a
dinner "

He stopped. Miss Gates had risen and was looking at him
with an expression that was more chilling than a cold shower
bath. He stopped, but she did not instantly speak. When
she did, her tone was like ice:

"Mr. Herbert, it will not be my misfortune, I hope, ever
to address you again. It is not, perhaps, necessary in the

138

A Profession for a Lady

legal profession to know a lady when you see one, but a little
tact and common sense are never a hindrance. As, however,
you do not seem to be in possession of these qualities, let
me make the facts perfectly clear to you. My name is Wood-
man. You have probably heard of my father, who died* re-
cently, leaving nothing of a once large fortune. I have been
trying to earn my own living, without the knowledge of my
family. For this reason I have asstmied a business name.
I see, however, that my aunts were right in supposing that
a lady can live safely only at home. It is such men as you,
Mr. Herbert, who make it so. I will send the letter you wish
in the morning. If, as is possible, we should ever meet in
St. Albans, I shall not recognize you, and I trust you will do
what you can to save me the necessity of making my opinion
of you more marked. At present I wish you good afternoon! '*

That very afternoon she took her ticket home.

When she entered the empty Pullman car- — the train was not
a favorite — her eye fell instantly on a familiar umbrella
which lay across the seat next her own. A valise marked
R. H. was standing there also. She started and looked
hastily round the car. They were apparently to be the only
passengers. Every other seat in the car was at her disposal.

And yet she did not change her seat.

HITE; Orchids and
Cypress: An Inter-
lutional Episode by Dorothy
Lord Maltby. lUtistrations
by Louise B. Mansfield*

^

«|B

«|B

lHE cricket match was more than half over.
A picked eleven from the English colony
and Altenhaus college boys, English also,
were playing a cricket team of their own
nationality who had come over from Wies-
baden. The ground upon which they were
playing was German, but the scene was
typically English in spite of the goodly
sprinkling of titled foreigners.

Cyril Fitzgerald stood leaning against the
trunk of a huge old apple tree, looking off
across the field. Near him on the grass lay Beresford; he
had just come in from the bat, and was still mopping his
brow half lazily as if more from habit than for any other
reason.

**Why aren't you playing to-day, Fitz? We need you
badly, old chap. The Wiesbadens are putting up a deuced
good game.'*

Fitzgerald brought his eyes back from the entrance gates
where they had been resting for the last few minutes. "Too
hot to play,*' he answered.
♦Written for Short Stories.

I40 White Orchids and Cypress

** Fancy you were afraid you*d soil your togs, Fitz/* glancing
at the spotless white flannels Cyril wore; the pale blue silk
binding and college coat-of-arms emblazoned on the pockets
in the same delicate hue set off his dark coloring admirably,
and Beresford thought absently, '* Deuced fine looking chap,
Fitz."

Suddenly the man standing moved. Beresford followed
his glance. **0h, I say,'* he exclaimed, rising on his elbow,
'*who is she? What a lot of side!'* Fitzgerald's eyes dark-
ened, and a slight frown appeared between them, but the
man at his feet carelessly kept on. ** Think she's an American,
Fitz.*^ Tell by looking at her feet. Jove, she's a little
beauty! Is that Lady St. John she's with? Gad, yes, and
the young Prince of X. Not much use trying to run against
a prince, Fitz."

Cyril Fitzgerald looked down at Beresford, said not a word
and walked away.

** Fitzgerald!" It was the headmaster's little wife who
called him. He hastened to her side.

** Just pass the fruit salad to Lady St. John."

He took the bowl from her, with a heart that beat a trifle
less steadily than ordinarily. ** Salads, Lady St. John?"

"Oh, you, Mr. Fitzgerald — this is good of you — that will
do — I want to present- you to my little American friend,
Miss Raydon. Priscilla — Mr. Fitzgerald."

He bowed, quietly offering her the salad. He saw two
large brown eyes which smiled up into his, and the salad
nearly ended its existence.

**How good you are to come like a ministering angel with
this delicious beverage — I'm very warm," with a little sigh.
**I suppose you know all about all that?" waving a small
white-gloved hand at the field lying like a velvet carpet
before her, with its white cricketers running back and forth.

** Yes, a little," he smiled down at her. **May I come back
when I have done my duty?"

*'Do, and tell me all about it."

When he came back Lady St. John had moved to speak
with old Capt. Hanscome, late of Her Majesty's service,
and he dropped into her vacant chair. The young prince
was talking to Miss Raydon: **Ah, oh, yes — well that was a
square leg hit just now that young Stanton made," he heard
him say.

White Orchids and Cypress 141

Miss Raydon turned: **Do you know Prince Otto, Mr.
Fitzgerald?** The two men shook hands. Prince Otto
uttered a word of apology, and joined a group at the tea
table.

"The prince was trying to instruct me in cricket.**

"I heard him explaining a square leg hit.**

**Yes, it*s all very puzzling; Fm afraid I am not clever at
learning; now, base ball, why, I know everything about that
— ^it*s fascinating.*'

** Is it? Will you teach me? '*

Her eyes opened wide. ** Why two can't play.*'

"Can't they? I fancied it was like tennis. Do you play
tennis?"

"Yes, indeed."

"I say, wouldn't it be jolly if you'd play with me. The
Army House has very good courts" — he broke off, abruptly.
"I don't suppose you would, would you? I've only just
met you."

"We'll let Lady St.. John decide — she's coming this way
now. Who is it with her?"

"Beresford, the Earl of L's younger son."

"How imposing! Are you a *Lion* too, Mr. Fitzgerald?'*

"No, my people are just plain civil service; the govemor*s
to be knighted shortly, I believe; he doesn't go in for that
sort of thing — the Mater's rather keen on it, though. Per-
sonally I am Army. I'm here on leave. I couldn't resist re-
visiting my old college, you see," glancing down at the Army
House coat he was wearing.

"Priscilla, Beresford here has begged me to introduce him
and I have at last consented." The girl nodded brightly.
Lady St. John moved off again.

" Has old Fitzgerald been boring you to death, Miss Ray-
don? *Raydon's' right, isn't it? I didn't quite catch what
Lady St. John said! Is that your full name?"

"My full name is Priscilla Lloyd Raydon," and she dropped
him a mock courtesy.

"Hyphened?"

"Hyphened? Oh, Lloyd-Raydon ; no."

"That's too bad. I like it better. I think I'll call you
Miss Lloyd-Raydon; it's jollier."

" Is it ? I don't think I ever thought of it like that."

" Lady St. John says you are to be here with her some time;

142

White Orchids and Cypress

you must let me take you in to dinner at the queen's jubilee
banquet, won't you?"

'* What makes you think I will be asked?'*

*'0h, I say, you know Lady St. John would " he

stopped.

*' Would what?" sweetly.

**0h, raise a jolly
row, you know."

**No, I don't know.
She's beckoning now,
and here comes the
prince, so I suppose it
is time for us to be
going."

"Remember, you've
promised to let me take
you in to dinner."

'* Indeed, I remem-
ber I didu't promise,
and besides the committee
have the placing all arranged.
Goud-bye." She nodded
over her shoulder. "Are
you going to carry my sun-
sluiile for me, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
Cyril Fitzgerald's eyes were
fvill of thanks; he had stood
f|uietly by while Beresford
had monopolized the conver-
sation.

More than one pair of eyes
followed the girl, as escorted
by the two men she crossed
the lawn to say good-bye to
her hostess. The small head
poised gracefully under the
large picture hat she wore; the assured carriage, even the
fluffy white skirts daintily lifted above the tiny shoes, showed
her nationality, though Priscilla Raydon never made the mis-
take, so despised by English people, of being overdressed.
Beautiful and attractive as she was, she was simply a charm-

White Orchids and Cypress 143

ing, well-bred American girl, though the quiet dignity with
which she moved and her low sweet voice, were far from
typifying the foreigner's idea of the American girl.

*'Here you are! Well, Priscilla, how did you like your
first cricket match?*'

"Oh, immensely; though Tm afraid I didn't see much of
it."

*'0f course not — no one ever does; it breaks the awkward
pauses when one can't think of anything to say while having
a duty talk with some deaf old dowager. Well, Fitzgerald, I
am glad you took such good care of my little girl. Drop in
to tea.**

Prince Otto helped her into the carriage.

**Lady St. John?**

**Yes.'*

**May Miss Ray don come over for tennis on the Army
House courts?**

**That's for Miss Raydon to decide.**

"I'd love to,*' the girl called back as they drove away.

"Cyril's a dear boy,** Lady St. John mused. "I thought
you seemed to get on rather well, Priscilla.**

"I think we did.'*

Lady Idonea leaned back on the cushions and glanced
through languid lids at the prince. Prince Otto was doing
his best to entertain Miss Raydon and his efforts did not seem
to be wasted, for every little while her fresh girlish laugh
would ring out.

With uncovered head, the soft summer wind stirring his
brown hair lightly, Cyril Fitzgerald stood in the road, gazing
through a long ribbon of dust, at the carriage fast disap-
pearing. A comer was reached — they were out of sight;
then turning, he walked thoughtfully over to the Army
House.

He could not see her anywhere, but then he was ridicu-
lously early. Cyril Fitzgerald moved about pretending to
talk with one and another of the English girls who were al-
ready there, but his glance sought constantly for the soft
brown hair that crowned Miss Raydon*s little head. At last
he espied Lady St. John surrounded by a group of men, and
surmised that the young girl he sought was hidden behind
some of the black coats, brightened in most cases by orders

144 White Orchids and Cypress

worn on brilliant ribbons hung about the neck, or pinned upon
the breast. He threaded his way in and out iintil he reached
her.

*'Do you know Fate has been more kind to me than I de-
serve?*' he said, bending over the small gloved hand she gave
him.

**Ah, I doubt that; tell me about your good fortune?**

** Unfortunately, it will not be the good news to you that
it was to me.**

"Let me be the one to decide that, Mr. Fitzgerald.**

**I am to have the honor of taking our one fair American
guest in to dinner; need I tell you that it is a great pleasure? **

** I am glad,** she said, simply. ** Just think what I should
have done if I had fallen to the lot of Mr. Benham! Do you
know he asked me to walk up to the Schloss the other after-
noon; and really all he said the whole time was * Quite so,*
and once or twice he varied it with, *I dare say.* It got to
be most trying.**

Fitzgerald laughed. "Poor old Benham! He*s an odd
chap, but very kind hearted.**

** I know it, but one needs more than that to make one sought
after at dinners.**

Fitzgerald offered his arm. "I see Colonel Rees-Dudley
is taking Lady St. John in; there is to be no further precedence
given this evening — ^shall we go? **

The large ballroom of the Hotel de L*Europe presented a
brilHant scene; the walls were draped with English flags
and- with those of Germany; the table gHttered with heavy
gold plate and crystal; huge masses of flowers piled high in
German fashion filled the air with an intense perfimie; favors
of tiny silk English flags were at every place.

Fitzgerald glanced at the plate in front of him. "I say,
I hope we*ll know what we're eating!**

Priscilla laughed. **I fancy we'll know the soup when it
comes if not what kind it is."

"These German dishes are a sort of mystery to me; I
don*t speak the language, you know.**

"I haven *t had a chance to tell you how sorry we were to
have missed you when you called the other afternoon.'*

"Yes; I was sorry, too. I've had beastly hard luck,
I've started three times, and each time I*ve seen you going
c IT with someone else.*'

White Orchids and Cypress 145

"Really, I haven't seen you; how odd."

**I dare say not."

** You're jesting; you didn't really start three times?"

"Really. The first time I saw you disappearing with
Beresford in the direction of the links; the second time you
and Lady St. John were driving in state with one of the
Saxo-Broussias; and yesterday Lady Idonea said you were
gone for a walk with Prince Otto. So you see there has been
no time for poor *me.'" He gave a sigh, intended to be
half mocking, but it .missed its aim, and was more than half
serious. "An eari's son — a prince — was the other * some-
body', too?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"Only Grraf von Nydeck taking us to a duel."

"Dear me; you don't impress one as being blood-thirsty."

"I'm not a bit; but then you see," laughingly, "I've been
brought up on Yale-Harvard football games, and just to see
little tufts of hair go floating about, and sparks flying, seemed
quite tame. Still, we were not near enough to see the horrid
details. I'm afraid," she broke off, "this is rather an odd
dinner conversation. Tell me some way I can make repa-
ration for all the times when I was not at home? "

" I hardly dare ask; after dinner there is to be an informal
dance; I don't go in for that sort of thing — would you mind
sitting out one or two with me? "

"You shall have the two. A dance — oh, it will be good
to dance once more! Traveling about one doesn't get much
chance for that kind of thing."

At last the long dinner was over; the queen's health had
been dnmk, and "God Save the Queen" had been sung.
Fitzgerald led Miss Raydon out onto the veranda. "You
see I am taking the first."

Lieutenant Stoughton came hurrying up. "Prince Otto
is looking for you, Miss Raydon; I sent him off to search the
gardens," with a grin. "You'll give me the first? "

"I've promised that to Mr. Fitzgerald, but you may have
the next."

"Thanks; don't forget."

Just then the strains of "Sei nicht bose" came floating
out, and Cyril noticed that the small foot in its pink satin
slipper tapped the pavement restlessly.

"It's too bad of me to take the first; you should be danc-
mg.

146

White Orchids and Cypress

"Why I'm going to dance ; there is no hurry."

Fitzgerald glanced down. ** You need a flower in your hair
to give the artistic touch artists talk about; will you take
this? " He removed a splendid white orchid from his button-
hole and handed it to her.

**It is beautiful," she said. **I did not know they could
l)e procured in this little place."

**They are a sort of rara avis, I confess. Here come Beres-
ford and Lieutenant Stoughton. Now I shall lose you."

*' How-de-do, Miss Lloyd-Raydon ? Are you going to
deign to dance with a chap?"

"I'll think it over Mr. £ar/-Beresford."

"Oh, I say now, you're chaffing. Jove!" he broke off as
he caught sight of the flower in the girl's hair. "Why didn't
you give Miss Lloyd-Raydon some trifle like a diamond
necklace, Fitz ? It would have been jolly less conspicuous."

Fitzgerald frowned. Miss Raydon flushed darkly, and
said with dignity, "Is it so untisual for a man to give a girl
flowers that it is to be remarked upon, Mr. Beresford?"

"No offence meant; but you don't appreciate that Fitz
spent the whole day searching the town for a white orchid,

White Orchids and Cypress 147

and procured the only one ever seen in the village before or
since; the rest of the chaps have been offering him fabulous
sums for that orchid — ^there's the second — I must go. Give
me a dance Miss Lloyd- Raydon, and I'll apologize upon my
knees."

Lieutenant Stoughton offered his arm. *'Mine, Miss Ray-
don, I believe?'*

"Good- bye," she called to Fitzgerald, who stood leaning
against a pillar of the veranda. *'ril give you the tenth, if
you'd Uke."

He nodded. '^Thanks."

It seemed to Cyril as if the tenth would never come ; but
when at last she came out of the crowded room with Prince
Otto, he felt that he would have been more than paid had he
waited double the time.

**You are tired," he said. **Come down to the end of
the veranda; there is a table I have had saved, and we'll
see if we can't manage to get a breath of cool air."

*' This is nice, after all that rush in there," with a nod toward
the ballroom.

"Kellner!" Fitzgerald looked at Miss Ray don with a
comical expression as the waiter promptly arrived. ** That's
all I know; I'm afraid you will have to give the order. Cham-
pagne. Now, I dare say he'll understand that."

**Not for me, thanks; an ice, please."

Fitzgerald looked at the Kellner. "Bring alles,'* he said
with a wave of his hand.

The man grinned, and after considerable time returned
with what was evidently "alles," from the extent of the
supper.

The little gilt lamp with its rose-colored shade cast a
soft light upon the girl's happy face. Fitzgerald could only
look, and conversation flagged ; but Priscilla Raydon chatted
brightly on, giving him a r^sum^ of her evening, sketching
her partners so accurately that C)rril did not need to be told
their names.

When Fitzgerald at last had to take her back to Lady St.
John, the queen's Diamond Jubilee dinner was over.

Lady St. John tapped lightly on Priscilla's door. "May
I come in, dear?"

"Of coiu^e. Have you come to talk over the evening
with me?"

148

White Orchids and Cypress

"Yes. It was qidte a success, I thought. Colonel Rees-
Dudley deserves a great deal of praise." Lady Idonea lay
back in a low chair. ** Priscilla, my dear, what are you about? "

The girl's eyes sought hers. "About ? " she said innocently.

**0h, you provoking child; I could shake you!" Lady St.
John exclaimed. ** Here with Prince Otto as attentive as any

girl could wish, and Graf von Nydeck doing everything he can
think of to please you, you waste your time on Cyril Fitz-
gerald. Cyril's a dear boy, but he's only a subaltern after all."

"But Lady St. John, you are quite mistaken; indeed you
are!" The girl's tone soxmded distressed. "None of them
think of me in the way you mean — oh, it is qtiite impossible ! "

" But child, it isn't impossible." She rose to go, and then
stooped to kiss the girl. "Priscilla, my dear, I am very fond

White Orchids and Cypress 149

of you, and I want to keep you on this side of the water.
Don't forget what I have said, dear," and she closed the door.

In the weeks that followed Cyril Fitzgerald spent as much
of his time as possible with Lady St. John and Miss Raydon,
though to him it seemed all too little that he saw of the girl,
for rarely when he called was she at home. Always the
maid told him, *'Miss Raydon has gone riding with Prince
Otto," or, *'Graf von Nydeck has taken my lady and Miss
Raydon to the opera at M. — *' But as the weeks passed,
each time he saw her, Cyril Fitzgerald grew ever more deeply
in love with the fair American girl.

A party had been arranged to go up to the Schloss that
evening to a "symphony" concert, and as Fitzgerald stood
before the glass adjusting his cravat, he was making up his
mind that soon he must tell her he loved her— going on like this
day by day in uncertainty was unendurable. Of course he was
an ass to dream that she would care for him, but he must know.

It was Beethoven's beautiful symphony in C moll, and
though passionately fond of music Cyril found he could not
even hear it; he could think of nothing, look at nothing, but
the girl opposite him. How sad she looked! Once or twice
he fancied her eyes were wet with tears. She was pale, too,
or was it the soft, gray gown, relieved only by a bunch of
violets, which made her look so?

The "symphony" was over. "Would you care to walk
on the terrace. Miss Raydon?"

"Yes, indeed. I love that symphony, but to-night I
didn't want to hear it; perhaps we can walk off the spell it
has cast over me."

They walked on in silence, threading their way in and
out among the many promenaders. On their left the haw-
thorn hedge was lighted every few paces by a soft light from
a glowworm, and daintily flitting here and there were myri-
ads of fireflies, with their little lamps of pale yellow, orange,
red, and electric green. The promenaders were getting
fewer now, and soon the strains of the "Waldweben" music
came floating out softly on the warm summer air.

"The interval is over; we must be going back."

"Not just yet," and Cyril Fitzgerald laid a detaining hand
on the girl's arm. "It is cooler here," he said.

"Yes," she assented, and leaned her arms upon the

150 White Orchids and Cypress

railing, looking off across the plain below. At their feet
lay the little town, half asleep, with now and then a light
twinkling from some villa or shop, and stretching away off to
the Hartz mountains reached the great length of fertile valley.

They were quite alone now. Only the bronze statue of
Victor von Scheffel loojced down upon them benignly. ** You
seem sad; is it true?"

** Yes, I am afraid it is."

** Nothing where I can help you.?"

**No," she said, **bad news from home — I am going back
to-morrow."

** Going back!" Englishman though he was, his voice
trembled. ** Don't go back, you must stay. I cannot get
on without you! Don't speak! " as the girl tried to stop him.
**I know you hadn't thought of any such thing — I know I
don't amount to much, but I love you, and I will be worthy
of you! Can't you tell me that you will not forget me, and
when I have proved there is something in me, may I come
and try to win your love.'^"

She laid a hand timidly upon his sleeve. "I am very
sorry — very sorry — I did not dream; it is all quite impossi-
ble."

**Am I so very horrid?" he asked.

*' It is not that, oh, it is not that ! "

He looked into her eyes. ** There is some one else. I might
have known. Prince Otto is a fine fellow — you will be happy ! "

She laughed half hysterically. **It is not the prince;
we are just good friends. It is some one at home!" and a
little sob escaped her.

**I did not know you were engaged," he said calmly.

''I'm not. I thought I didn't care, and came away, but
I've had this cable — he is dangerously ill — and I am going
back to America — and him. ' '

He looked down at the small bowed head. '/Poor little
girl — poor little girl — ^things were hard enough without my
making them any harder. I'm always making a mess of
things — I have all my life. Shall we be going back? Lady
St. John will miss you."

They turned and walked toward the castle. He stopped
at the turn in the walk. "This is good-bye," he said, " I may
never see you again. I hope you will be happy." He lifted
the hand she gave him to his lips. " Good-bye," he said again.

H£ AmoK of Wans^sa:

A Talc of the Malay Penin-
sula, by EUa Lowery Moseley*

WANGS A was the last of the orang lauts, or sea pirates,
who infested the Malacca straits and neighboring
waters, in the days when British guns had begun to enforce
the law and order prevailing there at present. It was because
of these guns that on the morning leading to the last impor-
tant event of his life, he was compelled to run his prau into
a sheltered cove two miles east of Jemelang, to send his
subordinates with the captured opium, silks and' birds' nests
by circuitous routes into the town to certain Chinese shop-
keepers, and to strike out all alone through the jungle to
reach the town himself. He had taken but few steps in that
direction, however, before the sun, which shone brightly,
was suddenly obscured by a light veil as a shower danced
across sea, jungle and clearing. ** Allah compassionate!" he
exclaimed, and paused to pluck a spray of acanthus and thrust
it into the folds of his belt for protection against the evil
spirits who attack unfortunate mortals they find out doors
when it rains and shines simultaneously. Then after feeling
the knot in his sarong for the piece of los wood tied there
as a charm against tigers, he went on. For greater security
as he passed a spot where a month before a tiger had been killed
after eating a couple of men, he muttered over an infallible
spell:

**Kun Pay ah kun!
Let celestial splendor reside in me,
Whoever talks of attacking me
A skillful lion shall oppose him.*'

♦Written for Short Stories.

152 The Amok of Wangsa

Passing safe this dangerous locality a new fear possessed
his superstitious mind. The sleepy note of a barberek or
night jar disturbed in its dozing in some jungle depth by a
chattering monkey, filled his heart with dread, and expecting
every moment to see the Spectre Huntsman, whose mere
touch is death, burst upon him through the masses of palms ,
vines and ferns that bordered the path, he hastily recited
another long incantation ending:

'*0 man of Katapang,

Get thee baclc to the forest of Ranchah,

Afflict not my body with pain or disease."

There was an. evil spirit for him behind each tree, and his
repertoire of charms being exhausted, he chanted passages
from the Koran, until he emerged into an open space. Here
relieved of his fears, he began thinking of the wealth with
which he had returned and of how he could now force old
Penghulu Ulam to give him his daughter Casoma in marriage.
It was said by all the people that Casoma was as beautiful
as the fabulous princess, the Malay Aphrodite, who was first
discovered to man's eyes afloat in a foam bell on a river.
Wangsa had satisfied himself as to the truth of the report
by creeping under Penghtdu Ulam's house at night and
observing the maiden through the slits in the bamboo floor,
thus getting the better of the absurd Malay custom which
forbids the meeting of young men and women before marriage.
Penghulu Ulam had hitherto steadfastly refused all Wangsa's
offers. The old man was currying favor with the English
and did not desire an alliance with the most notorious orang
laui in the district. Wangsa felt sure that by offering suffi-
cient money he would yet win the desire of his heart. He
soon began reciting from the Koran again. For while in the
jungle this recitation inspired his courage, it now served
equally well to express his elation.

As he neared the town he saw approaching him Khateb,
one of the bearers of the royal cuspidor, and his recent good
humor darkened like a spot of milk into which a drop of
indigo has fallen. He hated Khateb for his good looks and
his tall shapely figure whose long arms and legs came swing-
ing along the path in the step laiown as ** planting beans."
Wangsa being short, squat and bandy legged could with

The Amok of Wangsa 153

ease employ only the short step called "planting spinach."
Khateb had a fine, open countenance and beautiful white
teeth, while Wangsa had a furtive eye and a face deeply
wrinkled by his evil trades, and his teeth had been filed and
blackened by parents not so enUghtened as Khateb 's. He
hated him also because of the possession of a kris of such
magic qualities as would render its wearer invulnerable.
Tradition said it had been made of the steel left over after
the forging of God's bolt, Ka'abh; that it was smelted in
the palm of Adam, the son of God's prophet, and dam-
asked with the juice of flowers in a Chinese furnace. If
cleaned at the mouth of a river all the fish would come floating
up dead. The blade was like a narrow, undulating, delicate
blue flame, was faintly traced with gold, and near the handle
middle and point bore the famous damask Alif , so called from
its resemblance to the Arabian letter so named. The handle
of ivory and gold had the mystical shape of a human figure
seated with folded arms and with a hood rising from the
back of its neck over its head. As Khateb approached,
the handle coiild be seen protruding above the folds of his
sarong, turned close to his body on the left side, thus indi-
cating him to be at peace with the world. A pigeon in one
hand and a calling-tube of bamboo showed his present business
to be the snaring of wild fowl.

"Tabek" (good morning), said Wangsa, touching Khateb 's
hand, then bringing his own back as high as his chest, in
deference to the rank of the bearer of the Royal cuspidor
and with a forced smile making his face resemble an iguana
yawning. **Has a troop of elephants passed through the
padi fields of His Heavenbom Highness that the noble Khateb
must go to the jungle for food.?"

**Not so," answered Khateb proudly, "His Highness has
padi and all other foods more than enough for all his peo-
ple, but a slave may not ask his Lord for raiment Uke unto
that His Highness wears himself. Know you that in the
shop of the fat Chinaman, Yimi Lee, is a baju of silk, em-
broidered with gold and of a color Uke the glorious red purple
dye whose inventor sailed the world for three years, trying
in vain to remove the stains from his hands. Perhaps I may
snare a thousand pigeons, if so the price of the thousand
shall buy me the baju,"

1 54 The Amok of Wangs a

**Ah! there is going to be a great feast? Perhaps the
wedding of the Raja Muda? "

'*Ha! Do only princes marry? There is a maiden whose
parents have reared her tenderly as one carries a vessel of oil
on the hand. Her face is of the color of gold of ten touch, her
hair is like the wavy shoots of the Areca palm, her neck has
a triple row of dimples, her cheeks are like those sliced off a
mango, her lips are like the fissure of pomegranate. Her
voice is as sweet as Raja Donan*s magic flute which gave
forth the sound of twelve instruments at once. The name of
her lord is Khateb!"

To Wangsa there was also a maiden which such a descrip-
tion fitted, so he asked scornfully, *'Ha! is there only one
beetle and but a single flower?"

**Will ten stars equal the moon herself?" said Khateb.
**You may go from Menangabon to the botmds of Siam and
see all the maidens in the countries between and CasomV will
outshine them all."

When a village is burned smoke will be seen, but the
human heart may be in flames and no one perceive it, as
every true Malay knows.

**Ha!" exclaimed Wangsa, his face as mild as a sleeping
tiger, **will it not be like setting horn with ivory for the
noble Khateb to wed Ulam's daughter?"

** Why do you speak foolish words ? Ulam is penghulu and
rich besides."

*' Wangsa grinned deceptively. He was thinking it would
be expedient for a certain purpose formed that minute,
for Khateb's pigeon-snaring to take him as far as pos-
sible from the town. "Never mind," he said, '*0 Khateb,
have we not sliced the heart of the buff'alo together? Have
we not together dipped the heart of the mite? Therefore will
I tell you where many pigeons may be snared. Go to the
Poko Hantu (haunted tree) that stands at the meeting of the
ways called Jalen Bezar and Jalen Panjang, cross the padi
fields of Orang Kayu, pass on through the secondary forest
growth to the boundary of the primeval forest. There the
pigeons fly in flocks so thick you cannot see the sky. Per-
haps the noble Khateb has not time to go so far. Perhaps
the wedding is this afternoon?"

**Tidah not so. It is day after to-morrow. The Poko

The Amok of Wangsa 155

Hantu is not so far. Perhaps I will go. Tabek,'' He went
on cheerily repeating the favorite pigeon-snaring charm:

** Caller, bamboo caller!

Caller of the wild doves,

Over the seven valleys and the seven knolls,

Re-echo the voice of my decoy."

Wangsa's little evil eyes looked maledictions on his back,
and his lips pronounced them.

**May all your snares be destroyed by the Hantu Songei, who
leans against the wild areca palm his head and arms that have
no body beneath to support them. May his long nose and
wide set eyes scare away the pigeons. May the Spectre
Huntsman kick you and end your swine *s life.** Then he
proceeded straight to Yum Lee's shop and bought the baju
described by Khateb so glowingly.

**It'is not always the man who plants the cocoanut who
eats its meat,** he said as he arrayed himself in it. He then
donned a pair of trousers of an azure color, put on his head a
scarlet fez embroidered in gold, knotted a sarong of rainbow
plaid around his waist, and then sallied forth in the direction
of the campong in which Casoma lived. This was in a
cocoanut grove down by the seashore and was made up of
about a dozen houses built of bamboo strips laced together
with rattan, thatched with atop, with doors and window
screens of kajang. Penghulu Ulam's house was distinguished
from his people's only by size, being slightly larger. A few
steps from the group of houses was a little mosque. The
whole was mean and squalid in appearance as all Malay
villages are. Nevertheless the noble overshadowing palms,
and the winding, smooth strip of sea reflecting the blue sky
and white tumuli of clouds, imparted to the scene a primitive
dignity of its own. The atmosphere of pastoral peace hang-
ing over it accentuated the impression. At this hour of the
morning, it being between nine and ten o'clock, the laughs
of a group of naked brown boys playing '*champah bunga
sa*blah** (throwing the flower across) were the only loud
sounds to be heard. It was a peace like that wonderful calm
of all the Orient, impressive but delusive, for it may be turned
into an uproar in the twinkling of an eye.

Two women who sat in the doorway of the first house,
decorating a pair of slippers with bright beads and chatting

156 The Amok of Wangsa

softly grew silent as a gorgeous figure swaggered up the
beach.

'*It is the oranq laut Wangsa,*' said one. Look how he
sways about like a sepat fish under a mangrove root. Why
does he come here?"

The boys stopped their game to stare at him. At one door
front a withered old man platting creels of thin strips of
bamboo, gazed at the red purple baju with dim bleared eyes
and began to mutter ** Allah, all merciful, compassionate,"
thinking he saw the apparition of one of the Rajas that
illumine the bombastic Malay annals. A young lad half-way
up the tall, slim shaft of a cocoanut tree, with his red sarong
tucked about his waist for easier climbing, paused, and hung
there like a big tropic insect to see the wonder pass. At one
side of his house Ulam, in a dingy plaid sarong, a dirty white
baju and grass slippers, was engaged in picking the eyes from
a gadfly that he had just found biting the buffalo attached
to a stake nearby. Adah, his wife, was spreading out on
banana leaves a lot of vile odored fish to dry in the sun.
Casoma sat in the doorway counting over again the forty
scales on the feet of the pet dove sent her by Khateb the day
before, and congrattdating herself on such a lucky possession.
As Wangsa approached and saluted Ulam, she went inside,
as etiquette demanded, and satisfied her curiosity by peering
through the window with the dove perched on her shoulder.
Wangsa's colloquy with Ulam was brief and he suddenly
dashed into the house, seized Casoma by the hair and waved
his gleaming kris above her. The frightened dove moaning
flew to the top of the window. A setting hen fluttered
wildly from her nest in the comer, her loud cacklings mingling
with the screams of the girl. Old Adah upset her fish jar in
her excitement, shrieked, and tossed her arms about like
Hantu Ribut, the Malay storm fiend. Ulam's gadfly escaped
with one eye still left for further bloody spoils. The creel,
the slippers were thrown aside, the cocoanuts were left
ungathered; drowsy figures emerged from doorways, up from
the sea came others dripping from the interrupted bath and
in an instant a clamorous, gestictdating throng was before the
door.

''It is the "panjut ankara" (marriage by violence), said
the old creel platter.

The Amok of Wangsa 157

** He must have much money to try to make Ulam give him
Casoma this way/' said a woman.

**What need of money with a strong arm? He will kill
her if any dares molest him."

**He is a brave fellow," said another.

Wangsa was trying to quiet the frightened girl. "Palm
blossom, tremble not. If they come not near, my kris will
not hurt you."

The girl did not find this reassuring, for she continued to
tremble.

'*Your father will soon accept the money I offer, which is
twice the marriage fee, and give you to me. Therefore be
patient, little dove."

**I do not want you for my house ladder. Division was
fixed between you and me by Adam," said the girl, gaining
courage.

** Tis not so, pigeon, we shall be like two kli fish in one
hole. Moreover I am rich ; you shall have silk scarfs for your
head, silk sarongs and anklets and wristlets of gold in abund-
ance."

** What good to sit on a gold cushion with an unquiet mind?"
answered Casoma scornfully.

** Bamboo Princess," said the pirate, keeping a watchful
eye on the door, "your forehead is like the one day old
moon, your brows are arched like the fighting cock's spurs,
your nose is like an opening jasmine bud. Can such a
beautiful maid have an imquiet mind?"

"You have sugar cane planted on your lips, but your heart
is like the poisonous tuba root."

"No matter what you say, you will have to be my wife."

"When a cat wears shoes, and an Englishman turns
Mohammedan that will happen. There is one who will over-
come you with his kris that never fails."

"When the corpse in the grave shall speak, not before, shall
I be destroyed by any beast or other son of the human race;"
and enraged by her allusion to Khateb and the magic kris he
jerked her hair viciously. "Wow," she screamed; "Wow,"
screamed all the women in sympathy and there was a stir
among the men handling their weapons, as when in the
forest the Malay lord of the winds lets down his long and
flowing locks. But not more, for the threatening figure
whose eyes darted lightning debarred them. Then they all

158 The Amok of Wangsa

began to look around for Ulam, whom they had forgotten in
their absorption in the two principal actors.

** There he is," spake a woman, ** turning about like a
worm in the sun under that cocoanut tree."

"Or like a chicken lost from its mother," laughed her com-
panion.

"So," said the old creel platter, "what can he do? Reject
him and his father dies, accept him and his mother dies. If
he gives the girl to Wangsa he will have to pay the kris of
Khateb. If he does not give Wangsa the girl he will kill her."

The old man's explanation of Ulam's dilemma was true.
Even were the kris of Khateb not to be reckoned with, he
would rather give his daughter to the crocodiles than to
Wangsa and cause the English to doubt a scarcely yet proven
acceptance of their ideals of law. What to do he knew not.
He wandered up and down imder the cocoanut trees to the
beach and back, up the grove to the little mosque, and
returning, went over it all again. One by one the people
left, from time to time they returned, singly or in pairs, look-
ing in at the crouchmg girl and the man holding her hair, his
kris in hand, his beady eyes glaring wickedly, and seeing
themselves always powerless went away sadly. Runners were
sent to the forest for Khateb, the people being confident that
he would devise some stratagem for the release of the girl. But
he had been diverted from his intended snaring ground by
Wangsa's wily suggestion and no one thought of the neighbor-
hood of the roads Panjang and Besar.

Adah spent most of the day making vows and praying at
a nearby shrine of rocks under which a saint's leg was buried.
She went to the door occasionally to see if her devotions had
been effectual. Finding the operations of the saint's leg too
slow for her patience, she appeared before Wangsa in the
afternoon bearing him food. In a wheedling voice she
besought him to eat, saying, "The token of friendship is to
eat together. Here is a bunch of plantains and a pot of
milk." Wangsa, seeing through the device, angrily bade her
give the food to the girl, and Casoma, whose spirit had begun
to faint like a weatherbeaten prau at sea, ate the bananas and
contrived to spill the drugged milk through the slits in the
floor.

At last as the twilight fell Wangsa began to look for victory,
for he saw Adah expostulating with Ulam under the trees.

The Amok of Wangsa 159

It was then that defeat came in the person of the ancient
crone, Wan Ampu. She was withered and bent, and her
eyes had the soft, foolish look of the old that often hides a
world of cunning. She was a cousin of his mother, and she
brought him a curry for which she was famous. There was a
heap of saffron rice, curry of tender white prawns and sam-
bals of dried fish, chutney, onions, duck eggs, roes, cucum-
bers, cocoanut, pineapples, young bamboo shoots, bananas,
capsicum, waringa pods, chilies, and others to the number of
forty.

**Eat, my son,'* she said, how shall your strength hold out
if you do not eat? *Tis your mother brings you food."

Like Esau, of whom he never heard, he ate of his favorite
dish.

**This is the way the shrewd ever devours the dull," said
the old dame as Wangsa fell asleep. And now came Khateb
breathless with haste, his face a thundercloud.

When Wangsa awoke he was all alone. He sat up looking
about and grimacing like a cat that has eaten hair. He felt
for his kris. It was gone. The red and purple baju also had
been removed from his body. Not a sound was heard save
the lapping of the water on the beach, the sough of the wind
through the cocoanut fronds, the clucking of two or three
fowls busy in a precarious search for food in the sandy earth.
He went outside. The campong was deserted. He saw that
it was late in the afternoon. He had eaten the curry at
twilight, so he knew that he had slept all night and thus far
into the next day. With sullen face he stalked away and
entering the Street of Shops procured another kris and
refreshed himself at a stall with a meal of rotten fish, rice and
jackfruit as evil in odor as the fish. Above the street noises
of carts and men there came from a distance the sound of
triangle, drum and gong. He went in the direction of the
music drawn as by invisible hands and soon discovered that
it came from the palace of Dato Amurel, Khateb's father.
He was now near enough to recognize the henna staining
tune played at Malay weddings and he was already sakit hati
(heart sick) before the armed guards at the gate warned him
back.

'*What marriage is it?" he asked looking as amiable as he
could under the circumstances. The guards grinned at him
derisively.

i6o The Amok of Wangsa

*' Khateb and Casoma," they answered.

He stood a moment, blinking at the guards, who stared
back all alert. Then, with one futile glance at the ten-foot
palisades surrotmding the palace of boards and thatch, he
turned with his head high, his breast puffed out, and strutted
down the road, stretching his short legs with diflSculty into
the long stride called ** planting beans." One of the guards
called out to him mockingly, **What is the use of the pea-
cock strutting in the jungle?" Even then his haughty step
did not falter. Not of Wangsa, the terrible orang laut,
should the people say he slunk away like a dog with a sore
head. Like a grotesque parrot vainly trying to soar against
the wind he passed out of sight. Shortly after word came
to the Dato that Wangsa and his prau had gone up the coast
after a Chinaman's junk. On the contrary, he was hiding,
waiting for the public appearance of his rival and devising
stratagems by which he might get possession of the magic
kris. He soon found a friend who offered to borrow Khateb's
kris on the first opportunity and turn it over to himself in
consideration for the greater part of his recently acquired
wealth. Wangsa felt no sacrifice too great that promised to re-
sult in the downfall of his enemy and, the contract concluded,
proceeded to divert himself in the interim with cock-fighting.
But the fates were against him.

The next day the Sultan Abdtd Samad Ibrahim Iskander
Khan sent word to Khateb that the first bearer of the Royal
Cuspidor had been eaten by a crocodile while at the bath,
that the second and third had each in turn been seized with
an illness, and that it behooved him to return lest a similar
illness befall him. At the same time as a mark of special
favor he sent the Royal Silk Umbrella, fan and two of the
royal spears to accompany IChateb and his bride to the palace.
The illness of his two associates being that of extreme decapi-
tation, Khateb stood not on the order of his going.

It was a gorgeous procession that started on its way to the
royal palace, accompanied by the clash of instruments and
chantings from the Koran. Casoma was placed in a rattan
chair borne by four young men and Khateb walked beside it.
Before him went two men bearing the royal spears. By
his side walked the man bearing the royal umbrella of shining
yellow silk. Behind came one with the royal fan, a gigantic
palm l^af an4 gtajk, its natural tan hue set off by mystical

The Amok of Wangsa i6i

ornamentation in yellow and dark purple, its border of isin-
glass sparkling in the sun. Then came the musicians, rela-
tives and friends of the pair in a long train. Red sarongs,
sarongs of green and gold, of purple, brown and white, of
orange and blue plaids worn by both sexes, the blue and
scarlet fezes of the men, the gauzy pink and white head scarfs
of the women, threw the procession into bold relief as it
wound down the green-bordered road into the dingy street of
shops. Here the crash of gong, the rattle of tabor and drum,
the shrieking of fifes were loudest. The air was heavy with
the noise, and silenced were the pounding of fish in the mortar,
the threshing of rice, the chatter of traders at the stalls, the
creaking of two- wheeled bullock carts, the tinklings from
the shops of the workers in brass, and even the hoarse voice
of the krismaker's forge was no longer heard. All along the
route people paused in their work or roused themselves
from dreamy meditation to watch the procession. One
group, however, was unconscious of its passage. In a space
back of the shops a dozen Malays and Chinamen were ab-
sorbed watching a fight between two red barnyard cocks.
Deeply engrossed, and the most excited of them all, was
Wangsa. He had lost heavily on preceding fights and had
staked his remaining all on this, hoping to regain his loss.
If he should not he would be left without means to reward
his friend for borrowing the magic kris. It was now the
eighth round of the fight, both birds were bloody, and one had
an eye out. This was his opponent's cock and it seemed to
Wangsa that his own must soon win. When it suddenly
reared its back feather and ran away, in his rage he picked
up a potsherd and threw it with such force that the poor bird
was killed. Then he dashed through the shop to the front
and heard for the first time the noise of the bridal train, now
almost passed. He looked down the street; saw the royal
spears, umbrella and fan, the gold and tinsel bride's coiffure of
Casoma, and Khateb wearing the red purple, gold-embroidered
silk baju. With a wild yell he dashed upon the nearest fol-
lowers, slashing right and left with his kris. The crash of the
instruments grew still before the awful cry. Amok! amok'
The procession scattered like ants before a tamanoir, and
shrieks and groans arose on all sides. Men who turned at bay,
and with courageous strokes attempted to stop the murderer,
were stabbed and hurled down bjr his impetuous rush. Un-

1 62 The Amok of Wangsa

fortunates without agility, old women too frightened to move,
young children who in helpless confusion ran right and left,
sometimes back on the crazed brute's track — all went down
bleeding and screaming. At the head of the train the bearers
of the royal appurtenances and of Casoma's chair threw down
their burdens and took refuge behind shop doors and trees.

Casoma ran behind a fish stall over which she peered anxiously
at her bridegroom left standing alone in the middle of the road.
The amoker, shouting frenziedly from the Koran, grew sud-
denly silent as he saw awaiting him his rival, as still and
immovable as an image of stone. A rage too deep for any
voice but that of the dripping kris seized him, and with it
came a strength like the fury of a maddened buffalo. Khateb
saw that he would be as likely to withstand the impact of
that headlong rush as a young merunti tree a collision with
the dragon of the landslip on his way to the sea. He quickly
resolved what to do and made a great vow.

*' If I fail," said he, **may my fate be that of the cocoanut
shell which holds water when turned up and earth when turned
down. May I descend into the valleys and get no lyater and go
up into the mountains and get no wind. May I be like a tree
with no shoots above and no roots below and of which the
trunk has been bored by insects." Thus he renounced both
ancestors and descendants, as terrible a thing for ^n Asiatic
as for a Christian to deny the Christ. Then he raised his
kris, "Betuah," the sacred weapon of his ancestors, and
flashing it thrice in air before the wild eyes of the oncoming
amoker, cast it at his feet. And lo, a miracle! At the sight
of the famous weapon Wangsa stopped short, like a demon
touched with holy water. There at his feet it lay, the dreadful,
the beautiful ! * * Betuah, ' ' charmed, invulnerable ! He glanced
at Khateb. It was six paces off and his enemy without his
magic kris. So! both were his own! He stooped to pick up
the slender, undulating blade where it lay, a gem-like blue
against the yellow dust. Then it was that Khateb, who had
been standing all the while as taut as a bent bow, with one
swift tiger-like leap, pounced upon him, driving into the
rounded back a second kris which had been concealed in
the folds of his sarong, and Wangsa, the terrible, keeled
over dead, as harmless evermore as a dog empaled by a palm-
thatch needle.

ARCEL and Others:

A Sketch of a French
Cotmiry House, by Charles
Oliver*

MARCEL meets me at the station with a wheelbarrow
— ^for the transport of my luggage, not myself. I
always say to myself as the train draws up, "Coach, carriage,
wheelbarrow?" For my friend Monsieur de Fay el is a Httle
variable in these matters.

We load up the barrow with my belongings, and start for
the chflteau. The tall iron gates of the park open almost
on to the booking-office of the diminutive station, which is also
a post office — of such an unpretentious nature that we buy
stamps out of one of the station-master's pockets and post our
letters in another. When we reach the bridge over the little
river I invite Marcel to stop and try some English tobacco.
He makes himself a cigarette, and sits down on my portman-
teau, blowing his smoke into the face of a Diana who guards
the spot.

Things wore a gloomy aspect for him just now. He has
asked Madame, it appears, for leave to go into Paris more
often than she likes. At last she has struck. ** Figure to
yourself, Monsieur," says Marcel, "that which Madame has
come from saying to me: *Your uncle that you wish to
go to see all the days at Paris, Marcel, is it that he wears
petticoats?* Oh, Monsieur, it is frightful; it is the devil!"

We smoke on in silence. The tall grasses rustle about the
marble feet of Diana and the trout grab lazily at the struggHng
flies. All is peace, except in the soul of Marcel. "Is it not
ravishing," I suggest, "imder these waving trees, by this

*Prom The Gentleman's Magazine.

164 Marcel and Others

running stream? Who would be in Paris? Think of the
noise and glare and dust! Live the country!**

*'0h, no, Monsieur; live Paris! There one finds the music,
of the gaiety, of the conversation, of the distractions; here
one works, works; always of the labor; nothing of theatres,
of friends, of "

'* Uncles?*' I suggest.

Marcel slowly declines one eyelid, and the comers of his
mouth elevate themselves into rather a sour smile. We
understand one another. **And again. Monsieur, regard
here. I was going all the Tuesdays and Fridays of the even-
ing into the village, where one gives lessons of the dance
and of the deportment. But now Monsieur has bought
himself a dog, large and black and savage, which has eaten
already two Messieurs who trespass. What wish you? If
I go to the course as before, Porthos devours me the legs.
Therefore I rest at the house.*'

I can say nothing comforting. If Porthos does not leave
Marcel a leg to stand on, it will be no good his learning to
waltz. Deportment without legs is a farce. Perhaps we
can tame Porthos, or ensure his being chained up a little
longer in the evenings.

**0h. Monsieur," breaks out Marcel, **the country, how
I detest it! Yes, Monsieur, I repeat — detest it! The songs
of the little birds, they pierce me the ears and make me weep
of ennui, and the smell of the hay makes me to vomit. Yes,
Monsieur, I sit alone in my room, and I write, always I
write *'

*'To your uncle?"

With the same gentle wink and bitter smile Marcel wheels
my luggage away. I have no doubt that within a mile of
the ugly Eiffel Tower, which he can see as he writes, always
writes, there dwells, unconscious of the strange effect of
hay upon his liver, an Eve who could make this a paradise
for poor Marcel.

Monsieur de Fayel hails me from the embarcad^re by the
lake, where he is fixing up some Venetian lamps, his latest
and best-loved treastire. He appears from amid the bul-
rushes like a middle-aged infant Moses with a great many
wisps of dank weed about his figure. He invites me to make
with him a safe and inglorious voyage of some hundred yards

Marcel and Others 165

in a little tub, painted, it would seem, to represent a blanc-
mange.

**It is necessary that the boat looks very beautiful from
the windows of the chateau," he observes, as he perspires
at the oars with the sort of stroke which condenses into three
inches the work that should be spread out over three feet,
with much displacement of water and little of otir raft. We
are, owing to imperfect balancing, very much down by the
stem and our bows point hopefully to heaven. I am sure
we cannot look beautiful from the chgtteau or any other point
of view, more especially as we are both of a figure more solid
than elegant.

The coachman, the second coachman, the stable-boy, the
gardener, the under-gardener, the gamekeeper, the bailiff,
and the ** second man'' are all engaged on the hay. Hence
the barrow at the station. The butler and the peacock grace
the terrace. The coachman steps respectfully to the edge
of the lake. '* Pardon, Monsieur. Is it that Monsieur knows
that the tails of his coat float on the waves there behind?"
That is the finishing stroke to any idea of beauty about us.

Madame de Fayel is waiting to welcome our errant bark.
We sit down in a shrine of Flora at the end of a long avenue
of poplars. It is a charming spot, and I always feel that we
ought to be highly romantic in it. We should be Roman or
Greek philosophers, shepherds and shepherdesses, or lords
and ladies of the Grand Monarque's days, with costume and
conversation to match. ' But we wear, alas! modem clothes,
and we talk about bedspreads.

Madame de Fayel's friend from New York joins us. She
is frank of manner, and in her speech always sans peur, and
often sans reproche. "You must do somethin ' to that stoopid
old Gaston," she says to our host; **he looks as if he had
been dug up. He gives me a pain in the stomach." Monsieur
de Fayel promises to dig Gaston in again, if that will allay
the internal pangs of the New York friend.

The bell clangs for dejeuner, and we make our way up to
the house. My host pours his troubles into my sympathetic
ear. He is, it appears, the victim of two invasions: one of
electricians, the other of ants. His wrath is such that he
forgets to discriminate. **I assure you, my friend, that they
are in all the places. I go to repose myself in my study in the
after-mid-days, and there see these frightful beasts! I raise

1 66 Marcel and Others

myself in the mornings and behold me covered of them I"
The poor Monsieur!

Marcel waits at table, splendid but gloomy. Nothing
cheers him. The cork of a bottle on the sideboard bursts its
moorings and lights gracefully on his head. The children
shriek with joy, but Marcel is as solemn and unmoved as if
it always rained corks in his part of the world. A (purely
accidental) reference on my part to dancing-lessons causes
him to turn a beautiful crimson and to fix his eye sternly
on a particular comer of the ceiling. He takes his revenge
by neglecting me in the ministration of wine and disregarding
my signal for bread.

We have coffee and strawberries in a garden that is the
private domain of otir hostess and can only be got at through
her boudoir. Here is a splashing fountain, a baigneuse
disdainful of a bathing costume, a sheltering trellis clambered
over by beautiful creepers, circular benches and recesses,
and, behind all, roses and ever roses, in terrace above terrace.
A place to dream in. A place to be intellectual and refined
in. The drawl of the Yankee lady rises on the fragrant air.
"No; no strawberries for me, dear. They make me itch so."

Monsieur the Cur^ comes to dinner in the evening. * He is
very small and shiny and black. Except for his red face,
indeed, and his tonsure he is nearly all black: black hair,
black soutane, black bands outlined in violet, and black
gloves. Madame de Fayel, who is large, tucks him under
her arm and sweeps him off across the hall to the dining-
room. I often wish we could have dinner in the cold, severe
hall, with its vaulted roof and quaintly carved beasts, its
great picture of some ancestor in lace and satin, and its echoes.
But perhaps it would not do. It is, on the whole, better to
dream that you feed in marble halls than actually do so.
Monseiur the Cur6 speaks English for my benefit. "Madame
will pardon me that I tell Monsieur of my voyage to London.
I am arrived; there are two hours in your grand metropolis,
when figure my horror of finding that my — Madame will
pardon me? — that my pantaloons is tore. What to do? I
demand to a gendarme, and he has indicated to me a magazine
of the garments. I am entered; an amiable Monsieur de-
mands that which I seek. 'Pardon, Monsieur,' I say, *my
pantaloons is broke; give me another.'"

The American friend, apropos of the flies that Paris has

Marcel and Others 167

in all her quarters these hot days, tells us how she waved
her parasol at what appeared to be a raspberry tart, and
it became a custard. She then proceeds to a little disquisition
on appendicitis, and its utility as a means of introduction
into high society.

Marcel visits nre the last thing at night and brings me some
iced water. This is a vain compliment, as it makes my tooth
ache — the tooth on which, literally, everything depends.
The nightingales and crickets bring the tears to the eyes of
Marcel. And yet he hails from Savoy, and loves to tell me
of his country — its rocks and torrents and snows. I suppose
they have nightingales there too; I hope not crickets.

I ask him if I can have breakfast with the children. ''Is
it that it is defended from having the little breakfast there
below with the infants?" **My God, Monsieur! why should
it then be defended from having the little breakfast where one
wishes?" I like breakfasting with the children, because
they are nicer then than any other time. Later on in the
day, when lessons have taken off the edge of the pleasure
of life, they get a little cross. But in the early morning
chocolates in the form of dominoes appeal to them very
strongly, and often prove the keys which unlock a good
many valuable secrets, such as the name and age of the
chicken that died last night, the exact stage of education of
the coachman's second boy, and so on.

Marcel tells me of his past experience and his ambitions
for the future. They are both entirely laudable and cir-
cumscribed. If he can learn English he will go to New York
— as a temporary measure I suppose, for I am sure he can
never be happy far from the Eiffel Tower. * * Ah , quel bonheur !
if he should be able to apprehend the English!" I make a
suggestion to him that I shall give him lessons. The idea
is hailed with joy, and he listens now with greater equanimity
to the varied notes that rise to our ears as we lean at the open
window. Every morning, therefore, he comes to my room,
trh matinal, with an offering of a cup of tea in one hand
and a grammar in the other. We plod with heavy breathings
and wriggles from **the cat is not Pat, but Pat is fat," and
such tongue-tying contraptions, to *'I love," **thou lovest,"
&c., and so soar to empjrrean heights.

The "second man" is an Italian, an enthusiast for his
own language, "Ah, Monsieur," he says to me in the inter-

1 68 Marcel and Others

vals of polishing the gallery floors with one foot in an tin-
gainly shuffle, **ours is the language by excellence. French
is the language of Courts; Castilian of compliments. Russian
is bow-wow. But Italian, it is the language of science, of
poetry, of music; it is the language of the angels; it is the
language of heaven." I sincerely hope it is not the last, for,
if it is, about thirty-nine fortieths of the blessed will be reduced
to silence.

Marcel is, it appears, by way of being an artist, and in a
moment of confidence he brings me some of his work to
criticise. I am sorry, for criticism is, honestly, all I have
to offer. I could point out to him that chliteaux, farms and
churches are not built of yellow mud and furnished with
tightly closed blue shutters ; that though swallows in flight
are easy to picture, they are not, therefore, the only living
things in this world; that roses do not grow on cactuses,
and, if they did, would not, I take it, be pink with white
trimmings and as large as cartwheels ; and that the best way
of getting to the other side of a cedar forest is by walking
through it, and not by means of a bridge. But I do not wish
to hurt his feelings too much, so I merely show him a little
thing of my own. From that moment he abjures art.

One morning he comes to my room with mingled joy and
regret on his honest face. Madame has given him vacances
of a month, and to-morrow he will go to Chamb^ry, Thanks,
a thousand thanks, to Monsieur of all his amiability, **Pas
de quoi, mon ami." Marcel will make himself the honor of
writing to Monsieur in English well understood. Monsieur
is enchanted. He supposes that Marcel will visit his uncle
en route; will he convey Monsieur's -respectful salutations
to her?

And so I am relegated to the care of a " locum,'* who is very
deaf and quite dumb. At the end of three weeks Madame de
Fay el receives his respectful resignation from Marcel; and
by the same post I get his first, and probably last, letter in
English: —

"Mister, — Behold me arriven to home, and see me sur-
rounded of my dogs, my cats, my pigons, and my father. I
have made a voyage very excellent. There is comed here an
forign mister, which have see nof the snownot before. He ran
at it, kick up any, eat any, and put any in his poche. Alas!
what damage I He is fallen of the motmtain and is slayed.

Mar.cel and Others

169

I have writed to Madame, and I have made to her my demis-
sion. For there has much of the work in Chamb^ry, and
I can to gain fourty francs by week. Wherefore then go to
New York, and wherefore to come again to the house of
Madame? Mister, I thank you very well of all your pains.
You see how I have did very grand progress. Agree
my respectuous sentiments.

MARCEL."

I think from the look of it that Marcel has found another
imcle at Chambdry.

PORTSMOUTH Point
R^omance: An Old-Timc
Sea Story, by Walter Jeff cry*

^ ^ ^

DICK HOLDING, as he tore down Smock Alley to his
boat, thought bitterly on certain things just said
to him. * It's true Fm a rough feller, an' *e, wi' *is schoolin*
and shore-goin' ways, is more fit for the daughter o' the
owner; but all the same, I'm right: a cruise in a man-o'-war
'ud do 'im a deal o' good. Yet, because I'm a fool, I'll 'ave
to go on board that frigate an* take 'im off some'ow. They
ain't got no right to press 'im; but right don't trouble 'em
when they want men. Yet that ain't the p'int. If they
carries 'im off that gal will blame me for it."

The cool way in which he had heard the news of Preston's
seizure by the pressgang had given offence to the girl, and
she had told him to his face that he was coarse and vtdgar,
and jealous of the other's superior education.

The idea of being jealous! Why, hadn't he the greatest
contempt for the young fool's book-knowledge, and was not
Preston's ignorance of sailoring a constant trouble to him?
But it would have been all the better to have known a little —
enough, for instance, to read handwriting. This he thought
as he stepped into the dingy, and the boy George shipped
the oar and sculled him off to the brig.

When they came alongside he yelled for ** another 'and in
the boat," while he sat and waited until one of the sailors
climbed over the brig's side, grumbling at being disturbed
just as the men were going to supper in the forecastle. ** Ship
that rudder, get two oars, an' give way. Stop a minute,
you boy; come aft and steer. I'll take yer oar. There's a
long pull ahead o' us, an' it looks as if it 'ud blow afore long."

It was a long and tedious pull from where the brig was
lying off the Camber to the Aladdin riding at Spithead, and

*From Chambers's Journal.

A Portsmouth Point Romance 171

at every stroke of his oar Holding pulled the boat's head
half-round, though the boy kept the rudder hard against him.
Before their boat reached the Aladdin's side the sun had set
some time; but by the twilight of the summer's evening
Holding's seaman's eyes told him that the frigate was on the
point of sailing. Her boatbooms were rigged and boats
hoisted, and all her sails loosed ready for sheeting home;
while the scraping of a fiddle and the regular tramp round
the capstan were sounds that Holding knew meant that
the anchor would soon be weighed.

The arrival alongside of the Extenuate's dingy created
some little sensation, the men on the frigate's deck wondering
if the rowers, breathless from their hard pull, had brought
with them some message which would delay the ship, and a
row of heads peered curiously over the hammock-nettings
to listen for the reply to the lieutenant's hail: **Boat ahoy!
what do you want .? "

**The Extenuate* s boat. Tell your captain that Holding,
master o* the brig, wants to see 'im; an' pass me a line for
the boat."

"All right; we'll lower a ladder for you in a minute if you
want to come aboard."

When Holding, disdaining a ladder, climbed the ship's
side by the aid of a rope, he was met at the break of the poop
by the captain with the question, '*Well, sir, what brings
you off like this at the last moment.? Something wrong with
your crew: a mutiny? There are men-o'-war lying handier
to you than I am."

** No, sir ; my men are all right. That's not what I am 'ere
for. I am come for my mate."

"Youf mate? Oh! ah yes, the young fellow my second
lieutenant caught this afternoon. And what do you want
with him?"

"Want wi' 'im? I want to take him back to the brig.
You surely won't seize 'im in that fashion? "

"My good man, you know very well that we shall take
him, though he seems a very impudent fellow, and will need
a lot of breaking in; yet the service must be manned, you
know, and the press is the fashion we have of manning it."

" But, sir, 'e is my only mate, an' I can't take my vessel to
sea without 'im. The law says you can't do it."

172 A Portsmouth Point Romance

** Whatever the law says, I have done it. Your vessel is in
port; get another mate."

**Look 'ere, captain" — Holding came up closer to the
other and spoke gently and persuasively — **ye are a young
man an' a good-lookin' feller, an' Til be bound that some
young lady is at 'ome waitin* for ye to splice 'er. Now, I
put it to ye: 'ow would ye like to be served this way?"

** Meaning that this mate of yours is leaving behind him
Alderman Tuffin's daughter, Ellen, the good-looking girl
with the dark eyes — eh?"

**Meanin' 'er, captain. She was wi* 'im when yer men
took 'im, an' she says she was insulted by yer sailors, which
I 'ad no time to 'ear the rights o'; but I suppose that was
only 'er fancy, not understandin' the ways o' seamen."

**Well, Mr. Holding, you go back to that young lady and
tell her that she is quite mistaken ; I wouldn't hurt her feelings
for the world. Besides, I heard from the lieutenant that
she fought to save him from my men, the fellow himself not
showing half her spirit."

*'Then ye'll let me take 'im back to 'er?"

** Indeed, I won't; it would not at all square with my duty."

**Very well, sir." Some of the officers on the lee side of
the poop stepped forward hurriedly, thinking by the man's
appearance and the sudden rise in the tone of his voice that
he meant mischief. "Very well, captain. By the Lord!
I'll 'ave the law on ye. No, ye needn't put yer 'and to yer
sword, I am not fool enough to lose my temper so far as
that. I know the consequences too well; but I'll go straight
to the Admiral, an' see if an Englishman is to be made a
slave o', an'"

**Now, look here, my fine fellow, the anchor's apeak, and
we shall be half through the Solent before you touch the
beach ; and even if you went to the Admiral, he would only
laugh at you. I make every allowance for your anger; but
I won't let you have this man, if for no other reason than
for his behavior since he came on board. Why, he has been
so sulky, that I have kept him in irons ever since. — Haul up
that boat there. Stand by to sheet home your topsails."

**Yes, it is too late to save 'im that way: I see that clear
afore me; but there is still a chance, an* if ye 're a man ye'll
give it to me." Holding had recovered himself, and spoke
very quietly.

A Portsmouth Point Romance 173

"Very well; out with it. What do you mean?"

"Take me instead/*

"You?"

"Yes, me. I *ave thought it all out. Preston's only
been to sea about four years; I've been brought up to it. A
volunteer's worth a dozen pressed men, as you know very
well, an' ye'll find me willin' enough." •

"Why do you make this offer? Only a fool or a madman
would do it."

"Because I want to send the man back to 'is gal, an' I've
got no more business wi' the brig."

"Very well; I'll take you at your word."

"Will ye write a letter for me, sir, just to tell 'em ashore
w'at 'as become 'o me? I ain't no 'and at writin'."

"AU right; I'll take you to my cabin directly. You shall
have your way. — Hold on everything with those topsails,
and pass the word for that fellow Preston to be brought to me
in my cabin. Come below with me, Holding."

In the cabin the captain produced pen and paper. " Now,
Holding, what do you want me to write?"

"Address the letter, if you please, sir, to Mistress Ellen
Tuffin — ^private: 'This is to tell ye that I send back yer
sweetheart' "

"Oh, the wind's in that quarter, is it? By George! you're
a generous fellow, Holding; and the other is not worth it."

" She is — she is.^ You write: 'Get your father to make 'im
master o' the brig in my room; but get yer father to send an
old sailor wi' *im as mate, because readin' an' writin' ain't
all that's wanted at sea.' 'Ave ye got that?"

"Yes, and there's a deal of sound sense in it; if the fellow's
cur enough to accept the exchange I wouldn't give him
command of a jolly-boat."

"Now, write this to Alderman Tuffin: 'Sir, — I 'ereby
resign command o' the brig in favor o' yer nephew, Edward
Preston, an* am sure *e'll ttim out a good man if ye send a
sailor wi' 'im as mate. I *ave volunteered for the frigate
Aladdinr'

"Very well. Now sign these. Anything more?"

"Yes, sir; give the one for Alderman Tuffin to Preston to
deliver, an' give that one for the gal to me, an' send for my
boy out o' the boat."

The word was passed for the Extennate's boy, to whom

174 A Portsmouth Point Romance

on arrival Holding thus delivered himself: **Now, look,
Jarge, I've rope's-ended you into a smart young fellow, an*
this letter I am goin' to give ye ye 'ave got to give to Mistress
Ellen Tuffin wi* yer own hands w'en there's no one by. I
'ave taken it into my *ead to go for a cruise in this ship, an'
the mate's goin* to take charge o* the brig. Ye look out an*
behave yerself under 'im, or w'en I come back Fll give ye
a dose wi* the end o* the topsell halyards that ye won't forget
in a *urry."

**I shan't go back. I've taken it into my 'ead to go for a
cruise in this frigate, too, an' I'll go wi' ye."
**Nice boy," said the frigate's skipper.
**Look 'ere, Jarge; I pertictilar want ye to go back, an' I
give ye my word that w'en we come *ome to Portsmouth,
in w'atever ship I go in again I'll take ye wi' me."
** 'Tain't fair! I can't stand that feUer Preston."
** I won't argue wi' ye, my lad, though we ain't on the brig;
but I'll presently give ye a very pretty rope's-endin' if ye
don't get into the boat in 'alf-a-minute. Now, Jarge, come,
I ask ye to do it in a friendly way."

"Very well,' Capen 'Oldin*; I see w'at's up. Ye want me
to look after yer interests w'ile ye are on the cruise. I'll go."
**Well done, my lad; I thought we understood one an-
other." Then the boy left the cabin.
"Now, is there anjrthing else. Holding?"
"No, sir."

"Well, just remain in the cabin a moment, and I'll give
you a chance to see how little this fellow is worth what you
are doing for him. Go aft behind my cot, where you can
hear without being seen. — Marine, tell them to bring Preston
here."

The word was passed along, and Preston was led into the
wardroom, while Holding, farther aft in the captain's cabin,
could see him through the half-open door, and could hear
what was going on without being seen. He was wearing
handcuffs and was hatless, clothed only in shirt and breeches.
From the wound of a cutlass-hilt on his head the blood had
streamed down both sides of his face, had dried there, and
had clotted upon his long hair, making him ghastly to look
upon.

"Well, my man, will you turn to if I take off your hand-
cuffs?"

A Portsmouth Point Romance 175

**No, I won't. You have dragged me here by sheer force;
but you shall kill me before Fll work for you.*'

** You'll sing a different tune by-and-by when we rig a
grating for you. Your friends ought to be glad to be rid of
such a fellow."

" I have no friends or I should not be here now. You know
that very well, or you wotdd not have taken me."

Holding made a movement; but the captain, anticipating
him, ttimed in time to wave him back.

"What about the master of the brig? He ought to know
your value. Why is he not looking after you.?"

**Yes, you may ask; but I know all about it. I can see
through the plot. The brig's boat came alongside just now,
so that Holding could get his blood-money. He is the cause
of my being here. He laid the pressgang onto me. I see
through it all."

"Well, my lad, you're wrong. Holding is here, and he
came for a totally different purpose. — Come out, man, and
speak for yourself."

Holding stepped forward eagerly. **I am come to free
you, Preston," he said simply. "The captain says 'e'U take
me in your place, and — "

" Of course I know very well this is only a piece of the plot.
You'll take care not to lose the chance of getting me out of
the way."

" I don't know what ye mean; but I swear if ye are allowed
to go I'll stay."

"Now then, Preston, do you hear what Holding says?
He takes your place, and you go back — to command the brig
and marry the alderman's daughter. — That's whaf it amounts
to — eh, Holding? — Here's a letter to her owner from Holding,
resigning her — ^the brig, I mean — ^to you."

"Yes, sir, I believe — I 'ope — ^that is what will come to
pass."

"Now, Preston, say the word. I want to get tmder sail."

"Well, Holding, if you mean it, well and good; but I
suppose they're going to land you down the coast somewhere,
or else make a petty oflScer of you. Anyhow I am glad to
go, so you can take off the handcuffs as soon as you like,
captain."

" You hear, Holding, what he says. For the last time, are
you willing to change places?"

176 A Portsmouth Point Romance

" Put 'im in the boat an' 'ave done wi' this, for Gkxi's sake,''
answered Holding. He was very pale, but he spoke firmly.

"And you, Preston; are you agreeable?"
5|(*'Yes, and glad to get oflf at the price."

"Marines, bundle him into the boat instantly. — You are
a white-livered scoundrel to accept such an offer. — Get him
out of the ship at once. Take that sailor out of the boat,
and let the wretch get ashore as best he can."

Holding interposed. "For the sake of the boy, captain,
give him the sailor. *E's an old man, an* little use on a king's
ship."

**Very well. Holding, for the sake of the boy, and more
for your sake — for you're a fine fellow — I'll let your seaman
go; but, by George! I'd like to drown that cur."

There was no time for further talk, for the captain ran on
deck, ordering as he went that Holding should be sent for-
ward, and that the boat with those to go ashore should be
cast off.

"Go for'ard, Holding, to the fo'c'sle-head and let's see how
you shape," said the first lieutenant; "unless you have any
clothes in the boat you want to get out of her," he added.

" Clothes, sir ! " Holding smiled. " I didn't bargain for the
cruise when I came off. I've nothing but what I stand up-
right in; but I'll wave my boat good-bye if you've no objec-
tions."

"Go ahead, then, and be quick about it. — Now, men,
heave away the capstan; sheet home the topsails."

The fiddle struck up again, and the men at the capstan
resumed their tramp in step with the music; the anchor,
already under foot, broke ground; the sail-trimmers manned
the topsail sheets and halyards ; the great canvas sails bellied
out and flapped noiselessly in the strong breeze as the wind
filled them; and Holding, running to the ship's side, had only
time to wave his hand to those in the dingy as it dropped
astern, tmtil those in her were lost to his view, and the boat
became a tiny, shapeless black object on the white crests of
the choppy sea.

"Good-bye, Jarge; good-bye, Preston. Remember me
to them at home. — Don't forget the letter, my lad. Good-
bye."

"Good-bye, Capen 'Oldin'," came the voice of the boy
across the water; but Preston bent to his oar and made no

A Portsmouth Point Romance 177

answer — never even looked back towards the dark shadow
of the man at the btilwarks, for another moment visible to
the boy, then lost among the crowd of moving figures on the
deck of the frigate.

Then those in the boat gave way with a will and pulled
hard to make the smooth water of the harbor. As they
neared its mouth they paused for a moment from their rowing
to gain breath, and looked out toward Spithead. The moon,
now high in the heavens, had come out from behind a bank
of clouds, and it showed the white canvas and dark, low
hull of the frigate just clearing the tail of the Motherbank
as she ran before a strong, fair wind, leaving a white glitter
iu the sheen of light a-wake that marked the rate at which
she was traveling.

Preston, not knowing that the Tuffin family were anxiously
waiting up to hear from Holding the result of his mission,
went below to his berth; while the boy, dog-tired after his
hard day, made fast the boat and crawled into his bunk in the
forecastle, when he would instantly have fallen asleep but
for the old sailor.

**This 'ere's a rum go. W'at*s the meanin* o* it all?'*
he asked. "Ye was in the wardroom, an' 'eard what was
goin* on. Wat's the game?"

** Ye '11 knowfast enough in the momin', w'en Capen Preston
rouses ye rotm' the deck; but ye doon't know w't a narrer
squeak ye 'ad o* sailin' in the frigate."

"Wat d'ye mean, ye sassy young cub?"

"Never ye mind; I don't carry yams from aft for'ard
any more'n I carry 'em from for'ard aft, and I shan't say
nothin' about it. So ye go to sleep."

Preston, at his end of the vessel, could not sleep. He
lay and built castles in the air, speculating upon the near
ftdfillment of his hopes and ambitions, and seeing ahead
a wedding at St. Thomas's or Kensington, with an alderman
to give the bride away — a wedding in style befitting the
genteel young master of the favorite brig Extenuate and the
well-to-do and beautiful daughter of the brig's owner.

At daybreak he was out early, and had the crew turned
to washing the brig's deck, determined to begin well by
having his vessel in good order. Then the dingy was hauled
up, and Preston, in his best clothes, with — ^but for the scar

178 A Portsmouth Point Romance

on his head — ^no trace of the adventures of the day before,
was sctilled to the Sally Port by the boy.

**You take the boat back, and the boatswain will keep
you going till I want her again."

** Please, Tm goin' to make *er fast. Tve got to go up
to Mr. Tuffin's."

**You*ve got to go to Mr. Tuffin's? Who says so? Just
remember Tm your master now."

"Please, sir, Mistress Ellen said I was to be sure an* see
*er first thing when I could get ashore."

"What does she want you for?"

** I think it*s to run a' errand for 'er, sir."

**0h, well, you can walk up behind me."

George Tinkle then made the boat fast and solemnly fell
into the rear of his superior officer; but the march up to
Mr. Tuffin's shipchandlery would have been more dignified
if the boy had not varied his part in it with an occasional
step-dance on the cobble-stones and with derisive gestures
at the back of the mate, making great fun for the passers-by.

As soon as they entered the shop the girl caught sight of
Preston, and in great excitement called out, "He has come
back; they have let him go. Thank God!" She held out
both hands to him. "I was sure you would escape."

"Yes, here I am. It's all right."

"Well, Ned," said his uncle, "so they let you go, then?
How did Holding manage it?"

"I'll tell you all about it directly, uncle."

"Come in, come in. You're just in time for breakfast.
Where did you leave Holding?'*

"Never mind Holding, father. I've no doubt he is on
board the brig."

"But I do mind Holding, Ellen. I want him to have
breakfast with us."

"Oh, bother! We have Ned back, and I suppose he'll
have to go to work directly. — ^Tell us how you got away."

"I have a letter for you, uncle, from the skipper which
will explain everything. Here it is." Preston, handing
the note to Tuffin, took his seat at the table. Then the
boy, who was quite overlooked in the excitement, caught
Ellen by the skirt. She turned, and he pushed a piece of
paper into her hand, and gave her a look which plainly
meant, "This is between you and me and him, you know."

A Portsmouth Point Romance 179

The girl thought this was some plan of Preston's to com-
municate with her secretly, and took the note, smiling at
George a recognition of his diplomacy as the boy slipped
out of the room and went back to the boat.

Then she was startled by an exclamation from her father.

**Good heavens! the man's mad. Why, he's gone off
in the Aladdin — actually been fool enough to change places
with Ned here. — Why, Edward, what does it mean?"

Ellen tore open her note and hastily looked through it.
**Here, she said, *'I too have a note from Richard Holding.
It is true he has gone in the frigate. This was not intended
for you; but read it, father."

Preston looked curiously from one to the other of them,
and stopped in the act of eating breakfast-bacon. Presently
he said, '*It seems easy enough to understand. Holding
has changed places with me."

** Richard Holding may be mad, but he's a noble fellow,"
Ellen said as she got up from the table and moved away
to the other side of the room.

"Yes.it was lucky for me to get the chance — wasn't it,
Ellen.? But then, you know that Holding was a rough sort
of man, and could scarcely read or write. I suppose he liked
the idea of a cruise in the frigate. Don't you think so?"

The girl was standing with her back to him, looking out
of the window, and she replied without turning round, her
voice sounding strange to him, **I don't know how such
as you may think of it; but I understand. I doubted the
evidences of rily senses yesterday when the pressgang attacked
us; but my eyes are opened now."

**It was most infernally foohsh," said the alderman.
** Who is looking after the brig?"

*'0h, she's all right, uncle. I slept on board last night.
I got back as soon as I had seen the frigate under way."

"Upon my word, you take things easy. Why, we sat up
the best part of the night waiting for Holding to return
and bring us news of you, while you were snoring comfortably
in your bed."

**I am very sorry; but how was I to know? He ought
to have told me. But Holding was always slow-witted."

"He has been quick enough in perpetrating this folly.
Goodness knows for how long the man will be away. The

i8o A Portsmouth Point Romance

frigate sailed tinder sealed orders, and I suppose he had
nothing but what he stood upright in.*'

**0f course not; that's how I was. I had nothing either,
and he had to go as he was, or not at all."

'*It*s not necessary to talk any more about it," said Ellen.
"Holding's note to me is enough, and I can see cleariy what
it means."

'* What can Holding have to say to you, Ellen? And how
did you get a letter?"

*' A messenger gave it to me, and Holding wrote because,
I suppose, he had something to say. You can see the letter.
My father will, I have no doubt, show it to you."

The girl turned suddenly from the window, and looked
at her cousin in a fashion that made him fidget uneasily upon
his chair; then she gathered her skirts about her and walked
out of the room.

**I can't make head or tail of the business," said the alder-
man. **Tell me exactly how it came about that Holding
is in your place, Ned. This note of his to me gives no reason
for such conduct. A pretty sort of man, at his age, too.
Serves his time aboard my ships, gets charge of the largest
and best of them, and has every comfort, with good wages;
then coolly throws the whole thing over to go to sea before
the mast in a man-o'-war without so much as saying by
your leave to me, the best friend he ever had."

"There's nothing to tell, sir. Holding came off to the
frigate just as the anchor was up, saw the captain, and told
him he wanted a cruise in a man-o'-war, and, if he would
let me go, offered to take my place. I was not going to be so
foolish as to refuse the chance — "

"It stands to reason that you wouldn't refuse," said
Ellen, who had come back quietly and taken her place at
the breakfast table. "You had better sit down and have
your meal," she added. "If father is going to give you the
command of the brig you ought to be on board now."

Preston looked meaningly at her. "Yes," he said, "\mtil
your father decides what to do I ought to be on board looking
after things."

"Hold your tongue, Nell. Edward Preston has been
four years at sea, and Holding has been more than five-
and-twenty. The man who takes charge of the Extenuate
will have to be a good sailor and know his business."

A Portsmouth Point Romance i8i

**0f course, sir; Cousin Ellen's note perhaps explains what
was Holding's idea."

The aldennan broke the shell of an egg very deliberately.
**My daughter Ellen may know the meaning of the man's
whim. She knows more than most gals of her age and
station of life — and she knows how to hold her tongue."

**What did you say when Holding offered to stay in your
place?"

"Oh, I don't know, Ellen. I just accepted his offer and
got into the boat. Of course I thanked him and all that kind
of thing."

** Father, when do you think Holding will get back? "

** I don't know, Nell — perhaps never, if a stray shot happens
to hit him. Better than him have been killed in action."

"And many not fit to be spoken of in the same breath
have taken precious good care not to risk their worthless
bodies."

**I think a man's a fool to run after fighting, Cousin Ellen;
unless, of course, it is in defence of his home."

"Look here, my lad, if you have finished your breakfast
you'd better get aboard the brig. I'll be off to her in an
hour or so, when we'll see what's to be done next."

"Very well, uncle; there's some refitting and a little paint
wanted, and we will carry on till you come aboard."

"Very well," said Ellen. "Can you let George Tinkle
come ashore? I want him to do something for me. Any
time to-day will do."

"Yes. He said you wanted him; and I thought he
came up here with me."

Then the young man went off to the brig; and on the way
down to the water's edge, he knew not why, the castles in
the air of the night before had all vanished, and doubts that
the future would not be all plain sailing had taken their
place. Certainly Ellen's manner was peculiar, he thought"
but then she had to act a part while her father was
present.

Alone with his daughter, the alderman lingered over his
breakfast longer than usual, paying no heed to anything.
Then he looked up and said, "Ellen, my gal, you were always
fiery, like your mother afore you, and sometimes you and
me don't altogether get on as father and daughter should.

i82 A Portsmouth Point Romance

Now, don't you flare up at what I am about to say, because
I fancy somehow that you and me for once will be of a mind ;
but just give me truthful answers to my questions.

"Ask me anything you please, father dear. I have never
lied to you, though I may not have been so meek as I ought."

"Just so. Now, did that fine young cousin of yours come
sweethearting with you?"

*' Yes, father," said the girl, looking the alderman straight
in the face, and speaking firmly, though she was very pale,
and Mr. Tuffin could see that she was trembling in every limb.

"Um! Well now, my dear, will you tell me how far this
thing went?"

"Too far, too far. I am ashamed to say that yesterday
I promised to marry him."

"Oh. indeed! Well, my gal, are you still of the same
mind? When is the wedding to come off?"

"I would drown myself first."

"Hush, hush! Don't talk like that, and don't tremble
so. Come, give me a kiss. We understand one another.
Come, come! don't give way. I have one more question:
Did Holding ever make love to you?"

"Never, father."

"Didn't he in any way just show that he thought more
of you than most other gals? "

" I believe that Richard Holding is breaking his heart for
me, and only now do I imderstand what a man he was; but
he never once spoke."

"Never mind, my galj knock off crying; it will all come
right some day. Holding's not good enough for you, good
as he is; and as to the other fellow, we shall see — ^we shall
see."

Then the alderman put on his coat and hat, went down
to the Point, and took a waterman's boat off to the brig.
On board he found Mr. Preston, in the full exercise of his
authority, setting the crew to work to paint the bulwarks.

"Well, sir, you see we are making her shipshape," said
the young man as his uncle stepped on board. " When are
we likely to get a cargo?"

"You tell that boy Greorge Tinkle to be ready to scull me
ashore. I want him to go up to the house. My daughter
wants to see him. Knock off that painting."

"Very well, sir, and — "

A Portsmouth Point Romance 183

"And look here, my lad, being my sister's son, I intend
to do what I can for you, so you can have the day and these
five pounds — more by four than I started in the world with.
At the end of that time, if you are not clear of the town and
well on the road to your mother in London, who'd best make
a counter-jumper of you, I'll take care that the impress
officer has you. Now go."

In ten minutes Alderman Tuffin had finished his business
on the vessel and was dtdy sctdled to the beach by the boy,
who was ordered to make fast the boat and follow to the
shop.

"Here, my dear, is Greorge. Take him into the parlor
and hear what he has to say, while I attend to business."

** George, my boy, I want you to tell me how it all happened,
and how you came by the letter from Captain Holding."

"Well, it was like this. Capen 'Oldin', 'e goes down to
the cabin wi* the skipper o' the frigate; then they sends for
Capen Preston, and — "

"For Mr. Preston, you mean, George?"

The boy looked up sharply. " He were cap 'en when I left
the Extenuate a few minutes ago, anyhow, miss, until your
father—"

"Maybe; but perhaps it was but a temporary command,
George."

George looked very knowingly iat the girl.

"Well, missus, you ought to know, bein' in the owner's
confidence like; an' o' course — "

"Never mind, George, never mind; go on with your story."

"Well, when they was down in the cabin, presently Capen
'Oldin' comes up an' e' goes for'ard, an' the other feller 'e — "

"You mean Mr. Preston?"

"Yes, Mr. Preston. 'E — I mean the man-o'-war feller —
'e says, "Bundle that rascal into the boat. Get him out o'
my ship. I wouldn't *ave a feller like 'im." Then we whips
into the boat an' shoves off; but the other fellers — I mean
Mr. Preston an' the sailor: that's Bill — ^they never takes the
trouble to look round, so I sings out, * Good-bye, Capen
'Oldin'," and there I saw him lean'in over the rail right up
to the last."

"But how did you come by that letter for me? You
must have had some talk with Captain Holding, and you must
have seen him alone to have been given that."

184 A Portsmouth Point Romance

**Look *ere; ye're a sharp un, ye are. I was comin' to
that; but I won't say no more unless ye tell me somethin'."

"I don't know what you mean, boy. What do you want
to know?"

**Well, ye see, miss, it's like this: is he Capen Preston?"

"Tell me truly wliy you ask?"

"Ye haven't got to go to sea in the brig an' be knocked
about by 'im. If I tells ye the whole lot I don't want my
'ead knocked oflE."

''My cousin will not be master of the brig."

"Hooray! But look 'ere now, is there anything between
ye? 'E's a very good fellow, ye know; 'though I did say
hooray, I never said nothin' agen' 'im."

The boy was looking at his owner's daughter. His head
was tilted to one side and one eye closed, and such a wonder-
ful depth of cunning was in his little wizened features that
the girl, in spite of the weight at her heart, could not help
laughing.

"My good boy — I believe you are a good boy — I will
whisper to you: the man who has gone is worth a hundred
of the man he has changed places with."

'*I knowed it! I knowed it ye was the right sort. I
knowed we was right. Me and Capen 'Oldin' knowed what
we was about. I'll tell ye the whole lot now."

"Very well, George; tell your stor>'^ and what it was that
you and Captain Holding knew so well."

"It was like this, ye see: while they was in the wardroom
they sends for me: an' the skipper (that's Capen 'Olden')
'e says, says 'e, 'Look 'ere, Jarge, you an' me's always been
friends. You take this 'ere letter, an' give it to Mistress
Tuffin, an' don't let no one see ye do it. I am goin' away
in this 'ere ship, 'cos I think I ain't wanted by the young
woman/ "

"Are you sure he said that?"

"That or very near them words. Then I says, 'Well, I'm
goin' too. Me an' you's got on well together, an' I ain't
goin* back without ye.' Then 'e says, *Now, look 'ere,
Jarge ; off you go without no more words. Ye 'ave got to
go back an' do what ye can for a certain young woman. I
depend upon ye to look after 'er.' "

"Were those his exact words?"

A Portsmouth Point Romance 185

"'Em or somethin' like *em; anyhow, I says, 'Since ye
put it that way, Capen, Fll go."*

"Is that aU?*'

"No, it ain't; but the rest is what you've got to keep dark
about. The skipper 'e sends for Mr. Preston, and afore *e
comes aft *e hides Capen 'Oldin' out o' sight; then he gets
talkin' to the mate an' leads 'im on a bit, an* the mate 'e
spoke very nasty about Capen *01din*, an* said if 'e was a
man an* a friend 'e *d *ave got him clear o* the frigate by that
time.**

"And Captain Holding heard all this?'*

"We both o' us 'eard it. Then the skipper calls on Capen
'Oldin* to come out o' his hidin', an* *e makes Capen 'Oldin'
say what *e was after to change places wi' the mate; but the
mate only laughs an* says * 'Oldin* was humbugging'; or
anyhow it was a game between 'im an' the skipper o' the
frigate."

"Where were you all this time?"

"I was outside, listenin' through the skylight. Then the
sentry came along and drove me into the boat; but afore I
was drove away I 'eard the capen o' the man-o'-war call
Mr. Preston a cur and Capen 'Oldin' a man, an' I 'eard 'im
say that if Mr. Preston 'ad shown 'isself a man instead o* a
cur 'e 'd 'ave let 'em both go; but as it was, 'Oldin' was too
good a man to lose and Preston too great a rascal for 'im to
keep.**

"Very well, Greorge: go back to the brig, and keep this a
secret between ourselves."

"All right, missus. I believe ye won't get me into no
row; an' remember if ye wants anythin' I'm yer man, for
Capen 'Oldin' he depends on me to be 'andy when ye're
wantin' anjrthin'."

Then the boy went back to the brig, and Ellen to her bed-
room, there to have what women call "a good cry."

But a good cry would have been a welcome heart-ease
when a year later the Aladdin returned without Holding.
The frigate's skipper himself called at the shop.

"I want to tell you," he said, "that Holding fell fighting
on the deck of the Frenchman, and if the others had fought
as well my boats would not have been driven off."

So to all Point, Ellen became a sour old maid, and when
Alderman Tuffin died, and she carried on the business, it

i86 A PortsfMoutk Paint Romance,

was said of her that she was as good as a man in it — thinlring
of nothing else, managing her property in ships and in ship
chandlery, and even managing her manager in much shrewder
fashion than had her father before her.

Ten years after Holding sailed on his last voyage peace
was declared, and the French prisoners from the hulks in
the harbor and from Porchester Castle went home to their
people; and little batches of released Englishmen landed
at the seaport towns and tramped the roads to where they
had left homes, only too often to find themselves forgotten,
and strangers occupjdng the seats they had thought would
be theirs.

Melancholy witness to the glory of war were these men,
clad in rags, often minus a limb or an eye, pointing to their
battle-scars as surely having earned them a crust or a drink,
as they begged their way through the green lanes of England.

It was such an one that aroused the suspicions of Mr. George
Tinkle, manager for Mistress Tuffin's ship chandlery, as
hobbling by the aid of a stick over the step to the counter
of the dark little shop, a one-armed, lame, unshaven, and
ragged sailor asked to see Alderman Tuffin.

' • Dead. What do you want ? "

"Dead! Well, well, my lad! you have forgotten me, I
can see, and no wonder '^ My name is — *'

"Captain Holding. Oh my!" The manager jumped
over the counter and grabbed one hand and a stump, unable
to utter another word, though for half a minute he moved
Holding's arm and a half up and down in frantic endeavors
to pump up whole sentences of welcome.

Some one in the shop parlor had heard and seen enough;
and before Holding had time to open his mouth a woman
hung upon his neck and stopped his utterances with kisses.

A few months later the sign over the ship chandlery was
altered to Tuffin, Holding & Co., and the official registry
of shipping set forth that certain brigs belonging to Ports-
mouth were now owned by Richard Holding and wife, except
for a few shares held by one George Tinkle.

HE Doctor's Story'

A Talc of Enduring Love, by
3 Guy dc Maupassant* Trans-
i lated from the French by

Eugenie Norwood*

^

^

%aB

IT was the end of the dinner that opened the hunt. The
Marqtiis-de Bertrans with his guests sat around a brightly
illuminated table, covered with fruits and flowers. The
conversation drifted to love. Immediately there arose an
animated discussion, the same eternal discussion as to whether
it were possible to love more than once. Examples were
cited of persons who had loved once, these were offset by
those who had loved violently many times. The men agreed
that passion like sickness, may attack the same person
several times, unless it strikes to kill. This conclusion seemed
quite incontestable. The women, however, who based their
opinion on poetry rather than on practical observation affirmed
that love, the great passion may come only once to mortals. It
resembles powder, they said, this love. A heart once touched
with it becomes forever so emptied, so ravaged, so consumed,
that no other strong sentiment can find rest in it, not even a
dream.

The Marquis, who had indulged in many love affairs,
disputed this belief.

** I tell you it is possible to love several times with all one's
heart and soul. You quote examples of persons who have
killed themselves to prove the impossibility of a second pas-
sion. I wager that if they had not stupidly committed
suicide and so destroyed the possibility of a second experi-
ence they would have found a new love and still another

♦Translated for Short Stories.

1 88 The Doctor* s Story

and so on till death. It is with love as with drink. He who
has once indulged is a slave forever. It is a thing of tem-
perament.**

They chose the old Doctor as arbitrator. He thought
it was as the Marquis had said, a thing of temperament.

"As for me/* he said, "I once knew of a love which lasted
fifty-five years without one day's respite, which ended only
with death.** The wife of the Marquis clasped her hands.

"That is beautiful! Ah what a dream to be loved in
such a way! What happiness to live fifty-five years en-
veloped in an unfailing, penetrating affection. How this
happy being must have blessed his life to be so adored!"

The Doctor smiled.

"You are not mistaken, Madame, on this point — the loved
one was a man. You even know him ; it is Monsieur Chonquet,
the pharmacist. As to the woman, you also knew her,
the old chair mender, who came every year to the Chateau.**
The enthusiasm of the women fell. Some expressed their
contempt with "Pouah!** for the love of common people did
not interest them. The Doctor continued: "Three months
ago I was called to the death-bed of the old chair mender.
The cur^ had preceded me. She wished to make us the
executors of her will. In order that we might understand
her conduct, she told us the story of her life. It is most
singular and touching. Her father and mother were both
chair menders. She never lived long in any one place. As
a little child she wandered about with them, dirty, unkempt,
hungry. They visited many towns, leaving their horse,
wagon and dog just outside the limits, where the child played
in the grass alone until her parents had mended all the broken
chairs in the place. They seldom spoke, except to cry,
'Chairs! Chairs! Mender of Chairs!'

"When the little one strayed too far away she would be
recalled by the harsh angry voice of h"er father. She never
heard a word of affection. When she grew older she fetched
and carried the broken chairs. Then it was she made friends
with the little street * gamins,* but their parents always
called them away and scolded them for speaking to the bare-
footed 'mender.' Often the boys threw stones at her.
Once a kind woman gave her a few pennies. She treasured
them up most carefully.

"One day — she was then eleven years old — as she picked

The Doctor's Story 189

her way through a country town, she met behind the cemetery
the little Chonquet, weeping bitterly, because one of his play-
mates had stolen two precious pennies. The tears of the
small villager, one of these much envied mortals, whom she
imagined never knew trouble, upset her completely. She
approached him and, bowing, ascertained the cause of his
grief, put into his hands all of. her savings, her seven pennies.
He took them without hesitation and dried his eyes. Wild
with joy, she kissed him. He was busy counting his money,
and made no objection. She, seeing that she was not re-
pulsed, began again to kiss him and even gave him a tre-
mendous hug — then she ran away.

*' What was going on in her poor little head ? Was it because
she had sacrificed all of her fortune that she became madly
fond of him, or was it because she had given him her first
tender kiss? The mystery is alike for children and for those
of riper years. For months she dreamed of that comer near
the cemetery and of the little villager. She stole pennies
from her parents to give him at their next meeting. When
she returned to the spot near the cemetery he was not there.
Passing his father's pharmacy, she caught sight of him behind
the counter. He was sitting between a large red globe and
a blue one. She only loved him the more and wrought up
to an ecstasy by the sight of him surrounded by the brilliant
colored globes, nearly fainted with emotion. She cherished
forever in her heart this beautiful sight. The following
year she met him near the school playing marbles. She
threw herself on him, took him in her arms, and kissed him
with such violence that he cried aloud. To quiet him she
gave him all her money. Three francs! A real gold mine,
at which he gazed with staring eyes.

'* After this he allowed her to caress him as much as she
wished. Dtiring the next four years she put into his hands
all her savings, which he pocketed conscientiously in exchange
for kisses. At one time it was thirty sous, at another two francs.
Again she only had twelve sous. She wept with grief and
mortification, explaining brokenly that it had been a poor
year. The next time she brought five francs, in one whole,
piece, which made her laugh with contentment. She no
longer thought of any one but the boy and he watched for
her with impatience; sometimes he would run to meet her.
This made her heart thimip with joy. Suddenly he dis-

iQO The Doctor* s Story

appeared. He had gone to college. She found this out by
careful investigation. She soon ingratiated herself with his
parents and used her diplomacy in order that they might
call him home for the holidays. After a year of intrigue she
succeeded. She had not seen him for two years, and scarcely
recognized him, he was so changed, tall, beautiful and dig-
nified in his uniform, with its brass buttons. He pretended not
to know her and passed by, without a glance. She wept for
two days and since then loved and suffered until the end.

* 'Every year he returned and she passed him, not daring to
lift her eyes. He never condescended to turn his head
toward her. She loved him madly, hopelessly. She said
to me:

***He is the only man whom I have ever seen. I don't
even know if there exists another.* Her parents died. She
went on with their work.

*'One day on entering the village, where her heart always
remained, she saw Chonquet coming out of his pharmacy
with a young woman leaning on his arm. She was his wife.
That night the chair mender threw herself into the river.
A drunkard passing the spot pulled her out and took her to
the pharmacy. The young Chonquet came down in his
wrapper to revive her. Without seeming to know who she
was he undressed her and rubbed her; then he said, in^a^harsh
voice:

**'You are mad! People must not do stupid things like
that.* His voice brought her to life again, and she was
happy for a long time. He refused remuneration for his
trouble, although she insisted.

"All her life passed in this way. She worked, thinking
always of him. She began to buy medicines at his pharmacy ;
this gave her a chance to talk to him and to see him closely.
In a way she was still able to give him money.

"As I said before, she died this spring. When she had
closed her pathetic story she begged me to take her earn-
ings to the man she loved. She had worked only that she
might leave him something to remind him of her after death.
I gave Monsieur the Cur^ fifty francs for her funeral ex-
penses. The next morning I took the rest to Monsieur Chon-
quet as he was finishing his breakfast. His wife sat at the table,
fat and red, important and satisfied. They welcomed me and
offered me some coffee, which I accepted . Then I began my story

The Doctor* s Story 191

in a trembling voice, sure that they would be softened, even to
tears. As soon as Chonquet understood that he had been loved
by *That vagabond! that chair mender! that wanderer!'
he swore with indignation as though his reputation had been
destroyed, the respect of decent people lost, his personal
honor, something precious and dearer than life, gone. His
exasperated wife kept repeating: *That thing! That thing!'

"Seeming unable to find words suitable to the enormity,
he stood up and began striding about. He muttered: 'Can
you understand anjrthing so horrible, Doctor? Oh, if I had
only known it while she was alive, I should have had her
clapped into prison. I promise you she would not have
escaped.'

** I was dumbfounded; I hardly knew what to think or say,
but I had to finish my mission. 'She commissioned me,'
I said, 'to give you her savings, which amount to 3,500
francs. As what I have just told you seems to be very
repugnant, perhaps you would prefer to give this money to
the poor.'

"They looked at me, that man and womaii^ speechless
with amazement. I took the few thousand francs from out of
my pocket. Wretched looking money from every country.
Pennies and gold pieces all mixed together. Then I asked:

** * What is your decision ?'

" Madame Chonquet spoke to me first. * Well, since it is the
dying Woman's wish, it seems to me impossible to refuse it.'

" Her husband said, rather shame-f acedly : * We could buy
with it something for our children.'

" I answered dryly : * As you wish.'

"He replied: 'Well, give it to us anyway, since she com-
missioned you to do so; we will find a way to use it in some
good work.'

" I gave them the money, bowed and left.

"The next day Chonquet came to me and said brusquely:

"'That woman left her wagon here — what have you done
with it?'

"'Nothing; take it if you wish.'

'"It's just what I wanted,' he added, and walked off.
I called him back and said :

"'She also left her old horse and two dogs. Don't you
need them?*

199

The Doctor's Story

**He stared at me surprised: 'Well, no! really what would
I do with them? Dispose of them as you like.'

**He laughed and held out his hand to me. I shook it.
What will you? The Doctor and the pharmacist must not
be at enmity. I have kept the dogs. The Cur^ took the
old horse. The wagon is useful to Chonquet, and with the
money he has bought railroad stock. That is the only deep,
unfailing example of love I have ever known in my life.**

The Doctor looked up. The Marquise, whose eyes were
full of tears, sighed and said :

"Undeniably, only women know how to love."

HE Hunting of CHilton
SaHibi A Talc of India, by
Dolf Wyllardc*

THE Brahmin had crossed the Dekkan afoot in his
pilgrimage, and reached the little Indian village
where the Shrine was, in the blazing noonday. His father,
and his father's father, had vowed a vow to Vishnu that one
of their race shotdd make this journey, but it fell to Rung
Dow to carry out that promise, and youth was far behind
him before he made the attempt. Vishnu had appeared to
Nana Dow and had promised him his favor if the neglected
Shrine at Kali were jealously guarded and served by one of
his race; and because he hoped for Heaven, Nana Dow, a
Brahmin himself, had undertaken the charge for his descend-
ants. The Shrine was but poorly served; hardly an offering
was laid, or a prayer made, before the peculiarly hideous
presentation of Vishnu which stood there, and which the
villagers neglected. But when Rung Dow had crossed the
Dekkan on foot — as the God had stipulated — all that was to
be changed. The people of Kali would recognize him as a
holy man, and would return to Vishnu, and all the land
would flourish thereby.

Rung Dow had accomplished his pilgrimage. His feet were
burnt and blistered with the hot plains and the rocky hills;
for he might take no advantage of other travelers* pity, and
accept their offers of assistance over certain stages of his
journey. Once he fell in with a hunters' encampment, and
the Sahibs, who could speak his tongue, would have tak^n
him forward with their party; but he might not accept, for
Vishnu had said, **Go afoot, and fear not." Jungle and
scrub, bare hillside and ctdtivated land, all baked by the pitiless

*Prom the Badminton Magazine.

194 The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

sun, had drifted slowly by him, until in the hush of the
Indian noon the mud walls of the village with the shrine rose
before his longing eyes; and he prostrated himself to thank
the God who had brought him safely over the weary miles —
the God who had promised that neither beast nor man
should harm his pilgrim. Mecca to the Mohammedan was
not more sacred than the village of the Shrine to the Brahmin
priest.

But he was almost at the end of his strength. From village
to village scattered across the Dekkan he had been fed by
the god-fearing folk, who had given him a handful of grain,
or a cake baked among the ashes; but he was an old man,
and the journey would have worn out anyone less upheld
by religious enthusiasm. The fanatic can endure longer
than ordinary men, but Rung Dow was nearly exhausted.
He stumbled as he approached the outlying mud huts, and
sank down on the baked earth, gazing with filmy eyes at the
object of his hopes — ^the tall pagoda of the Shrine which rose
above the rest of the village. To die of exhaustion now,
when the pilgrimage was accompilished! The gods could not
be so cruel! Had Vishnu failed him?

A woman came nmning from the nearest hut, for she had
seen the failing figure, and recognized its caste. She laid
before him both clear water from the river which had of
old time been blessed by Vishnu, and some rice in a metal
pan. She was of a Brahmin household, and it was not for-
bidden him to eat what she brought. He drank a little
water and revived, blessing her children, and promising her
house prosperity. Then, seated on the ground, he pro-
ceeded to make a cooking-stove of mud and to cook the grain.
Beyond himself and his culinary arrangements he drew a
broad line of demarcation — ^the sacred circle which keeps the
Brahmin and his food holy. Once during the process he
almost swooned again from the heat and exhaustion, whUe
the woman and her neighbors stood at a little distance,
watching with strained anxiety, but powerless to help him
farther.

The food was aU but ready, and the famished man about to
bless it and eat, when the crowd of villagers parted to allow
someone to pass. It was Chilton Sahib, head of the district,
and a great man among his people, not only because he was a
white man and English, but because he talked to the wild

The Hunting of Chilton Sahib iqs

things of the Dekkan through a fire-stick and then they fell
down and died. Chilton had only had his district some six
months, and thought he was beginning to understand his
people; which was an error of judgment. They liked him,
he knew, and he was pleased at that, and at the quantity of
game he found to destroy — ^the sambur, and an occasional
antelox>e, even aman-eatingtigerwhichhehadslain to the ever-
lasting gratitude of the village, and, above all, the great gray
boar which frequents the ravines and the hillsides, and which
will fight to the death. On the whole Chilton was inclined
to congratulate himself on his district. He was comfortably
satisfied, certainly thinking of no ill-luck, and his head run-
ning more upon crops than Brahmins as he strode along,
watched by the villagers. He did not notice the sitting
figure on the ground — he knew something of native habits
— or observe its caste; he did not notice the ring drawn on
the sandy soil as he passed by it — and his shadow fell straight
across it and on the cooked rice which Rung Dow was just
about to bless.

The Brahmin took the contents of the metal pan and tossed
it outside the circle without a second's hesitation. It was
his last effort. As Chilton passed on in the sunlight the pil-
grim fell quietly on his side, and lay there as if smitten.
There was a murmur that rose to a wail among the villagers,
and those of his own caste hurried forward to the rescue.
The old man was still alive, but it was too late; perhaps,
would have been too late in any case though the super-
stition of the villagers laid the disaster directly at the Eng-
lishman's door. That night there was weeping and lamenta^
tion before the Shrine, because a priest had died on the out-
skirts of the village, and the pilgrimage of Rung Dow had
come to naught. His mission was not known in Kali; but
his caste, and his obvious desire towards holy things in
joumejring a long way to the Shrine, were sufficient to make
him the equivalent of a patron saint. Brahmins do not
arrive at outlying villages dying of fatigue, and with the signs
of their travel upon them, without a religious object. The
village of the Shrine wailed to Vishnu.

A week later the Shikaree of the village brought Chilton
Sahib news of a sounder of hog, led by a great boar. The
sounder was located in a ravine among the barren stony hills.
Would Chilton Sahib go out and slay him? Without doubt

196 The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

it was a big boar — a boar that had never been equalled in
size and ferocity, and worthy the spear of the renowed
slayer of wild beasts. Chilton Sahib would indeed go out,
and his heart waxed warm within him, and his English blood
sang. to the tune of slaughter. Nor did he notice anything
unusual in the Shikaree's earnestness over the pectdiarities
of the great boar, or his almost awed description of its un-
earthly fighting powers. That such a wild idea as the soul
of the dead Brahmin (dishonored by the Englishman's shadow,
and some failure of his object in pilgrimaging to the Shrine)
having entered this huge boar, had taken hold of the villagers'
minds, never occurred to the head of the district. But the
villagers talked of it beneath their breath. Why otherwise
should a boar, quite unrivalled for ferocity and size, have sud-
denly appeared to tempt the hunting instincts of the Sahib
to a deadly combat? Without doubt the Brahmin, sanc-
tioned by Vishnu, had temporarily discarded his caste, and
his spirit had entered the body of an unclean animal that
he might slay Chilton Sahib. When the feud was wiped out
by blood the priest would, by favor of the gods, regain his
caste and attain to paradise.

Now, to hunt hog you must rise early, and Chilton was up
before sunrise, unwitting of the interest that centred round
his person as one foredoomed to death. There is, to the
Indian hunter, no game like the big Sus aper, which can at
times outpace the swiftest horse and which will turn to bay
and make such a fight of it at the end as may easily give him
victory over the sportsman. Chilton grieved that he had
no time to get a hunting party together; for to draw first
blood and win the spur of honor was denied him in the ab-
sence of any opponent. He intended, as a matter of course,
to take the Shikaree with him, as well as the beaters; but
after all it came to a fight between him and the boar. There
was some consolation in that ; but there was no exciting race
against another man as eager as himself to be the first to
dim the spear-head with the smallest drop of blood, no mat-
ter who finished the work, and he regretted the lack of com-
petition.

The gray morning was hanging mysteriously over the vil-
lage, and over Chilton's queer little bungalow, as he came
out on to the verandah. The scouts were back already with
news of the sotmder's trail, and Chilton's Arab was waiting

The Hunting of Chilton Sahib 197

for him, chafing at the bit and tossing his Ught head because
the shadows of the dawn were full of bogies to his mind.
The native groom was talking to him as a mother to a child,
and grim and silent the Shikaree sat in the little mud yard
before the bungalow. Chilton spoke to him cheerily as he
swung himself into the saddle; but the man only answered
briefly, and with more than the usual stolidity of the Oriental ;
he had little to say to a man whom he considered to be fore-
doomed. But Chilton had not^time to notice his silence; he
motmted at once, and rode out a little ahead of the native,
his horsekeeper and the beaters following in the rear, away
over the broken plain to the nullah into which the sounder
had been marked down at break of day. Like much of the
htmting cotmtry of the Dekkan, it was about as difficult a
spot as the wily beasts could have chosen; a narrow ravine
between two steep hillsides, where the dry bed of an empty
watercourse presented an awkward jtunp, however well the
htmter might be motmted. Chilton, like all his kind, was
proportionately pleased.

"Jove: the brute knows his ground, eh, Jtmga?" he
said, cheerily, as he halted in some loose scrub at the mouth
of the narrow gorge, and the beaters began to skirt rotmd the
hill. * ' Any idea where the sounder is ? "

** There, Sahib I" The Shikaree pointed to some low
scrub on the hillside, where it was thought that the pigs
were concealed. But with a trace more animation than he
had yet showed, he added, " Will the Sahib follow the sounder,
or wait only for the great boar?"

** Oh, I will take the game the gods provide!'* said Chilton,
easily. **But if my luck holds I shall have the boar yet.
There they go!"

Por down the hillside came a grunting, heaving mass of
black backs, and behind them came the beaters, making a
noise unearthly enough to have driven the scriptural herd
of swine into the sea without any possession by devils. With
a grunt and a scramble two large boars came down one side
of the hill, crossed the watercourse as only a boar can cross
such impediments, and ascending the opposite bank, made
for the plain. Chilton wheeled his horse round and dashed
after them; but, as luck would have it, some misgiving of an
outlet seemed to disturb their minds, for they suddenly
stopped and turned hillwards again. Seeing this, Chilton

198 The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

crossed the dry bed of the watercourse in turn, and urging his
horse up the broken ascent, he was soon on terms with the
foremost boar, who instantly turned to bay. The bright
steel head of the bamboo flashed like Ughtning ahead of the
game little Arab who was laboring up the rough ground,
and then the sharp spear buried itself in the boar's side fair
through the heart. As the animal stumbled the spear
snapped, and the horse, checking himself as best he could,
scrambled along for some paces, the broken spear remaining
in Chilton's hand.

"That," said Chilton, turning to meet the Shirakee, "re-
minded me of polo. I got the ball, and couldn't see whether
I had succeeded in making a goal. Good sport, Jtmga!"

"The Sahib is a great chief, and his spear invincible!"
said the^man, with unmoved flattery. "See, already one
boar has-been killed; but does the Sahib not desire the tusks
of that great one who is still unharmed?"

" My good fellow, the sun is not at his full height yet, and
my horse is not blown!" said Chilton, coolly. "I will hunt
till nightfall, Junga, if you will show me the game."

"Choose another spear then. Sahib, and breathe your
horse. The great hog has not stolen away, and he may yet
be afoot. The beaters are again ready."

Chilton swung himself out of the saddle, backing the Arab
into some scrub on the hillside. There was a silence as of
perfect peace over the ravine, and the increasing power of
the sun was drawing strong scents from the vegetation.
Overhead a great kite hung in the vault of blue, in ominous
anticipation. Nothing broke the rich silence of the hillside
to Chilton's ear save the jingle of his own horse's bridle as
the Arab tossed his fine head impatiently. He was a true
specimen of an Arab hunter — ^lightly built, yet in perfect
proportion, and with that length and strength in his quarters
that proclaimed speed and endurance; but the legs, more
especially the forelegs, were marked and scarred with many
an old fight, the unintentional tribute of his adversary the
boar, at whose death he had frequently 'assisted. Chilton
quietly remotmted after a brief rest and sat on his horse,
wondering if it would not be better to have tiflSn now instead
of waiting for another beat.

"He comes. Sahib!"

Junga's repressed excitement escaped Chilton, whose five

The Hunting of Chilton Sahib 199

senses and a few extra were concentrated on the patch of
scrub from which the hog might be expected to break cover,
and the Shirakee's curious manner did not impress him either.
He sat his Arab with every nerve tense, the spear ready for
use on the chance of the animal charging. The boar, how-
ever, had no intention of thus running into the enemy's
jaws. He broke cover, the beaters yelling above him,
trotted sullenly down to the watercourse, and turning short
to the right made for the head of the narrow gorge which
looked like a cul-de-sac to Chilton. But it was possible
there might be an outlet, and in the hope of this the English-
man urged his horse down the hillside in pursuit as fast as
he dared, with the result that the Arab suddenly stumbled,
and horse and rider finished the descent ignominiously by
rolling over into the empty river bed. Chilton was up in an
instant, and had recovered his spear before the horse was
fairly on his feet. He was not hurt, but he had no time to
remount before he saw that the boar had turned. A wild
boar, one of the great gray hog of India, moves at first break-
ing cover at a pace peculiarly his own — ^he does not gallop
exactly, though his speed is soon such that it needs a fast
horse to ride him down. But in his charge he appears to
jump off the ground and be literally hurling himself through
the air, all four feet stretched out like a horse's as he rises at
a big jump. The effect is ludicrous to the onlooker, who is
not taking part in the game. To the man who faces the charge
it is by no means amusing, and Chilton was on foot! To
spear a^boar rightly one should be on horseback and so meet
the charge at a gallop, otherwise the horse will probably get
ripped open by those mighty tusks.

Chilton stood his ground. There was just one chance for
him, that by springing aside the force of the boar's pace
might carry him past, if the man did not succeed in planting
his spear. Even in the stress of the moment a wonder flashed
through his brain that the Shikaree did not come to the rescue,
or at least attempt it. He had heard his own Arab turn
short round and gallop off panic-stricken without the guiding
will of a rider. If he could have looked behind him he would
have seen that the Shirakee was sitting motionless on a
steep rock a few yards up the hillside, watching, with some-
thing that was almost awe in his face, for what he considered
the struggle ordained by the gods between the soul of the

200 The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

dead Brahmin in the boar's body and the unconscious mur-
derer. The beaters had stopped also, and formed the same
silent group of spectators on the further hillside; while
Chilton's horsekeeper, behind Junga but further up the hill,
was in the same attitude of arrested motion. Between the
spectators was Chilton in the dry bed of the watercourse, and
the great boar charging down on them. Overhead the kite
had dropped a few feet lower, and waited also.

The man saw the foam flying from the beast's mouth, and
heard the savage grunt as he stood steadily facing the direc-
tion from which the boar was coming — ^facing death, as it
well might be. How wicked the little gray eyes looked!
How those long tusks would gore and tear! He had seen
many a horse ripped open because of an unskilful rider, and
once a horsekeeper had been killed before his very eyes —
trampled and gored to death, and then flung over the boar's
head, as easily as a child tosses a ball. The charge was upon
him — ^the shaggy gray thing looming as large as a donkey — ^and
with a last supreme effort ^springing aside, he felt the enor-
mous brute almost brush him as he bltmdered past, and lunged
out awkwardly with the spear. It entered the tough side
behind the shoulder, and passed straight through the heart;
but the weapon was dragged from his hand, and he himself
was swung staggering towards the boar.

With a dizzy feeling he turned to look at his handiwork.
Had the boar attempted more mischief it woidd have gone
hard with Chilton, left without a spear as he had been. But
the lump of blood-stained gray lay inert before him, the nine-
inch tusks still grimly flecked with blood and foam, for the
resolute lunge of the spear had done its work in a final manner
that seemed little short of miraculous. Not tmtil he was
sure that the brute was really dead did Chilton discover that
his followers had at last joined him, and demanded the reason
of their delay from Junga.

**What the deuce did you mean by keeping away?" he
said, hotly, ' * You saw I was dismounted — ^where were you ? ' '

The Shikaree's face darkened a little, as if his pride were
touched; but he answered patiently:

'*The Sahib knows I have no fear. Did I not attend him
when he tracked the wounded tiger, and have I not been
present at the death of many boars? But this boar was

The Hunting of Chilton Sahib 201

different. It was decreed that the Sahib must fight with
him alone, and the gods have given their favor to the victor! "

He salaamed as reverently as if Chilton were himself a god,
causing the yoimg man to stare at him blankly.

**It was decreed!" he repeated. **What was decreed, and
why? What on earth do you mean, Junga? "

**The Sahib is the god's favorite — what he does has sanc-
tion. But, indeed, not many days since he slew a holy man —
a priest who, without doubt, was a pilgrim to the Shrine.
"The Sahib forgets,*' he added, soothingly. "What are such
things to one whom Vishnu favors above the lives of priests?
But, indeed, his shadow fell upon the food which would have
saved the fainting life of one who sat by the wayside, and —
and — it was a Brahmin, Sahib! He threw away the food,
and before we cotild succor him he died! "

Chilton grew paler than the boar's charge had made him,
as some meaning of the situation flashed into his mind. He
had been long enough in India to realize what he had done —
in all innocence — and that his Shikaree would have calmly
stood by and seen him killed before he would have interfered
with what he thought was the will of the gods. Chilton
ordered the submissive natives — submissive enough nowl —
to rest, and said shortly that he would have tiffin, leaving
Junga to arrange about the dead boar. Not until he was
sitting imder a date tree clump eating his lunch did he gather
the full meaning of the situation from the Shikaree's expla-
nation. And he thought of the shaggy gray hide, the little
fierce eyes, the white tusks speckled with foam as the boar
charged, and his blood ran colder than at the actual moment
of peril.

"So you would all have left me to my death!" he said
slowly as he lit his cigar and looked down the baked ravine
where the shadows of the rocks were cut sharp and black by
the blinding sunshine.

"Truly, Sahib, if the gods decreed it! For our aid would
have been as nothing. The Sahib had to prove his right to
kill the Brahmin!"

** And now that I have killed the boar?"

"The Sahib is great in favor with the gods! Who shall
stand against him?"

**I suppose," said Chilton, thoughtfully, "that the beaters
won't think it necessary to avenge the boar, will they, Junga?

202 The Hunting of Chilton Sahib

I should like to know what to expect. And possibly they
might regard themselves as chosen instruments of Vishnu,
eh?"

But the man smiled as at a jest. "The Sahib knows that
that could not be so. We are all thy slaves, Heavenbom!*'

**I did think I knew; but it strikes me that I know very
little. So I have cleared myself from further suspicion by
to-day's slaughter, have I ? Still, I shotild not care to repeat
that five minutes. Junga, it[is in my mind that the day has
become too hot for more hunting. I will rest, and go home.**

"The Sahib is wise,*' said Junga, submissively; "and,
indeed, he has had a great hunt, and has killed much game.
Will you ride? For the beaters will rejoice to make a
palanquin of boughs and palms, and carry you on their
shoulders in triumph do you so please! "

Chilton stared. He thought of the callous indifference
of these same men in his extreme peril, and that not from
being unarmed, but because they deliberately stood aside to
see if he were Vishnu*s favorite. Now they would have made
a smaller deity of him, and carried him home rejoicing; for
had he not killed the boar, afoot, with all the odds against
him, and proved that he was great in favor with the gods
in spite of slaying the Brahmin priest? Great was Chilton
Sahib, and greatly to be honored!

"Truly, you are a strange people!" said Chilton.

'■Jkl^m^..:^.M:.^S^

VICTORIOUS Sur-
render I A Story of New
England, by Margaret Johnson.
Illustrations by R. T. Sdiultz*

THE shades were scarcely drawn up from the windows of
the little shop, which, glittering in the morning sunshine,
courted attention to the rows upon rows of toys and goodies
spread within, when the shop-bell tinkled briskly, and a
little fat urchin entered with a grave and business-like air,
to make his early purchase.

This was no raw new customer, unfamiliar with the tradi-
tions of the place, respected and observed by all those privi-
leged to trade therein. He knew exactly in which comer of
the sparkling showcase to look for his heart's chosen dainties.

♦Written for Short Stories.

204 A Victorious Surrender

He had a pleasing intimacy with the color of the paper and
string which hid their lusciousness temporarily from his view.
He took his package from Miss Hatty's own fair hands with a
murmured thank-you; and having received it, deposited the
three pennies which constituted the whole of his immediate
fortune, without hesitation or question, in the china bowl of
clear water which stood at one end of the spotless counter.
Then he took his departure, gravely, though with joy.

When his small figure, radiating satisfaction even from the
rear view of its rotmd head and chubby shoulders, had dis-
appeared between the white-curtained door, Miss Hatty
dipped her slender fingers in the bowl and withdrew the
pennies delicately, drying them on a soft napkin which lay
folded beside it. Every coin received from the grimy fingers
of her small customers — ^and from older ones, too, for that
matter — ^must undergo this process of purification before it
was fit for its immaculate surrotmdings.

It was difficult to believe that any speck of dust or dirt
had ever touched Miss Hatty. Standing in the bright sun-
shine that streamed in through the little shop-window, she
was seen to be as fresh and exquisite a thing as the spring
morning itself. A drop of dew, a snowflake new-fallen, a
shell washed by the waves — ^these were not purer, daintier
than she, with her slight figure in its spotless print gown and
snowy apron, the roseleaf color in her cheeks, the limpid
gray eyes, andshining hair brushed smooth and rippling from her
pearly temples. Younger she might have been — prettier,
perhaps ; but seeing her as she was, it would not for a moment
have occurred to you to wish her otherwise. Save for the
tiny cloud which hung this morning, tmwonted, over her
serene forehead.

Little Milly Davis, her assistant, and. as faithful a copy of
her mistress as neatness and comeliness could make her,
observed this cloud with both wonder and distress. It did
not vanish when Miss Hatty went into the little room back
of the shop, and sat down to finish her breakfast. She
sighed as she lifted her coffee to her lips, and her brother Sam,
sitting opposite, looked up and went on with what he had
been saying before the interruption of the customer.

Sam was large and ruddy. He had a big heart and a great
voice.

**I tell you what it is, Hatty," he said, bringing down his

A Victorious Surrender 205

hand with emphasis on the snowy table, ** Wallpaper you
ought to have, and wallpaper you shall have before you're a
week older! Here's Pillow's side of the house as gay as a
posy bed with blue and yellow stripes, and roses and tulips
and birds of paradise and what not, and yours as bare as the
desert of Sahary. It struck me, worse'n ever, when I came
in last night, and I just made up my mind it shotddn't go on
so any longer!"

"But I don't want wallpaper, Sam!" protested Miss Hatty,
her roseleaf color deepening to a most lovely crimson. ** You
know I don't. I never cotild bear anything glarey to the
eyes. And it won't wash. It isn't near as clean as paint.
Susy Pillow and I went to school together. I Uke Susy. And
I don't grudge her the wallpaper if she wants it, but I don't
want it!"

"Susy Pillow, indeed!" cried Sam, waxing warm, and
spreading his bread all too generously with jam in the excite-
ment of his feelings. "And she only a Purdy, and you a
Bascom! It wotdd be a pity if you cotildn't be as fine as she
is! If she only knew it, she'll be bidding good-bye to the
roses and ttdips before she has much more time to look at 'em.
I've waited long enough for her and Pillow to pay that
interest money — " He stopped rather suddenly.

"Sam," said his sister, laying down her fork, "you aren't
going to foreclose?"

Mr. Bascom cleared his throat and looked grave.

" Yes," he said, " I am. Patience has had her perfect work
long ago — ^with Pillow. He needs a lesson, and I'm going to
give him one by settling that thing up this week. The
money's due Friday, and if he doesn't come down with it by
three o'clock that day, the deed's done, and out they go!"

Miss Hatty looked at her brother distressftilly, her soft
eyes softer with their springing tears.

"I didn't think you'd do it, Sam," she said, "indeed I
didn't. I used to go to school with Susy Pillow, and I just
can't bear to see her turned out that way!"

"Well, well!" said Mr. Bascom, hastily, disturbed by her
tears, /'don't you worry about it, Hatty. You know I've
yielded to you half a dozen times already. I'm too easy-
going by half, and that's a fact, but when I do make up my
mind about a thing, I stand by it — ^there, there, my -dear,
don't you distress yourself! About that wallpaper, now. I

2o6 A Victorious Surrender

declare if I haven't set my heart on yoiir having it I Just
think how much cheerier you'd be with a nice gay pattern — "
he looked arotmd at the bare gray walls of the little parior —
* ' here and in the hall ! I *m going back to the city to-day, and
rU tell you what it is, I'm going to send you that paper —
pick it out myself, the very prettiest there is in all Boston —
make you a present of it."

A spark of fire dried the dew in Miss Hatty's eyes.

'*I don't want it, thank you, Sam," she said, with a firm-
ness as absolute as it was gentle. *'And I sha'n't hang it if
you do send it to me."

•*Tut, tut! Sha'n't? I say shalir' retorted Mr. Bascom,
smiling with the most imperturbable good-htmior. He went
round and put his hands on his sister's slim shoulders. He
might have tossed her to the ceiling if he had chosen.

**See here, Hatty," he said, "I like to have my own way
once in a while, just for a change. I want you to have that
paper. It'll brighten you up, make you ten years yotmger,
and show the neighbors we know what's what as well as any
one. I'm going to send it to you bright and early to-morrow,
and if you'll hang it, I'll tell you what I'll do — I'll let up on
Pillow, and give him another chance. How's that for a
bargain?"

He did not wait for an answer, but gave herthe gentlest of
shakes before he let her go, went out laughing into the hall,
thrust his great shotdders into his overcoat, kissed his hand,
and was off with a hearty goodbye and a bang of the front
door that set the little house a-tremble.

''Spunkiest little woman in all Massachusetts," he chuckled
to himself, striding away down the street, ''if she does look
like a piece of your great-grandmother's best china, just
fit to crush in your hands. She won 't do it, I suppose ; al-
ways manages to have her own way, somehow. But I need
something to keep me up to that resolution about Pillow.
And if I should have to let him off, well, it would be worth
it to me, twice over, to see Hatty give in."

Miss Hatty, left alone in the hall after that slam of the
front door, stood still and looked about her, trembUng.

Half the house, with the shop, the little parlor back of it,
and the two tiny chambers above, was hers; the correspond-
ing half, without the shop window, belonged to the Pillows.
The line of division ran through the center of the hall, and

A Victorious Surrender 207

was as clearly marked as was the character of the owners.
On Mrs. Pillow's side the floor was covered with a strip of
gay carpet. The wall flamed with the gorgeous and intricate
pattern of the paper which had so aroused the admiration
and envy of Mr. Bascom. Its surface reflected the stmshine
which fell through the fanlight over the door, and distracted
the eye with the variety and splendor of its hues. Miss
Hatty's wall was painted a sombre though spotless yellow,
and the boards of her floor were left bare and scrubbed to a
snowy whiteness.

**I can't do it!" she mtirmured, clasping her slender
fingers in distress. **I can't! It's too much to ask. I
should feel as if the house was in a perfect clutter if I had those
images all over my wall. I cotddn 't breathe. It don 't seem
to me it's the place for such things, anyway, seems kind
of wicked, birds and flowers, and they 'd haunt me. I shotdd
dream of 'em. What did Sam ask me to do it for? "

»^The roses and tulips swam before her tearftil vision, swollen
to a gigantic and awftd size. The birds of Paradise performed
astonishing feats of grand and lofty tumbling as she winked
to keep the tears back, their rainbow feathers all a-quiver.

She went back into the parlor where Milly Davis waited
in a breathless and solemn agitation, ready to condole if
permitted, to S3rmpathize in silence if the delicate reserves
of her mistress required such a sacrifice.

**0f course they had ought to pay their interest money,"
mused Miss Hatty, looking at the child with dazed and woeftd
eyes as if she scarcely realized her presence. "But Susy
Pillow's lived here so long, it'll about break her heart to go
away. I do suppose it 's my duty as a neighbor and a Chris-
tian to help her out, if it's anyways in my power to do it.
I wish it wasn 't. I wish — I don 't see how I can, anyhow in
the world. It '11 be every bit as hard as moving myself to
have all those things staring and flaring at me, and figurin '
rotmd me all the time. I 'd rather move. I 'd rather go and
live somewhere else, in a strange house, than stay here where
it won't seem like home any more."

Milly, roimd-eyed, awed and fascinated by this unheard
of outburst from her gentle mistress, ventured a trembling
word of consolation.

"Don't you think. Miss Hatty, maybe, in time, you know,
you might get used to it, maybe?"

2o8 A Victorious Surrender

But Miss Hatty turned upon her with a pale though gentle
austerity.

**Milly," she said, ** there's the shop-bell, run and see
what's wanted."

After that the day wore away slowly and in silence. An
atmosphere of gloom pervaded shop and parlor. Trade was
dull, though the day was so bright, and even the tinkle of
the little bell, usually so cheerful and inspiring, had now a
lugubrious and tuneless sound, as if it shared the general
dejection. The lights were extinguished early, and bidding
Milly a kind but distant good-night. Miss Hatty retired
to her chamber.

What spiritual struggles were hers during the night watches,
what self -communings, what debates between conscience and
inclination, what deep and sorrowful study of the situation in
all its aspects, these things no one ever knew. But when dawn
broke, it found her sleeping quietly, her smooth cheek, pure
as an infant's, pressed tranquilly upon her maiden pillow,
and when she came down-stairs, rustling crisply in her fresh
print gown, the cloud of yesterday had vanished from her
face. There shone instead upon her brow, a serious, an
almost saintly serenity. The battle had evidently been
fought, the victory won.

As she pulled up the blinds to let in a stream of morning
sunshine, re-arranged with careful hands the contents of her
window, or busied herself with Milly *s help, about her little
breakfast-table, everywhere, a mild and beautiftd calm
seemed to enfold and diffuse itself about her like a fragrance.
Even when, later in the day, the fidelity of Mr. Bascom's
purpose was proved by the arrival of the wall-paper, deposited,
rolls and rolls of it, in the little hall by a wondering expressman
when, upon inspection, it was found to be more magnificent
than Mrs. Pillow's, the glories of whose hangings paled
before the more effulgent splendors of these, in all the shining
newness of their satin stripes and the tropical luxuriance
of the vegetation which spread and flourished thereon, even
then, Miss Hatty's brow remained unruffled. And when,
with ineffable sweetness and composure, she suggested to
Milly Davis that they should hurry up with the work, so
that the hanging of the paper might be begun at once, that
humble handmaiden was speechless with astonished and
adoring wonder.

A Victorious Surrender

309

On the eventful Friday which was to decide the fate of the
offending Pillows, Mr. Bascom, alighting from the Boston
train, was surprised to find his sister waiting for him on
the platform.

** Hello, Hatty!'* he said, holding out a brotherly hand.
** How are you?"

**Very well, thank you, Sam,** replied Miss Hatty. "I

thought you *d be on that train, so I walked down to meet you.
Milly's at the shop.*'

** Very good of you, I 'm sure,'* said Sam, heartily, wonder-
ing within himself.

**I thought,** Miss Hatty went on, putting up her little
rose-colored parasol, and walking beside him demurely, **I
thought that you might go down town before coming up to

2IO A Victorious Surrender

the house, and I 'd better see you first — ^you might like to
know I've hung the paper, Sam."

**By Jove, you have!" cried her brother, stopping short to
look at her. She lifted her eyes to his with a dovelike in-
nocence and calm in their clear depths.

**Yes, I've hung the paper," she repeated, gently. "So
you won't, you won't do anything about the Pillows, will
you, Sam?"

"Why, no, no, of course I sha'n't, not if you've hung the
paper; I promised you, didn't I? Dan Pillow little knows
what he owes you, though!" he laughed. "It's a pretty
good bargain for you all round, seems to me, eh, Hatty?"

Then, glancing at the pure outline of her cheek as she
moved meekly beside him in the rosy shadow of the parasol,
he was smitten with sudden remorse and admiration.

"You're a good woman, Hatty! You certainly are!"
he said. * * You didn 't want to give in and put up that paper,
now, did you?"

"No," confessed Miss Hatty, "I didn't want to, Sam."

"It's too bad — I declare it is! But you'll get used to it.
I warrant you it won't be long before you're actually fond
of it. I don't believe you mind it now as much as you thought
you would, eh?"

She smiled at him, gently.

"I think," she admitted, "that it does look better than I
thought it would at first.*

"Bravo!" he cried, well pleased. "And now I must
leave you, my dear. I have some errands to do; but I'll
be up in time for supper, and then we'll have a look at your
gorgeousness. Good-bye ! ' '

"Good-bye," said his sister, delicately adjusting the ruflae
on her arm which his careless touch had disturbed. "Six
o'clock; don't be. late, Sam!"

He was not late. He came bouncing merrily into the
little shop — very like the traditional bull among the china —
at a quarter before six, to find both his sister and Milly
Davis awaiting him there, the latter in a tremor of obvious
excitement and apprehension.

"Hallo, Hatty!" he cried. "Supper ready? I'm hungry
as a hunter. Made it all right with Pillow, and there's no
telling when I shall see a cent of his money, thanks to you!

A Victorious Surrender

311

Well, let's have a look at the paper ; I'm as curious as a young-
ster to see itr*

**Yes?" said Miss Hatty, with a Uttle upward inflection
of her soft voice. She finished diying the coins which she
had just dipped out of the chitia bowl, and dropped them
into the till; then she opened the door of the parlor, and, the
others following her, they all went in together.

**WhatI" said Sam, staring about him, bewildered. The
vague, soft, brownish coloring of the walls showed dimly in
the gathering twilight. **I thought you said you'd hung it,
Hatty!"

**So I have, Sam," returned his sister, regarding it with a
serene and gentle gaze. **So I have hung it."

"But — why — ^there's some mistake, then!" he cried.

212 A Victorious Surrender

* * This isn't the paper I ordered ! That was the liveliest paper
in all Boston. There were birds on it, and flowers, and — "

**0, Mr. Bascom!" cried Milly, wildly, no longer able to
control the tumtdt of her feelings, ** They 're all there — the
flowers and the birds and everything — ^they're there, only you
can't see 'em, because — ^because — ^they're on the other side!"

Mr. Bascom turned a slow, incredulous stare upon his sister.

** Hatty!" he said, **you had that paper put up — wrong
side out?**

The color in Miss Hatty's transparent cheek would have
shamed the efforts of the pink parasol and the simshine
combined.

**Why, yes," she said, lifting her eyes to his face with
angelic innocence and candor, * I didn't suppose it mattered
how I himg it, so long as I hung it at all. And I liked it
better this way, Sam! "

There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Bascom broke
into a roar of laughter that rattled the astonished teacups
on the shelves.

*'I give in!" he shouted. **I give in, Hatty! You've
beaten me twice over! And I might have known you would.
I vow I'll never try to get the better of you again! Go call
in the Pillows — ask 'em to supper. Let's have a celebration!
It's worth it to me if I never get another cent on that mort-
gage. Hatty, Hatty — ^what a woman you are — ^what a
woman you are! "

A little smile curved the comers of Miss Hatty's delicate
lips.

**I thought you'd be pleased, Sam," she said, demurely.
** Milly, set the table for two more, and go and ask Mrs.
Pillow if she and Mr. Pillow will be good enough to come in
to tea!"

rH£ Silver Lute:
A Talc of Cavaliers and
Roundheads^ by James
Workman*

WHEN the news arrived that the King's forces were
coming to besiege Moor Hall, I, Captain John Watson,
obtained leave of absence from the Governor to visit the
house of worthy Master Isaiah Goodwin, to whose daughter.
Mistress Patience, I had been recently betrothed. I knew
that Master Goodwin was absent from home, but I longed
to have a few words with Mistress Patience before the arrival
of the King's forces separated us perhaps for months, or,
as it might well prove in those perilous times, for ever.

Master Goodwin was a man of substance and integrity, a
grave and worthy gentleman, walking most circumspectly
in the sight of all men. It was said — ^though, indeed, I
could scarce credit it — that he had been somewhat light-
minded in his youth ; but that he had turned away for ever
from the vanities of this world since the death of his young
wife, a beautiftd Maid of Honour, who had wedded him in
spite of the opposition of her family, and even, it was reported,
of the Queen herself. Patience was but a babe when her
mother died, and she had been brought up under his own
eye. He hath confided to me, though few wotild have con-
ceived it possible who looked at his cold, tmsmiling features,
that his aflEection for her was so deep as to be in his eyes
well-nigh a sin, and that he greatly feared that it might tempt
him to fail in his duty towards her. Therefore was he sparing
of praise and prodigal of reproof, and so rarely did the tender-
ness that dwelt in his heart manifest itself in word or look
that I think she had scarce any knowledge of its existence.

*From Cassell's Magazine.

ai4 The Silver Lute

He exhorted me, both for her welfare and mine, to adopt
the same manner towards her; but, indeed, I found it ahnost
impossible to do so.

I think I see her now in her dove-coloured raiment moving
about her household duties with sober sjtep and downcast
eyes. In obedience to her father's advice, I would strive
not to look at her, lest I should minister to that vanity from
which none of us, more especially the female sex, are wholly
free. Yet ever and anon she would perceive my eyes resting
upon her, and her own would begin to twinkle, and it was as
though a beam of sunshine had fallen upon her face — ^to me,
both then and now — ^the sweetest God ever fashioned. Ay,
truly; that sweet face, with its dimpled cheeks and rose-red
lips and merry, gentle eyes, so moved me that in her presence
I could scarce restrain myself from uttering foolish words
of praise and affection.

The last time we had met there had been some small dis-
pute between us; but I trusted that the news of the enemy *s
approach would have reached her, and that I should find
her in a sad and chastened mood. I soon reached the house,
which was but three or four miles from Moor Hall, and leaving
my horse in charge of a serving man, I stepped quietly along
the passage to the chamber in which I usually found Patience
engaged with her needle. Then I opened the door and stood
with hands uplifted, struck dumb and motionless with as-
tonishment and dismay.

Near the window sat her cousin, Dick Greville, playing
upon the lute, while Patience, not attired, as was her wont,
in sober dove-coloured garments, but tricked out in a gay
silk gown, with jewels in her curled and perfumed hair
and around her neck and arms, was tripping to and fro about
the chamber. I could scarce believe my eyes, and yet there
could be no mistake.

Patience was dancing!

As I write, that picture rises up before me. The simshine
came with the rose-scented breeze through the open casement,
laughing among the flying curls and the gems that flashed
and quivered on her white neck and slender wrists. Her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks were flushed and dimpling with merri-
ment; her slim figure, robed in shimmering silk, gay with
bright-coloured ribbons, swayed here and there with infinite
ease and grace, and her little feet slid out and in, and went

The Silver Lute 215

pit, pat, pat upon the polished oaken floor. And as she went
gliding to and fro, swift and light and supple, twang, twang
went the lute, and through the open casement came the sweet
singing of birds.

Often in these later years do I find myself recalling the mem-
ory of that scene ; for I thought it then, and think it still (and
may say blimtly that I am not ashamed to confess it) the
fairest sight that ever I saw in my life. But I looked and
spoke as if it were far otherwise; for, fair as it seemed to me,
I was shocked beyond expression, having been taught to
regard such exercises as worldly and profane, snares strewn
in the path of those who walk unwarily.

"Patience, Patience!" I exclaimed, "what means this?"

The pattering feet, the twanging lute, stopped instantly
— ^nay, it seemed as though the very birds ceased to twitter,
so profoimd was the silence. Gazing at me in speechless
consternation were two pale faces, from which the snwles
had passed like breath from a mirror, wide-eyed and open-
mouthed, speaking most eloquently of bewilderment and
alarm. Then Patience flushed scarlet, and with a half laugh,
half cry, buried her face in her hands, though I could see her
bright eyes sparkling saucily through her parted fingers. As
for her cousin Dick, he rose to his feet and regarded me with
a red and foolish countenance.

"It is well for you. Master Dick," said I grimly, "that
it was I, and not Master Goodwin, who caught you at these
fine pranks. These are pretty goings-on, forsooth, in a
sober and virtuous household!"

The boy flushed angrily.

"Why, what evil do you see in Cousin Patience dancing
to the music of the lute ? "• he asked hotly. " Truly, you might
as well find fault with a bird for singing, or a butterfly for
sipping honey from a flower."

"Indeed," I answered drily, "I think she looks more like
a butterfly than a grave and sensible maid. Where got
you this fine gown, and all these gew-gaws, and ribbons,
and so forth, Mistress Patience? Sure your worthy father
knows naught of this?"

Patience uncovered her face, and drew herself up proudly.

"They were my mother's," said she. "She wore them
when she was a Maid of Honour at the Court in days when it
was thought no crime to wea/a silk gown, or a ribbon, or even,

2i6 The Silver Lute

Captain Watson, to honour and obey the King. What she
wore, I think her daughter may wear also without reproach
from you or anyone."

Now, looking back, I think I might very well have held my
peace ; but in those days, I own, my tongue was ever ready
to administer reproof, even, perhaps, when I stood much in
need of it myself.

**That may be," said I; "yet I warrant she wore them not
that she might trip and skip in them like a play-actress to
the music of the lute. As for you. Master Greville, I think
that at a time like this, when those who love freedom and
liberty of conscience are shedding their blood for the Cause,
you might sure find better employment than to make merry
in a lady's chamber with such wanton toys as this."

I pointed to the lute with a gesture of contempt, and Dick
flushed crimson with anger.

"Sir," said he, "let me tell you that I have better authority
for keeping the sword sheathed than you have for drawing
it; and, sure, 'tis as pleasing in God's sight to enjoy His
good gifts, and to make merry in the fair world He hath
made for our delight, as to deface His image upon the battle-
field. Yet, if you think that it is fear that withholds my
hand from taking part in the bloody and barbarous game of
war, I am ready to give you proof to the contrary when and
where you will."

'Twas a boyish speech, perhaps, and well-nigh laughable
to think that he should be prepared to uphold his love of peace
at the sword's point; yet, in spite of my ill-temper, I could
not but own to myself that the lad had a gallant air, and in a
happier mood I would have passed off the matter with a smile.
As it was, I answered him with some asperity.

"Tut, tut," said I, "think you I would draw my sword in
a private quarrel, or that if I did so I would use it against one
who, though he may have the years of a man, hath not yet
learned to put away childish things?"

Whereupon his eyes flashed wrathfuUy, and he took a
step towards me ; but Patience laid her hand on his arm and
whispered a word in his ear, and with a shrug of the shoulders
he turned and stepped through the window into the sunlit
garden beyond.

So Patience and I were left alone : and when I ventured once
more to expostulate she answered me warmly, and I replying

The Silver Lute 217

in Uke manner, things were said on both sides, I own it with
shame, that were neither kind nor seemly. In the end she
stamped her little foot upon the floor, and faced me with
flashing eyes.

" I know not by what right you presume to exercise author-
ity over me, sir," she exclaimed petulantly; '*but let me
tell you that I will do what seems fitting in my own eyes,
whether it shotdd happen to please you or not."

So saying, she began like a wilful child to skip and twirl
once more about the chamber until, pausing for want of
breath, she stood panting, and eyeing me with an expression
of merry defiance.

I do not know what I should have said or done if there had
not come, as she paused, the sound of the loud clapping of
hands from the door and casement. Swiftly wheeling round,
I perceived a sight that filled me with dismay and bewilder-
ment. I was confronted by the grinning faces of a company
of the King's soldiers, who had noiselessly surrounded the
house while I stood wrangling with Patience. In a moment
they were upon me, but quick as they were I had my back
against the wall and my sword in my hand. I heard Patience
scream as the blades clashed and rang, and I struck and
thrust, and parried with the fury of despair. But what could
any man breathing do against such odds? They hemmed
me in on every side. Turn which way I would, I was met
by the glimmer of naked steel. Yet for awhile, I know
not how I contrived it, I kept them at bay; and then, em-
boldened by my success, made a dash forward, hoping to
cut my way through and so escape. But my foot slipped
on the oaken floor, and I fell on one knee. As I struggled to
my feet, a blow on the head half sttmned me. One clutched
me from behind, others seized my arms, and the sword was
wrenched from my grasp. In the extremity of my despair
I fltmg them aside and made a rush towards the casement;
but again they threw themselves upon me, and I was hurled
bleeding and senseless to the floor.

When I came to myself I was dragged roughly to my feet.
My hands were botmd behind me; and I was led before the
officer in command, a gaily attired yotmg gallant, who lolled
negligently in an arm-chair and eyed me with a cool, insolent
smile.

2i8 The Silver Lute

"You are Captain Watson, of the garrison of Moor Hall,
are you not?" said he.

"Yes," I answered, wondering as I spoke how he came to
know my name and station. Sure someone must have in-
formed him, for I had never set eyes on him before. Was
it possible that I had been betrayed? Ay, truly was it,
for in those evil days many a better man than I had met with
such a fate. But by whom? Then swift as thought it was
borne in upon me that there was only qne man who could
gain aught by delivering me into the hands of the enemy,
and that was none other than Master Dick Greville. I had
long suspected that he cherished a more than cousinly
regard for Mistress Patience, and therefore could not endure
that I should have speech alone with her. He had left me
in anger, with fierce looks and bitter words, and plainly con-
sumed by spite and jealousy. Doubtless he had known
that the enemy were in the neighbourhood, and had promptly
informed them of my presence.

And then — ah, may no such black moment ever darken
my life again! — I remembered how Patience had whispered
in his ear as he left the chamber, and I could scarce stifle a
groan of despair. Was it possible that she, too, was in the
plot, had grown weary of my solemn face and grave airs,
and had leagued with him to betray me? I glanced hastily
rotmd. She was not present, and my heart sank within me.

"Well, sir," continued the officer in his cool, quiet voice,
" I must take the liberty of reminding you that there is nothing
in your attire to indicate your rank or profession. In brief,
I find you within our lines in disguise, and am justified in
regarding you as a spy, and stringing you without ceremony
to the nearest tree."

I confess that my blood ran cold at his words. I had
hitherto forgotten that I was attired as a plain coimtry
gentleman, and might consequently be treated as a spy
by the enemy. And yet it angered me that so baseless an
accusation should be brought against me.

"I am no spy, and that you know right well, sir," I ex-
claimed indignantly; "and if you treat me otherwise than as
a prisoner of war you will assuredly be called to account
for it."

Whereupon he shrugged his shoulders with a contemptuous
gesture.

The Silver Lute 219

"Pshaw!" said he, "I have quite sufficient evidence to
satisfy myself that you are a spy, and only your bare word
for it that you are not one. Therefore I shall deal with
you as I think fit, and in a way that will be little to your
liking, unless — " he paused and eyed me with a meaning
look — "unless you are prepared to prove that you have seen
the error of your ways, and have once more become a loyal
subject of the King."

"In other words," said I, "you wotdd have me play the
traitor?"

"As you will," he answered impatiently. "I will not
bandy words with you, but will deal very plainly with you
and be done with it. There is, so I am informed,, a secret
passage into the Hall, by which it is possible the garrison
may be surprised and the place taken. If you instantly
agree to point out that passage, your life shall be spared;
it not, as sure as you stand there before me you shall be
hanged as a spy. Come, time presses. What is your answer
— yes or no?"

There was but one answer possible, and that I gave.

"No," said I; but though I held my head high and spoke
out bravely, I shame not to acknowledge that my heart sank
within me. I have faced death on the battlefield — I can
say it without vanity — as readily as most men; but to die
with a rope about my neck, to be thrust into an unknown
and dishonored grave — ^that, I own, was a fate that I found
it no easy task to meet with becoming fortitude. But not
for one moment, thank God! did I dream of escaping it by
betraying the cause I loved, nor, I humbly trust and believe,
did my cotmtenance exhibit any signs of unmanly fear.

The officer glanced carelessly at the clock.

" 'Tis yet some minutes to the hour," said he. " If by the
time the clock strikes four you alter your mind and agree to
point out the passage, I give you my word of honour that
you shall go free and receive a generous reward; but if you
still remain obstinate I will have you swung from the nearest
tree as I would grim old Oliver himself."

Then he turned to a young man who stood near him.

"Plague take it, comet," said he, "can you not get me a
cup of wine, or at least a flagon of ale? 'Tis thirsty work,
this prating. And, hark ye, what hath become of the pretty
Puritan who was skipping so merrily about the chamber when

220 The Silver Lute

we entered it? Bring her hither, lad. I would have speech
with her. By my faith, I never set eyes on a daintier piece
of flesh and blood since the brave old days at Whitehall."

A few minutes later a serving man entered with the wine,
and close behind him, in her silk gown and jewels, came
Patience, not pale and trembling as I had expected, but blush-
ing and smiling and curtse3dng as though charmed to obey
the summons of the handsome yoimg officer. He was in-
stantly on his feet, and removing his plumed hat, approached
her with a sweeping bow.

"This is indeed a pleasure," said he. "May I venture
to ask your name, my pretty mistress?"

"Patience Goodwin, if it please you, sir," she rejoined
with another curtsey.

"By my faith, it pleases me very much," said he, "and I
beg that you will honour our poor company with your presence,
Mistress Patience, during the short time we remain here."

So saying, he offered her his hand and led her to a seat,
simpering and bowing, and uttering the foolish flatteries
which such creatures have ever at command to whisper in
a lady's ear. Never, I think, in all my life have I endured
such DMsery. My arms were botmd, I was face to face with
death — a shameful and dishonourable death — and I stood
there helpless, watching this fine, swaggering gallant make
open love to her I had hoped would one day become my wife.

Ah, but what cut me to the heart was the conduct of
Patience herself. Scarce a glance she cast at me, but laughed
and jested with my executioners, even consenting to drink
the health of the King to curry favour, as it seemed, with
these rollicking swashbucklers. Sure, I had not thought
that in all the wide world a maid could have been found
so cold, so cruel and callous. Presently the officer's eye
fell upon the lute.

"I doubt not you have some skill in music. Mistress Pa-
tience," said he. "May I not beg of you to favour us with
a song? If you would be so kind I should be infinitely
obUged."

I could scarce stifle a groan, for Patience instantly took
up the lute.

"I will do so willingly, sir," said she; "but I fear I shall
give but little pleasure to one who is doubtless a judge of such
matters."

The Silver Lute 291

Her fingers wandered softly over the strings as she played
a brief prelude, and I noted that while she did so the young
man who had gone to summon her leaned forward and whis-
pered hurriedly in the officer's ear. Whereupon the latter
made a swift movement as though about to rise from his
seat, but after a quick glance at the clock he seemed to change
his mind, and sat drumming lightly on the table with his
fingers as though keeping time to the music, while his keen
eyes were fixed on Patience with a peculiar smile. For a
moment I thought she grew pale as he watched her, and that
her fingers trembled on the strings; but if it were so, she
instantly recovered her self-possession and began to sing.
Then, indeed, strange as it may seem, I forgot all else. I had
never heard her sing before, and truly, I think, never thrush
or nightingale had a sweeter or truer voice.

Clear and pure the sweet voice rang out, and instantly
every other sotmd was hushed as if by magic, and I saw the
nigged, bronzed faces of the troopers gathering about the
open casement. Even the officer 's cold face seemed to soften,
and as for me, my heart melted within me, and the tears rose
to my eyes. It was not, I think, the words that moved me,
nor even the mtisic, though writ, as I have been told, by
that most excellent musician, Master Henry Lawes. Twas
something in the tones of the clear yotmg voice that aroused
memories of the dear faces I should never see again, of the
joys and sorrows I had known, of the hopes I had vainly
cherished, of all the sadness and the sweetness of my brief
pilgrimage upon the earth.

''Bravo, bravo!" cried the officer, slapping the table with
his open hand. ** Right well stmg. By my word, my pretty
Puritan, you sing like an angel, and if Heaven be peopled
with such I will henceforth amend my ways in the hope of
getting there. And yet I know not whether I wotdd sooner
hear you sing, or see you trip and glide about the floor as
you did so charmingly when we had the good forttme to
enter the chamber. When the King enjoys his own again
we must have you at Whitehall; and I promise you there will
not be one to outshine you among all the fair ladies of the
Court. Truly I grieve that my duty compels me to bid you
farewell for the present, but I trust we shall soon meet again. "

**Nay, nay," she exclaimed eagerly, "I pray you go not
yet. Sure you are not in such haste that you may not tarry

222 The Silver Lute

a little longer? I know yet another song that in truth I think
will please you. 'Twas writ by Master Wither, and few know
it save I. Stay but a moment and I will sing it to you."

Verily I was sick at heart with shame and grief to hear her
speak thus; and prayed that God might forgive her for her
levity and coldness of heart, and was almost glad to die.
But as she was about to take up the lute the officer laid his
hand on her arm with a strange, ironical smile, and I saw her
face grow white as she shrank back, and gazed at him with
wide, frightened eyes.

**Not so, my fair mistress," said he. "I wotdd not tarry
one instant longer were you the Queen of Lrove herself, and
I will tell you why."

As he spoke he glanced with a grim smile at the clock. "You
have played your part well, Mistress Patience," he continued.
"By this time your messenger that the comet here saw
scampering across the fields like a rabbit has no doubt reached
Moor Hall, and the Roundheads are in the saddle ready to
ride to the rescue. But they will come too late, let me tell
you. Ah, you turn pale and tremble! You thought you
had tricked me very prettily — eh? Not so, if it please you.
Corporal, find a fitting tree, and get the rope ready."

Then as I looked at the pitiful white face of Mistress Pa-
tience, her outstretched, trembling hands, her appealing,
tear-filled eyes, I perceived the truth as last. During all the
time I had supposed her to be given up to cruel and heartless
frivolity she had but been striving to lure my captors into
forgetfulness tmtil help arrived. And Dick — whom I had
so ungenerously misjudged — ^was no doubt the messenger who,
at the risk of his life, had darted away to bring my comrades
to the rescue.

Then Patience fell on her knees before him, the tears trick-
ling down her pale cheeks. He tried to put her gently aside,
but she clung to his hands and would not let go him.

"No, no, no!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no! you shall not go
tmtil you promise me to spare his Ufe. He is not guilty; you
know right well he is not guilty. Oh, sir, be merciful! Give
me your promise. Sure you will not refuse me ; you have not
the heart to refuse me!"

i^ I know not whether his heart melted at the sight, or whether
he had from the first but threatened me with death in order
to induce me to point out the passage; but suddenly calling to

The Silver Lute ^ 223

the troopers to follow him, he rushed from the room. An
instant later he flashed past the casement on his horse, with
his men clattering at his heels. Off they went like birds on
the wing, brave to a fatdt when need be, but wary as brave,
ever ready to drink a health, to kiss a maid, to scout and
skirmish and foray, or charge home with reckless daring.
Such, as I knew them, were these gallant cavaliers, wild,
careless, jovial, and, I fear, too often profligate, but ever an
enemy that it was an honor to meet face to face on the
battlefield. Mounted on swift, light horses, they contrived
to evade our more heavily armed troopers, and so escaped.

In the meantime Patience had quickly unbound my hands;
and I would have hurried out to take part in the chase, but
she held me back.

**0h, John," she said, **you will forgive me, will you not?
And I will never wear silks or jewels, or dance or sing again."

I took her hands in n^ne, and looked down at her fondly;

but I think she could not see the expression upon my face

for the tears that blinded her eyes.

\ ** I will be grave and quiet enough from henceforth, John,"

\ she said pitiftdly. "I thought they would have slain you

\ and that you would never know that, however foolish and

^ vain I may be, I ever tnily loved you. Oh, I have been

taught a lesson this day — indeed, indeed I have!"

" Nay, it is I who have been taught the lesson, sweetheart,"
said I; '*and I thank God He hath spared my life that I
may profit by it. Who am I that I should presume to scorn
the good gifts which He hath bestowed upon us — ^the delight
in sweet sounds and graceful motions — ay, even m fair
raiment and precious stones? If one so pure in heart as
you, child, can take innocent pleasure in such things, they
can never again seem evil in my eyes. So wear your silks
and jewels, and play and sing as you will; and as for Dick — "

* ' Ay, ' ' said a laughing voice, * * what of Dick ? * '

I looked up and saw his merry face gazing in at us from
the casement, framed by the red and white roses that clustered
upon the wall.

"Why, Dick," said I, "shaU dance at our wedding;" and
we all three laughed, and none more gaily than I.

ULFAN: The Story of a
Mohammedan Girl, by Howard
Fisher*

^ ^ ^

PIR Mohammed Shafi sat on his roof telling his beads and
saying his prayers. "God is good! God is good!
There is but one God and Mohammed is his Prophet!'* His
eyes had a new light in them, the stem fire of the Moham-
medan enthusiast and mystic was tempered with anxiety, and
with love for the wife whom the midwife had in charge below.
A child was being bom into the world, and the prophet had
been banished to the roof. "God grant that it be a boy,"
he prayed, "grant that it be a boy!" And again the beads
flew through the nervous fingers of the anxious man. " God
is good! God is good!" Surely his prayers would be heard
and answered according to the desire of his heart. Had not
the dai (midwife) assured him that it wotdd be a son? Thrice
had he dreamed that it would be so. Had he not long
prayed for this one thing.? And see! the new moon! the star
and. crescent of Mohammed ! Had it ever been so bright
as on this natal night? Was he not a priest of the great
Prophet? Had not his father and his father's father served
in this same priesthood? Was his star not then linked with
that of the great master, and was not that star now in the
ascendant ?

He turned his eyes from the brilliant crescent and rested them
lovingly on the huge dome of the Delhi musjid (mosque) all
flooded with the moonlight . How often he had read the prayers,
how often he had preached within those walls. God willing,
his son should take his place and stand where so often he had
stood. Dreams? No! Was he not called Pir, prophet of
Mohammed?

♦Written for Short Stories.

Zulfan 225

Wrapped in his thoughts, confident that the dai*s predic-
tions and his own visions would be fulfilled, he sat silent,
thinking of the happy hours to come, when he on this same
roof would unfold to his son the mystery and lessons of the
blessed Koran.

Soft was the moonlight, balmy the midnight air, all laden
with the perfume and fragrance of an India springtime. The
city lay below him wrapped in sleep. Even the dogs had
ceased their baying. Shadows fell softly on the houses
rotmd about, hiding scars that the midday sun deUghted to
expose. The checkered parapets, newly whitewashed, took
on the tints of purest marble. Over by the grove of banyan
trees the great bathing pool, dark and sombre here, glistening
there, the star and crescent mirrored on its bosom, seemed
crystal pure water instead of the foul and stagnant thing it
was. Beyond the Agra gate, the trunk road leading to
Cantonments shone white and hard between the shrubs and
trees that bordered it on either side. How it glared in the
fierce India sun! How cool it seemed to-night!

Prom the Hindu quarter, as though a challenge to the
musjid, the white temple of the Jains with golden peaked
spire and fantastic pictures of the heathen gods, stood out
like some rich cameo, clear cut against the cloudless sky.

How sweet, how tranquil, how perfect the night! "God
is good! God is good! '* The beads slipped from the fingers'.
grasp, the head drooped and the prophet slept, to dream of a
new-bom son, a revival of the faith; a Jihad (holy war) that
should end in triumph over both idolator and Christian.

Down below, in the women's quarters, all was bustle and
excitement. Charms and amulets and prayers were hung
around the sick wife's bed. The little room was filled with
women; kinsfolk, friends and helpers. Platters of sweets,
betel and native delicacies were being passed from guest to
guest. Near the walls were placed basins and lotas of water.
On a charpai (bed) were laid out Uttle silken paijamas,
dainty silken coat and cap all trimmed with gUttering beads
and golden braid, the pride and handiwork of the invalid.

**See, sisters, see!" cried one, taking up the little suit,
"how pretty the boy will look!" Even as she spoke, another
clapped her hand over the speaker's mouth and angrily
rebuked her.

** How dare you, Zulfan! Have you lost your wit that you

226 Zulfan

speak so before the child is bom? Do you not know that
such words will bring misfortune, or have you knowingly
done this thing?** A smothered titter escaped from some,
others shook their heads at the ill-omen, the ill-timed words.

** Forgive me," broke in the ardent Zulfan, **I meant no
harm! You know I meant no harm!"

But the dais would not have it so. Had they not seen evil
come from just such words? They had promised that it
should be a boy, but to speak so plainly would surely bring
bad luck. They were in command and she must not remain
within the room, lest she cast an evil eye upon the mother or
speak some other thoughtless word.

At last the suspense and waiting were over. The good God,
and not the Devil, had sent a baby girl to bless the childless
couple. The dais cast furtive glances at each other and
held their tongues for once. They were chagrined and dis-
appointed. They dared not tell the mother nor the master.
They would get no rich present now, only their fee and with
it much abuse. The little babe was almost roughly laid
to one side and neglected, and obsequious attention paid the
mother.

"Amiram,'* whispered the sick woman, alarmed at the
silence of her nurse, *'tell me, is it a — " she could say no
more, she dared not say the word.

"No, Bibi" (mistress), *'the crazy Zulfan spoiled it all
with her evil tongue. But, see, Bibi, it is a dear little thing,
perfect in every way. It will be a great beauty," and Amiram
reached over to show the mother her babe, her first and only
child.

*'No, no, take it away, I cannot see it now. Oh! the
Master, the Master, what will he say?" Sobbing with her
emotion, the unhappy mother turned her face to the wall
and would say no more. She cared not whether she lived
or died. Her husband would cease to love her. Only a
girl!

The women offered her no congratulations. Silent, or
in whispering groups, they gathered near the doorway. By
look and gesture Zulfan was made to feel that she was the
cause of the disappointment. The old mother-in-law heaped
abuse upon her. She lashed her with her tongue until
Zulfan, unable to endure it any longer, turned upon her
tormentor.

Zulfan 227

** I meant no wrong and did no wrong. You are a set of
superstitious fools. You are the wicked ones. Look, the
little one still cries and yet not a finger is raised to comfort
her. Shame upon you. Are you, too, not women, were
you not little once, girls, babies? The Padri's wife says
truly that it is our own fatdt we women are what we are,
the servants and slaves of our husbands. The bachcha
(baby) cries, I say ; will you comfort it or shall I ? " Ashamed,
astonished at her words, they stood dumb, while she, suiting
action to words, took up the friendless infant and hushed
it to sleep. It was Zulfan now who was mistress. **Go!"
she said, **go send word to the Pir-sahib." But not a hand
or foot was moved. Who would carry such news as theirs
to the waiting father?

** Cowards ! *' said Zulfan. '* Were it proper, I myself would
go.** " Amiram, it is you with your foolish predictions that
have filled the Pir-sahib*s heart so full with the certainty
of a son that there is no room for a daughter. Go you and
tell the father!*' Glad to have the burden fixed upon others
than themselves, servants, dais, even the mother-in-law
joined in the command, and Amiram, slowly and reluctantly,
dreading to break the news, quitted the room and mounted
the stairs to the roof.

Along the eastern sky the first faint light of approaching
day was breaking up the night. The birds began to twitter.
From a minaret of the mosque came the Muezzin *s call to
prayers, awakening the sleeper from his dreams of sonship
and triumph. Smiling and light of heart, he turned toward
the rising sun and knelt in prayer. But the smile that lighted
upon his face darkened to a frown when from the Hindu temple
as though to mock him, came the clash of a score of bells,
and the conch shells * mournful bellow. The Brahmin priests
were waking up their gods. Faint and sweet, yet full of
meaning, upon the morning breeze came the English bugler 's
reveille, reminding him of the hated English yoke, of a glory
that once belonged to the followers of the Prophet. The
frown deepened, the eyes, deep set, glowed with suppressed
emotion. He turned to leave the roof and there before him,
prostrate on her knees, hands clasped before her face, her
eyes cast down, was Amiram, the dai.

"Huzur!" she said, **Huzur!" but could proceed no
ftirther. In an instant he grasped the significance of her

228 Zulfan

posture, of her faltering tongue. His visions were dreams.
Hope fled. The disappointment of his life had come. Com-
manding himself lest a woman should see his emotion, he
hastened to reply.

**It is enough; go, bring the child!" Glad to escape so
easily, Amiram hastened below.

** Quick, the bachcha,'* she said, "the Master is coming
and will see it." Trusting that the father's heart would
be softened and warmed at sight of the little one, Zulfan
yielded up her charge, and the dai hurried out. Silently she
placed her burden in the parent's arms, silently he bowed
his head, kissed its brow and returned it to the nurse.

**God is good!** he muttered with the resignation of his
faith, and then, **Its mother, Dai, is she doing well.? The
law forbids that I should see her now, but take her my salaams
and congratulations and let no ill befall her. If I am needed,
send to the mosque.**

Seated in their dolis (sedan chairs) with curtains closed
and burqa drawn over face and form, the women took their
departure, and the household resumed somewhat of its
accustomed routine.

Days sUpped into weeks and weeks, to years. The little
Zulfan, for she was so called, was bright of mind and warm
of heart. Unmindful of the day when the parda system
wotdd claim her for its own and hedge her around, she played
at will in the courtyard or the alley close at hand. Seated
astride her father's hips, she visited the bazaars so full of
interest and life with its ever changing scenes. Now and then,
with mahout seated cross-legged upon his neck, an elephant
would come blundering along, his big ears going flap, flap,
his small eyes twinkling with merriment as the people stepped
nimbly by to let him pass. Again an endless train of camels,
all laden with bags of wheat, slipped softly along to the ware-
house of baniya Lala Singh. Always there was the mitai-
wala to be visited, where her little fists and mouth were stuffed
full of native sweets. No less interesting was the evening
stroll out on the great trunk road, on which her father some-
times took her, where she could see the Sahib-log (English)
the lords of the land, in their grand eqtiipages and strange
garments.

But she soon learned to fear what now so interested her.
One day the Civil Surgeon's Chaprasi came to see her father.

Zulfan 229

To Zulfan he was stirely some very important individual,
the bearer of important news. His bright red coatTwas
resplendent with golden braid. The sash across his breast,
holding the shining lettered plate of his office, was^equally
gorgeous. The winter's tour of vaccination was at hand,
and the Civil Surgeon was bent on seeing it most thoroughly
performed. He would stamp the smallpox from his dis-
trict and Zulfan, along with other children, must be vac-
cinated. Resistance was useless, for the Sirkar (government)
had a hard and long-reaching hand. Besides, the father was
too wise not to see the wisdom of the order. He had seen too
many sightless eyes, too many ruined ears and scarred faces.

On the morrow, in deference to his rank, and secretly hoping
for a bakhshish for their concession, two inspectors called
at the prophet's gate. Into the little courtyard, in the order
of their rank, they stepped, and behind them, almost too
exhausted too walk, its bones all but cutting through the
skin, was dragged and pushed a buifalo calf. Roughly
they tied its legs, roughly they threw the sick beast over on
its side. Zulfan, screaming and frightened, held tightly
in her father's arms, was scratched and cut with the knife.
The pustule on the calf's belly was opened, the virus applied
to the smarting arm. In three places they left the marks
of their handiwork. Such were their orders, for the govern-
ment would take no risks; and then one victim was taken to
the zanana to be comforted by a waiting mother, the other
dragged away to further torture.

Poor little Ztdfan! Her first trial had come and gone.
Her father and the Civil Surgeon had saved her from the
smallpox, would her father's wisdom help her in the days
to come?

Conscious of the benefit and pleasure that the Padri's
wife gave her, the godmother, Zulfan, planned and schemed
that her young friend, now some ten years old, should share
her lessons. It took a long time and many kisses and entrea-
ties from the little maid before the father gave his consent,
for he was of the old school, holding hard to the traditions
of the past, seeing only harm for women in a greater freedom
and enlightenment than they now possessed. However,
the girl might have her way, he could surely take good care
that the Christian's teaching did not sink too deeply. Twice
a week, under the old ayah's charge, she visited the elder

230 Zulfan

Zulfan's house to hear the Gospel read, to leam her Urdu,
her figures and the art of sewing. Now and then the zanana
worker called on Zulfan and her mother, and many a keen
discussion had the father and the memsahib.

What the memsahib taught his daughter about Christ
and Christianity the parent straightway untaught. It was
monstrous even to think that God should have a son. Was
he as mortal men that he should have a wife ? Christ was a
good man, but son of God — never! It was a blasphemy.
No, the Christian was in error; the true Ingil (Gospel) had
been lost. God is God, there is but one God, and Mohammed
is his Prophet.

To fill her with the bigotry and pride of her race and faith,
he told the stories of the old-time glory of the Moghul, when
her fathers and not the English ruled in India; stories of
Cadijah, of the beautiful Ayeshah, the child wife of Moham-
med ; of Fatima and the beloved Nur Mahal, wife of the great
Shah Jahangir. He kept her Mohammedan heart and soul.
She was his daughter and he was priest and prophet of Mo-
hammed.

But the days had come when she was no longer a child, days
when the zanana laid hold upon her with its rigid rules.
The girl had grown a woman, and how glorious she was in
her young womanhood, how dear to her father now. Lithe
and graceful of limb and body, with clear cut features, olive
tinted skin and deep brown eyes, she was a woman that
mothers would be sure to seek in marriage for their sons, a
woman whose beauty no man, save her own father or her
husband, might look upon. She was a parda nashin.

It was midsummer and the rains had just begun. Pir
Mohammed Shafi sat on his roof and thought of his daughter.
She was ill, seriously ill, and the good man knew not what to
do. The moon shone just as brightly as it did one spring-
time eighteen years ago, but the perfume was not the same
as then. The blossoms of the orange and shrubs had been
withered and blown away by the burning luh (winds) and
in their stead came the reek of refuse from the stables round
about, and of filth in the alley just below. Not a breath of
air was stirring. It was hot; hot and htunid as only India
knew how to be.

For months Zulfan had been ailing. Dais, native hakims

Zulfan 231

(doctors), English patent medicines bought in the bazaar,
charms and verses from the Koran, had all been tried in
vain. Monsoon weather was aggravating the malady, and
father, mother and old ayah were greatly distressed. The
air and heat within doors were unendurable; so, stretched upon
her charpai, into the courtyard she was borne and there
mother and ayah, squatting on either side, fanned her and
ministered to her wants.

"Mother,*' said Zulfan, **my strength is slipping from me
fast; see how thin my hand. Mother, shall we not send for
the Doctor-sahib? The memsahib has urged it many times;
our desi (native) medicines have done no good.'*

**But, Zulfan, even if I consented, what would your father
say? You know that he has no love for the English. Re-
member, too, that you are a parda woman and that the
Doctor-sahib cannot see you.** Tears filled the sick girFs
eyes. She was too tired to argue or to press her request.

"Oh, child! child!** said the mother, stirred by her daugh-
ter*s tears. ** What can we women do ? We are what Zulfan
said of us when you were bom, slaves and servants, shut up
within Zanana walls, lest we betray our husbands or do some
other wicked thing- But, dear heart, you shall have your wish.
I have said it. The Doctor-sahib will come.** Long and earn-
estly the parents talked that night. It meant expense of purse
that they could ill afford. It meant the prying of the hated
foreigner into their inner life. It ended with a message to the
Civil Surgeon.

There were three of them who bore it, well dressed, native
gentlemen, relatives of the Pir-sahib.

"Huzur,**said the speaker, addressing the Civil Surgeon
as he sat on his verandah, "the Pir-sahib, Mohammed Shaft
sends his bahut, bahut salaams and begs that you come
to see his daughter who is very ill. Huzur need not bother to
order his cart; our own is at his service.**

Should he go? His own bungalow was so cool, his day*s
work just finished. The city was still ablaze with heat,
its many smells were stifling. Should he go ? And then came
thoughts of wife and daughter, strong and well in the Simla
Hills. Rising, he questioned the speaker: "Who is Moham-
med Shafi? Is the girl really very ill? I have been called to

232 Ztdfan

the city before on a fool's errand. Will not the native doctor,
my assistant, do ? "

*No, Sahib, the assistant wotild not do. Huzur was a great
doctor. The girl was very ill. Huzur 's kindness was known
all over the city. Huzur 's fee should be paid then and there.'
Their importunity knew no bounds.

Reluctantly, the Civil Surgeon promised them what skill
he had and, piloted by his captors, was soon threading the
mazes of a native city. Often had he driven through the
great bazaars; seldom had he ventured into such by-ways
and alleys as he now trod. Holding his nose and gasping
for breath, he wondered to what hidden spot they were
leading him. Before a pair of rough doors they stopped
and knocked. Some bolts were quickly drawn and they were
ushered into a little courtyard, Zulfan's old time play-
ground ; her sick chamber now.

With undisgidsed curiosity, the Sahib gazed about him.
On all four sides were high brick walls, walls whose blankness
was only broken here and there by little windows, built
to let but a feeble ray of light into the apartments just beyond.
The whole place was suggestive of dark deeds, of suffering,
imprisoned women, and the doctor's thoughts went, back
to the tales of his long forgotten Arabian Nights-
Rising from his cushion and rug and relinquishing the
hookah that had filled the court with its odor, the father,
salaaming and dignified, came forward to meet his guest.

* Huzur was very kind to come. Would Huzur have some
sherbet ? Some mita pani (lemonade) ? Would Huzur cause
his distinguished person to seat itself?'

"No, thank you, Pir-sahib!" hastily replied the surgeon.
"But tell me what is wrong with my patient and then let
me see her."

Briefly, the father told him what he knew, and then
added: "Will Huzur bring his presence this way?"

Before a large parda they placed a chair and with many
apologies explained the situation.

"Huzur may not see her, she is a parda woman. Sahib.
She lies behind the curtain. Will Huzur question her?"

The physician was disgusted, and Zulfan, timid and fright-
ened now that the Englishman sat so near, increased his dis-
pleasure by her inarticulate replies. Hot and tired, unable

Zulfan 233

to comprehend the situation, half angrily he turned upon
the parent. ** Pir-sahib, this is sheer nonsense. I can accomp-
lish]nothing. Either you must let me see my patient or I
give her up."

Again the father and his friends explained why he could
not see her. It was a matter of family honor, a social law
that they dared not break. The girl was frightened. If
Huzur would try again, his question would be answered.

It was his first glimpse into the zanana of a high caste
family and he was interested. He would try once more.

"At least I may feel her pulse?"

Yes, that they would allow.

Prom under the parda a small, bloodless hand was thrust,
the tips of the finger nails stained with the inevitable red.
The pulse was soft and rapid, the hand hot with fever. Gently
the doctor replaced the hand upon the couch and addressed
the father.

'* Pir-sahib," said he, rising as he spoke, **you have placed
me in a very trying situation. I may not see nor examine
my patient. Nevertheless, as you say, the girl is very ill
and there is but one remedy that will help her. Drugs
count for but little in her case. Your daughter must have
fresh air. You may take her out in a closed carriage, if you
wish, but fresh air and plenty of it she must have. Do you
understand?"

"Huzur!"

As the doctor went out from that oven of a courtyard,
even the air in the alley seemed fresher and cooler, and he
thought to himself;

"Why did the Lord ever send Dives to -the lower regions
when he had India so close at hand?*'

Two days had passed and the Civil Surgeon was making
his second call.

"Well, Pir-sahib, how is the daughter?"

"Worse, Doctor-sahib, she has had no rest. The fever
bums her up."

"Did you give her the medicine?"

"No, Sahib, the native hakim took it away and gave her
something else."

"Did you give her the diet I prescribed?"

"No, sahib, she wanted some native sweets, and we gave
them."

234 Zulfan

**Have you taken her for a drive, or given her a change of
air?"

**No, Sahib, my caste would not allow that, she is a parda-
nashin. I could not think of it."

'*Pir-sahib," said the surgeon, **I came reluctantly, at
your earnest entreaty, to see your daughter. You have
deliberately ignored what I especially commanded. Pir-
sahib, do you really love your daughter? If you do, then
act on my advice and give her a change of air. Keep her
cooped up in this infernal place, and a few more days will
see her dead. Do you understand? Your parda system
is killing her. What are you going to do?*'

The tears gathered in the father's eyes. *'God knows,
Sahib, that I love this child, but I cannot do it. I would
rather she died, and so would she, than that other than her
own people should see her. It is our way. Sahib. It is her
kismet."

They never called the surgeon again. But the sadness,
the hoplessness of it all drew him once more to the city.
Again he was threading those hot, stifling streets, and alleys.
As he drew near, he knew that Zulfan's kismet had come.
Even accustomed as he was to deathbed scenes, he sighed as
the lamentations and wailing of women reached him. All
the old hags of the city, professional mourners, all Zulfan's
female relatives were there, weeping and crying with oriental
abandonment.

"Hae! hae! margaya, margaya! (Dead! Dead!)"

In unison thy sang their death song. In even cadence
their voices rose and fell. Over and over they repeated
the refrain.

He stepped to the half-closed door and looked into the
court. Around the dead Zulfan, laid upon her bed, and
wrapped in a plain white sheet, knelt the women, beating
their poor naked breasts and clutching at their streaming
hair. Not a man was to be seen. Again the surgeon thought
of the wife and daughter in the cool Simla hills.

"Thank God for Christianity!" he muttered, as he turned
homeward.

HE Connemara Mare:

A Story of the Dublin Horse
Show, by £♦ OE* Somerville
and Martin Ross*

THE gray mare, who had been one of the last, if not the
very last, of the sales at the Dublin Horse Show, was
not at all happy in her mind.

Still less so was the dealer's understrapper, to whom fell the
task of escorting her through the streets of Dublin. Her late
owner's groom had assured him that she would "folly him out
of his hand, and that whatever she'd see she wouldn't care for
it nor ask to look at it."

It cannot be denied, however, that when an electric tram
swept past her like a terrace under way, closely followed by
a cart laden with a clanking and horrific reaping machine, she
showed that she possessed powers of observation. The inci-
dent passed off with credit to the understrapper, but when an
animal has to be played like a salmon down the length of
Lower Mount street, and when it barn-dances obliquely along
the north side of Merrion Square, the worst may be looked for
in Nassau street.

And it was indeed in Nassau street, and, moreover, in full
view of the bow window of Kildare Street Club, that the cup
of the understrapper's misfortunes brimmed over. To be
sure, he could not know that the new owner of the gray mare
was in that window ; it was enough for him that a quiescent
and unsuspected piano-organ broke with three majestic
chords into Mascagni's "Intermezzo" at his very ear, and
that, without any apparent interval of time, he was surmount-
ing a heap composed of a newspaper boy, a sandwich man,
and a hospital nurse, while his hands held nothing save a red-

♦Prom Longman's Magazine.

236 The Connemara Mart

hot memory of where the rope had been. The smashing of
glass and the clatter of hoofs on the pavement filled in what
space was left in his mind for other impressions.

"She's into the hat shop!" said Mr. Rupert Gunning to
himself in the window of the club, recognizing his. recent
purchase and the full measure of the calamity in one and the
same moment.

He also recognized in its perfection the fact, already
suspected by him, that he had been a fool.

Upheld by this soothing reflection he went out into the
street, where awaited him the privileges of proprietorship.
These began with the dispatching of the mare, badly cut, and
apparently lame on every leg, in charge of the remains of the
understrapper, to her destination. They continued with the
consolation of the hospital nurse, and embraced in varying
pecuniary degrees the compensation of the sandwich man, the
newspaper boy, and the proprietor of the hat shop. During
all the time he enjoyed the unfaltering attention of a fair-
sized crowd,- liberal in comment, prolific of imbecile sug-
gestion. And all these things were only the beginning of the
trouble.

Mr. Gunning proceeded to his room and to the packing of
his portmanteau for that evening's mail-boat to Holyhead in
a mood of considerable sourness. It may be conceded to him
that circumstances had been of a souring character. He had
bought Miss Fanny Fitzroy's gray mare at the Horse Show
for reasons of an imdeniably sentimental sort. Therefore,
having no good cause to show for the purchase, he had made
it secretly ; the sum of sixty pounds, for an animal that he had
consistently crabbed, amotmting in the eyes of the world in
general to a rather advanced love-token, if not a formal
declaration. He had planned no future for the gray mare,
but he had cherished a trembling hope that some day he
might be in a position to restore her to her late owner without
considering the expression in any eyes save those which, a
couple of hours ago, had recalled to him the play of lights in a
Connemara trout stream.

Now, it appeared, this pleasing vision must go the way of
many others.

The August sunlight illumined Mr. Gtmning's folly, and his
bulging portmanteau, packed as brutally as any man in a fit
of passion can pack; when he reached the hall, it also with

The Connemara Mare 237

equal inappropriateness irradiated the short figiire and seedy-
tidiness of the dealer who had been his confederate in the
purchase of the mare.

** What did the vet say, Brennan?" said Mr. Gunning, with
the brevity of ill humor.

Mr. Brennan paused before repljring; a pause laden with
the promise of evil tidings. His short silvery hair glistened
respectably in the sunshine; he had preserved imblemished
from some earlier .phase of his career the air of a family coach-
man out of place. It veiled, though it could not conceal, the
dissolute twinkle in his eye as he replied;

'*He said, sir, if it wasn't that she was something out of
condition, he*d recommend you to send her out to the lions
at the Zoo!'*

The specimen of veterinary humor had hardly the success
that had been hoped for it. Rupert Gtmning's face was so
remarkably void of appreciation that Mr. Brennan abruptly
relapsed into gloom.

**He said he'd only be wasting his time with her, sir; he
might as well go stitch a bog-hole as them wotmds the window
gave her; the tendon of the near fore is the same as in two
halves with it, let alone the shoulder, that's worse again with
her pitching out on the point of it."

" Was that all he had to say ? " demanded the mare's owner.
\v''Well, beyond those remarks he passed about the Zoo, I
should say it was, sir," admitted Mr. Brennan.

There was another pause, during which Rupert asked
himself what the devil he was to do with the mare, and Mr.
Brennan, thoroughly aware that he was doing so, decorously
thumbed the brim of his hat.

"Maybe we might let her get the night, sir," he said, after
a respectftd interval, **and you might see her yourself in the
morning "

**I don't want to see her. I know well enough what she
looks like," interrupted his client irritably. ''Anyhow, I'm
crossing to England to-night, and I don't choose to^miss^the
boat for the fun of looking at an unfortunate brute that's cut
half to pieces!"

Mr. Brennan cleared his throat. "If you were thinking to
leave her in my stables, sir," he said firmly, "I'd sooner be
quit of her. I've only a small place, and I'd lose, too much

238 The Connemara Mare

time with her if I had to keep her the way she is. She might
be on my hands three months and die at the end of it."

The clock here struck the quarter, at which Mr. Gunning
ought to start for his train at Westland Row.

"You see, sir — " recommenced Brennan. It was precisely
at his point that Mr. Gunning lost his temper.

*' I suppose you can find time to shoot her," he said, with a
very red face. ** Kindly do so to-night!"

Mr. Brennan's arid countenance revealed no emotion. He
was accustomed to understanding his clients a trifle better
than they understood themselves, and inscrutable though
Mr. Gunning's original motive in buying the mare had been,
he had during this interview yielded to treatment and fol-
lowed a prepared path.

That night, in the domestic circle, the dealer went so far as
to lay the matter before Mrs. Brennan.

**He picked out a mare that was as poor as a raven —
though she's a good enough stamp if she was in good con-
dition— and tells me to buy her. **What price will I give,
sir?" say I. '* Ye*ll give what they're askin'," says he, **and
that's sixty sovereigns! " I'm thirty years buying horses, and
such a disgrace was never put on me, to be made a fool of
before all Dublin ! Going giving the first price for a mare that
wasn't value for the half of it ! Well; he sees the mare then,
cut into garters below in Nassau street. Devil a hair he
cares! Nor never came down to the stable to put an eye on
her! ** Shoot her!" says he, leppin' up on a car. *' Westland
Row!" says he to the fella." Drive like blazes!" and away
with him! Well, no matter; I earned my money easy, an'
I got the mare cheap!"

Mrs. Brennan added another spoonful of brown sugar to
the porter that she was mulling in a saucepan on the range.

** Didn't ye say it was a yotmg lady that owned the mare,
James?" she asked in a colorless voice.

**Well, you're the divil, Mary!" replied Mr. Brennan in
sincere admiration.

The mail-boat was as crowded as is usual on the last night
of the Horse Show week — overhead flowed the smoke from
the funnels, behind flowed the foam river of wake; the Hill of
Howth receded apace into the west, and its lighthouse glowed
like a planet in the twiUght. Men with cigars aggressively
fit and dinner-ful, strode the deck in couples, and threshed

The Connemara Mare i^g

out the Horse Show and Leopardstown to their uttermost
husks.

Rupert Gunning was also, but with excessive reluctance,
discussing the Horse Show. As he had given himself a good
deal of trouble in order to cross on this particular evening,
and as anyone who was even slightly acquainted with Miss
Fitzroy must have been aware that she would decline to talk
of anjrthing else, sympathy for him is not altogether deserved.
The boat swung softly in a trance of speed, and Miss Fitzroy,
better known to a large circle of intimates as Fanny Fitz,
tried to think the motion was pleasant. She had made a good
many migrations to England, by various routes and classes.
There had, indeed, been times of stress when she had crossed
unostentatiously third-class, trusting that luck and a thick
veil might save her from her friends, but the day after she had
sold a horse for sixty potmds was not the day for a daughter of
Ireland to study economics. The breeze brought warm and
subtle wafts from the machinery; it also blew wisps of hair
into Fanny Fitz's eyes and over her nose, in a manner much
revered in fiction, but in real life usually unbecoming and
always exasperating. She leaned back on the bench and
wondered whether the satisfaction of crowing over Mr. Gun-
ning compensated her for abandoning the tranquil security
of the Ladies' Cabin.

Mr. Gtmning, though less contradictious than his wont, was
certainly one of the most deliberately tmsympathetic men she
knew. None the less he was a man, and someone to talk to,
both points in his favor, and she stayed on.

'* I just missed meeting the man who bought my mare," she
said, recurring to the subject for the fourth time ; *' apparently
he didn't think her *a leggy, long-backed brute,' as other
people did, or said they did!"

**Did many people say it?" asked Mr. Gtmning, beginning
to make a cigarette.

** Oh, no one whose opinion signified! " retorted Fanny Fitz,
with a glance from her charming, changeful eyes that sug-
gested that she did not always mean quite what she said. ** I
believe the dealer bought her for a Leicestershire man. What
she really wants is a big country where she can extend herself."

Mr. Gtmning reflected that by this time the grey mare had
extended herself once for all in Brennan's back yard; he had
done nothing to be ashamed of, but he felt abjectly guilty.

240 The Connemara Mare

*' If I go with Maudie to Connemara again next year," con-
tinued Fanny, **I must look out for another. You'll come,
too, I hope? A little opposition is such a help in making up
one's mind! I don't know what I should have done without
you at Leenane last June!"

Perhaps it was the vision of early summer that the words
called up ; perhaps it was the smile, half -seen in the semi-dark
that curved her provoking lips ; perhaps it was comptmction
for his share in the tragedy of the Connemara mare; but pos-
sibly without any of these explanations Rupert would have
done as he did, which was to place his hand on Fanny Fitz's
as it lay on the bench beside him.

She was so amazed that for a moment she wildly thought
he had mistaken it in the darkness for his tobacco pouch.
Then, jimiping, with a shock, to the conclusion that even the
unsympathetic Mr. Gunning shared most men's views about
not wasting an opportunity, she removed her hand with a jerk.

'*0h! I beg pardon!" said Rupert pusillanimously. Miss
Fitzroy fell back again to the tobacco-pouch theory.

At this moment the glowing end of a cigar deviated from
its orbit on the deck and approached them.

**Is that you, Gtmning.? I thought it was your voice,"
said the owner of the cigar.

'* Yes, it is," said Mr. Gunning, in a tone singularly lacking
in encouragement. "Thought I saw you at dinner, but
couldn't be sure."

As a matter of fact, no one could have been more thoroughly
aware than he of Captain Carteret's presence in the saloon.

**I thought so too!" said Fanny Fitz, from the darkness,
*'but Captain Carteret wouldn't look my way!"

Captain Carteret gave a somewhat exaggerated start of
discovery, and threw his cigar over the side. He had evi-
dently come to stay.

" How was it I didn't see you at the Horse Show? " he said.

**The only people one ever sees there are the people one
doesn't want to see," said Fanny. I could meet no one except
the auctioneer from CraflEroe, and he always did the same
thing. ** Fearful sultry day. Miss Fitzroy! Have ye a pur-
chaser yet for your animal, Miss Fitzroy? Ye have not!
Oh, fie, fie!" It was rather fimny at first, but it palled."

** I was only there one day," said Captain Carteret; ** I wish
I'd known you had a horse up, I might have helped you to sell.

The Connemara Mare 241

"Thanks! I sold all right," said Fanny Fitz magnifi-
cently. Did rather well, too!**

** Capital!" said Captain Carteret vaguely. His acqtiaint-
ance with Fanny extended over a three-day shooting party in
Kildare, and a dance given by the detachment of his regiment
at Enniscar, for which he had come down from the depot. It
was not sufficient to enlighten him as to what it meant to her
to own and sell a horse for the first time in her life.

•* By the by, Gtmning," he went on, ** you seemed to be hav-
ing a lively time in Nassau street yesterday! My wife and I
were driving in from the polo, and we saw you in the thick of
what looked like a street row. Someone in the club after-
wards told me it was a horse you had only just bought at the
show that had come to grief. I hope it wasn't much hurt.?"

There was a moment of silence — astonished, inquisitive
silence on the part of Miss Fitzroy; temporary cessation of
the factdty of speech on that of Mr. Gtmning. It was the
moment, as he reflected afterwards, for a clean, decisive lie, a
denial of all ownership ; either that, or the instant flinging of
Captain Carteret overboard.

Unfortunately for him, he did neither; he lied partially,
timorously, and with that clinging to the skirts of the truth
that marks the novice.

"Oh, she was all right," he said, his face purpling heavily
in the kindly darkness. " What was the polo like, Carteret ? "

" But I had no idea that you had bought a horse ! " broke in
Fanny Fitz, in high excitement. "Why didn't you tell
Maudie and me? What is it like.?"

"Oh, it's just a cob — a gray cob — I just picked her up at
the end of the show."

"What sort of a cob? Can she jump? Are you going to
ride her with Freddy's hounds?" continued the implacably
'interested Fanny.

" I bought her as — as a trapper, and to do a bit of carting,"
replied Rupert, beginning suddenly to feel his powers of
invention awakening; "she's quite a common brute. She
doesn't jtmip."

" She seemed to have jumped pretty well in Nassau street,"
remarked Captain Carteret; "as well as I could see in the
crowd, she didn't strike me as if she'd take kindly to carting."

"Well, I do think you might have told us about it!"
reiterated Fanny Fitz. "Men are so ridiculously mysterious

343 The Cannemara Mare

about buying or selling horses. I simply named my price and
got it. / see nothing to make a m3rstery about in a deal; do
you. Captain Cartaret.^"

" Well, that depends on whether you are buying or selling/'
replied Captain Carteret.

But Pate, in the shape of a turning tide and a consequent
roll, played for once into the hands of Rupert Gunning. The
boat swayed slowly, but deeply, and a waft of steam blew
across Miss Pitzroy's face. It was not mere steam; it had
been among hot oily things, stealing and giving odor. Panny
Pitz was not ill, but she knew that she had her limits, and that
conversation, save of the usual rudimentary kind with the
stewardess, were best abandoned.

Miss Pitzroy's movements during the next two and a half
months need not be particularly recorded. They included —

1. A week in London, during which the sixty poimds, or a
great part of it, acquired by the sale of the Connemara mare,
passed imperceptibly into items none of which, on a strict
survey of expenditure, appeared to exceed three shillings and
ninepence.

2. A month at Southsea, with Rupert Gimning's sister,
Maudie Spicer, where she again encountered Captain Carteret,
and entered aimlessly upon a semi-platonic and wholly un-
profitable flirtation with him. During this epoch she wore
out the remnant of her summer clothes and laid in substitutes ;
rather encouraged than otherwise by the fact that she had
long since lost touch with the amount of her balance at the
bank.

3. An expiatory and age-long sojourn of three weeks with
relations at an Essex vicarage, mitigated only by persistent
bicycling with her uncle's curate. The result, as might have
been predicted by any one acquainted with Miss Fitzroy, was
that the curate's aflEections were diverted from the botune long
appointed for them — namely, the eldest daughter of the
house — and that Fanny departed in blackest disgrace, with
the single consolation of knowing that she would never be
asked to the vicarage again.

Finally she returned, third-class, to her home in Ireland,
with nothing to show for the expedition except a new and very
smart habit, and a vague asstu-ance that Captain Carteret
would give her a mount now and then with Freddy Alex-

The Connemara Mare 243

ander's hotinds. Captain Carteret was to be on detachment
at Enniscar.

Mr. William Fennessy, lately returned from America, at
present publican in Enniscar and proprietor of a small farm
on its outskirts, had taken a gray mare to the forge.

It was now November, and the mare had been out at grass
for nearly three months, somewhat to the detriment of her
figure, but very much to her general advantage. Even in
the Southwest of Ireland it is not usual to keep horses out
quite so late in the year, but Mr. Fennessy, having begun his
varied career as a traveling tinker, was not the man to be
bound by convention. He had provided the mare with the
society of a donkey and two sheep, and with the shelter of a
filthy and ruinous cowshed. Taking into consideration the
fact that he had only paid seven pounds ten shilUngs for her,
he thought this accommodation was as much as she was
entitled to.

She was now drooping and dozing in a dark comer of the
forge, waiting to be shod — while the broken spring of a car
was being patched — as shaggy and as dirty a creature as had
ever stood there.

** Where did ye get that one?*' inquired the owner of the
car of Mr. Fennessy, in the course of much lengthy conversa-
tion.

** I got her from a cousin of my own that died down in the
county Limerick," said Mr. Fennessy in his most agreeable
manner. *Twas himself bred her, and she was near desh-
troyed fallin' back on a harra' with him. It's for postin* I
have her."

** She's shlack enough yet," said the carman.

*' Ah, wait awhile!" said Mr. Fennessy easily; "in a week's
time, when I'll have her clipped out, she'll be as clean as
amber."

The conversation flowed on to other themes.

It was nearly dark when the carman took his departure,
and the smith, a silent youth with sore eyes, caught hold of
one of the gray mare's fetlocks and told her to **lift!" He
examined each hoof in succession by the light of a candle
stuck in a bottle, raked his fire together, and then, turning to
Mr. Fennessy, remarked:

'* Ye'd laugh if ye were here the day I put a slipper on this

244 The Connemara Mare

one, an* she afther comin' out o' the thrain — ^last Jxine it was.
*Twas one Connolly back from Craffroe side was taking her
from the station; him that thrained her for Miss Fitzroy.
She gave him the two heels in the face." The glow from the
fire illumined the smith's sardonic grin of remembrance. ** She
had a sandcrack in the near fore that time, and there's the
sign of it yet."

The Cinderella-like episode of the slipper had naturally not
entered into Mr. Fennessy's calculations, but he took the
unforeseen without a change of countenance.

**Well, now," he said deliberately, '*I was sajrin' to meself
on the road a while ago, if there was one this side o' the
counthry would know her it'd be yerself."

The smith took the compliment with a blink of his sore
eyes.

** Annyone'd be hard set to know her now," he said.

There was a pause, during which a leap of sparks answered
each thump of the hammer on the white-hot iron, and Mr.
Fennessy arranged his course of action.

** Well, Larry," he said, "I'll tell ye now what no one in this
counthry knows but meself and Patsey Crimmeen. Sure I
know it's as good to tell a thing to the ground as to tell it to
yerself!"

He lowered his voice.

*' 'Twas Mr. Gunning of Streamstown bought that one from
Miss Fitzroy at the Dublin Show, and a htmdhred pound he
gave for her!"

The smith mentally docked this sum by seventy pounds,
but said, **By dam!" in polite convention.

** 'T wasn't a week afther that I got her for twinty-five
pound!"

The smith made a further mental deduction equally justi-
fied by the facts; the long snore and wheeze of the bellows
filled the silence, and the dirty walls flushed and glowed with
the steady crescendo and diminuendo of the glow.

The ex-tinker picked up the bottle with the candle. '* Look
at that!" he said, lowering the light and displaying a long
transverse scar beginning at the mare's knee and ending in
an enlarged fetlock.

** I seen that," said the smith.

"And look at that!" continued Mr. Fennessy, putting back
the shaggy hair on her shoulder. A wide and shiny patch of

The Connemara Mare 245

black skin showed where the hatter's plate glass had flayed
the shoulder. ** She played the divil goin' through the streets,
and made flithers of herself this way, in a shop window.
Gunning gave the word to shoot her. The dealer's boy
told Patsey Crimmeen. 'Twas Patsey was caring her at the
show for Miss Pitzroy. Shtan', will ye!'* — ^this to the mare,
whose eyes glinted white as she fltmg away her head from the
light of the candle.

''Whatever fright she got she didn't forget it," said the
smith.

"I was up in Dublin meself the same time," pursued Mr.
Fennessy. "Afther I seen Patsey I took a shtroU down to
Brennan's yard. The leg was in two halves, barrin' the
shkin, and the showlder swoU up as big as a sack o' male. I
was three or four days goin' down to look at her this way, and
I seen she wasn't as bad as what they thought. I come in
one morning, and the boy says to me, "The boss has three
horses comin' in to-day, an' I dunno where *11 we put this one."
I goes to Brennan, and he sitting down to his breakfast, and
the wife with him. "Sir," says I, "for the honor of God sell
me that mare!" We had hard strugglin' then. In the
latther end the wife says, " It's as good for ye to part with her,
James," says she, "and Mr. Gunning '11 never know what way
she went. This honest man '11 never say where he got her."
" I will not, ma'am," says I. " I have a brother in the postin'
line in Belfast, and it's for him I'm buyin' her."

The process of making nail-holes in the shoe seemed to
engross the taciturn young smith's attention for the next
minute or two.

"There was a man over from Craffroe in town yesterday,"
he observed presently, "that said Mr. Gunning was lookin'
out for a cob, and he'd fancy one that would lep."

He eyed his work sedulously as he spoke.

Something, it might have been the light of the candle,
woke a flicker in Mr. Pennessy's eye. He passed his hand
gently down the mare's quarter.

"Supposing now that the mane was off her, and something
about six inches of a dock took oflf her tail, what sort of a cob
d'ye think she'd make, Larry?"

The smith, with a sudden falsetto cackle of laughter,
plunged the shoe into a tub of water, in which it gurgled and
spluttered as if in appreciation of the jest.

246 The Connemara Mare

Dotted at intervals throughout society are the people
endowed with the faculty for "getting up things." They are
dauntless people, filled with the power of driving lesser and
deeper reluctant spirits before them; remorseless to the
timid, cameying to the stubborn.

Of such was Mrs. Carteret, with powers matured in hill-
stations in India, mellowed by much voyaging in P. and O.
steamers. Not even an environment as unpromising as that
of Enniscar in its winter torpor had power to dismay her. A
public whose artistic tastes had hitherto been nourished upon
traveling circuses. Nationalist meetings, and missionary
magic lanterns in the Wesleyan schoolhouse, was, she argued,
practically virgin soil, and would ecstatically respond to any
form of cultivation.

" I know there's not much talent to be had," she said com-
batively to her husband, "but we'll just black our faces, and
call ourselves the Green Coons or something, and it will be all
right I"

" Dashed if I'll black my face again," said Captain Carteret ;
*' I call it rot tr)ang to get up anything here. There's no one
to do anything."

"Well, there's ourselves and little Taylour" ("little Tay-
lour," it may be explained, was Captain Carteret's subaltern),
"that's two banjoes and a bones anyhow; and Freddy Alex-
ander; and there's your dear friend Fanny Fitz — she'll be
home in a few days, and those two big Hamilton girls "

"Oh, Lord!" ejaculated Captain Carteret.

"Oh, yes!" continued Mrs. Carteret, unheedingly, "and
there's Mr. Gunning; he'll come if Fanny Fitz does."

"He'll not be much advantage when he does come," said
Captain Carteret spitefully.

"Oh, he sings," said Mrs. Carteret, arranging her neat
small fringe at the glass — "rather a good voice. You needn't
be afraid, my dear, I'll arrange that the fascinating Fanny
shall sit next you!"

Upon this somewhat unstable basis the formation of the
troupe of Green Coons was undertaken. Mrs. Carteret took
off her coat to the work, or rather, to be accurate, she put on
a fur-lined one, and attended a Nationalist meeting in the
Town Hall to judge for herself how the voices carried. She
returned rejoicing — she had sat at the back of the hall, and
had not lost a syllable of the oratory, even during sundry

The Connemara Mare 247

heated episodes, discreetly summarized by the local paper as
"interruptions." The Town Hall was chartered, super-
ficially cleansed, and in the space of a week the posters had
gone forth.

By what means it was accomplished that Rupert Gunning
should attend the first rehearsal he did not exactly under-
stand. He found himself enmeshed in a promise to meet
everyone else at the Town Hall, with tea at the Carterets*
afterwards. Up to this point the fact that he was to appear
before the public with a blackened face had been diplomat-
ically withheld from him, and an equal diplomacy was shown
on his arrival in the deputing of Miss Fitzroy to break the
news to him.

**Mrs. Carteret says it's really awfully becoming," said
Fanny, breathless and brilliant from assiduous practice of a
hornpipe under Captain Carteret's tuition, "and as for
trouble! We might as well make a virtue of necessity in this
incredibly dirty place; my hands are black already, and I've
only swept the stage!"

She was standing at the edge of the platform that was to
serve as the stage, looking down at him, and it may be taken
as a sufficient guide to his mental condition that his abhor-
rence of the prospect for himself was swallowed up by fury
at the thought of it for her.

"Are you — do you mean to tell me you are going to dance
with a black face'' he demanded in bitter and incongruous
wrath.

"No, I'm going to dance with Captain Carteret!" replied
Fanny frivolously, "and so can you if you like!"

She was maddeningly pretty as she smiled down at him,
with her bright hair roughened, and the afterglow of the dance
alight in her eyes and cheeks. Nevertheless, for one whirling
moment, the old Adam, an Adam blissfully unaware of the
existence of Eve, asserted himself in Rupert. He picked up
his cap and stick without a word, and turned toward the door.
There, however, he was confronted by Mrs. Carteret, tugging
at a line of chairs attached to a plank, like a very small bird
with a very large twig. To refuse the aid that she immediately
demanded was impossible, and even before the future back
row of the sixpennies had been towed to its moorings, he
realized that hateful as it would be to stay and join in these

248 The Connemara Mare

distastful revels, it would be better than going home and
thinking about them.

From this the intelligent observer may gather that absence
had had its traditional, but by no means invariable, effect
upon the heart of Mr. Gunning, and, had any further stimu-
lant been needed, it had been supplied in the last few minutes
by the aggressive and possessive manner of Captain Carteret.

The rehearsal progressed after the manner of amateur
rehearsals. The troupe, with the exception of Mr. Gunning,
who remained wrapped in silence, talked irrepressibly, and
quite inappropriately to their r6le as Green Coons. Freddy
Alexander and Mr. Taylour bear-fought untiringly for posses-
sion of the bones and the position of Comer Man; Mrs. Car-
teret alone had a copy of the music that was to be practised,
and in consequence, the company hung heavily over her at
the piano in a deafening and discordant swarm. The two tall
Hamiltons, hitherto speechless by nature and by practice,
became suddenly exhilarated at finding themselves in the
inner circle of the soldiery, and bubbled with impotent sug-
gestions and feverential laughter ' at the witticisms of Mr.
Taylour. Fanny Fitz and Captain Carteret finally removed
themselves to a grimy comer behind the proscenium, and
there practised, sotto voice, the song with banjo accompani-
ment that was to culminate in the hornpipe. Freddy Alex-
ander had gone forth to purchase a pack of cards, in the futile
hope that he could prevail upon Mrs. Carteret to allow him
to inflict conjuring tricks upon the audience.

**As if there was anything on earth that bored people as
much as card tricks!" said that experienced lady to Rupert
Gunning. "Look here, would you mind reading over these
riddles, to see which you like to have to answer. Now here's
a local one. FU ask it — * Why am dis room like de Enniscar
Demesne?' — and then you'll say, 'Because dere am so many
pretty little deers in it! ' "

**0h, I couldn't possibly do that!" said Rupert hastily,
alarmed as well as indignant; **rm afraid I really must go
now "

He had to pass by Fanny Fitz on his way out of the hall.
There was something vexed and forlorn about him, and, being
sympathetic, she perceived it, though not its cause.

** You're deserting us! " she said, looking up at him.

'* I have an appointment," he said stiffly, his'glance evading

The Connemara Mare 340

hers, and resting on Captain Carteret's well-clipped little
black head.

Some of Fanny's worst scrapes had been brought about by
her incapacity to allow any one to part from her on bad terms,
and, moreover, she liked Rupert Gunning. She cast about in
her mind for something conciliatory to say to him.

"When are you going to show me the cob that you bought
at the Horse Show?"

The olive branch thus confidently tendered had a some-
what withering reception.

"The cob I bought at the IJorse Show?'* Mr. Gunning
repeated with an increase of frigidity. "Oh, yes — I got rid
of it."

He p^sed; the twangling of Captain Carteret's banjo
bridged the interval imperturbably.

"Why had you to get rid of it?" asked Fanny, still sympa-
thetic.

"She was a failure!" said Rupert vindictively; "I made
a fool of myself in buying her!"

Fanny looked at him sideways from under her lashes.

"And I had coimted on your giving me a mount on her now
and then!"

Rupert forgot his wrath, forgot even the twangling banjo.

"I've just got another cob," he said quickly, "she jtimps
very well, and if you'd like to hunt her next Tuesday "

"Oh, thanks awftdly, but Captain Carteret has promised
me a mount for next Tuesday! " said the perfidious Fanny.

Mrs. Carteret, on her knees by a refractory footlight,
watched with anxiety Mr. Gtmning's abrupt departure from
the room.

"Fanny!" she said severely, "what have you been doing
to that man?"

"Oh, nothing,"- said Fanny.

"If you've put him off singing I'll never forgive you! " con-
tinued Mrs. Carteret, advancing on her knees to the next
footlight.

"I tell you I've done nothing to him," said Fanny Fitz,
guiltily.

"Give me the hammer!" said Mrs. Carteret. "Have I
eyes, or have I not?"

"He's awfully keen about her!" Mrs. Carteret said that

250 The Cofinemara Mare

evening to her husband. **Bad temper is one of the worst
signs. Men in love are always cross."

**0h, he's a rotter!" said Captain Carteret conclusively.

In the meantime the object of this condemnation was
driving his ten Irish miles home, by the light of a frosty full
moon. Between the shafts of his cart a trim-looking mare of
about fifteen hands trotted lazily, forging, shying, and gen-
erally comporting herself in the only way possible to a grass-
fed animal who had been in the hands of such as Mr. William
Fennessy. The thick and dingy mane that had hung im-
partially on each side of her neck, now, together with the
major portion of her voltiminous tail, adorned the manure
heap in the rear of the Fennessy public house. The pallid
fleece in which she had been muffled had given place to a
polished coat of iron-gray, that looked black in the moonlight.
A week of over-abundant oats had made her opinionated, but
had not, so far, restored to her the fine-lady nervousness that
had landed her in the window of the hat shop.

Rupert laid the whip along her fat sides with bitter dis-
favor. She was a brute in harness, he said to himself, her
blemished fetlock was uglier than he had at first thought, and
even though she had yesterday schooled over two miles of
country like an old stager, she was too small to carry him,
and she was not, apparently, wanted to carry anyone else.
Here the purchase received a very disagreeable cut on the
neck that interrupted her speculations as to the nature of the
shadows of telegraph posts. To have bought two useless^
horses in four months was pretty average bad luck. It was
also pretty bad luck to have been bom a fool. Reflection
here became merged in the shapeless and futile fumings of a
man badly in love and preposterously jealous.

Known only to the elect among Entertainment Promoters
are the methods employed by Mrs. Carteret to float the com-
pany of The Green Coons. The fact remains that on the
appointed night the chosen troupe, approximately word-
perfect, and with spirits somewhat chastened by stage fright,
were assembled in the clerk's room of the Enniscar Town Hall,
round a large basin filled horribly with a compoxmd of burnt
cork and water.

"It's not as bad as it looks I" said Mrs. Carteret, plunging
in her hands and heroically smearing her face with a mass of

The Connemara Mare 251

black, oozy matter believed to be a sponge. *'It's quite
becoming if you do it thoroughly. Mind, all of you, get it
well into your ears and the roots of your hair!'*

The Hamiltons, giggling wildly, submitted themselves to
the ministrations of Freddy Alexander, and Mrs. Carteret,
appallingly transformed into a little West Indian coolie
woman, applied the sponge to the shrinking Fanny Fitz.

**Will you do Mr. Gunning, Fanny.?'* she whispered into
one of the ears that she had conscientiously blackened. "I
think he'd bear it better from you!"

*'I shall do nothing of the kind!" replied Fanny, with a
dignity somewhat impaired by her ebon countenance and
monstrous green turban.

"Why not?"

Mrs. Carteret's small neat features seemed unnaturally
sharpened, and her eyes and teeth glittered in her excitement.

** For goodness sake, take your awfid little black face away,
Mabel!" exclaimed Fanny hysterically, *'It quite frightens
me! I'm very angry with Mr. Gunning! I'll tell you why
some other time."

*'Well, don't forget you've got to say, 'Buck up, Sambo!'
to him after he's sung his song, and you may fight with him
as much as you like afterwards," said Mrs. Carteret, hurrying
off to paint glaring vermilion mouths upon the loudly pro-
testing Hamiltons.

During these vicissitudes, Rupert Gunning, arrayed in a
green swallow-tailed calico coat, short white cotton trousers,
and a skimpy nigger wig, presented a pitiful example of the
humiliations which the allied forces of love and jealousy can
bring upon the just. Fanny Fitz has since admitted that, in
spite of the wrath that burned within her, the sight of Mr. Gun-
ning morosely dabbing his long nose with the repulsive sponge
that was shared by the troupe, almost moved her to compassion.

A pleasing impatience was already betraying itself in cat-
calls and stampings from the sixpenny places, and Mrs. Car-
teret, flitting like a sheep dog round her flock, arranged them
in couples and drove them before her on to the stage, singing
in chorus, with a fair assumption of hilarity, ** As we go march-
ing through Georgia."

For Fanny Fitz the subsequent proceedings became merged
in a nightmare of blinding heat and glare, made actual only by
poignant anxiety as to the length of her green skirt. The hope

25^ The Connemara Mare

that she might be unrecognizable was shattered by the yell of
**More power, Miss Fanny!" that crested the thunderous
encore, evoked by her hornpipe with Captain Carteret; and
the question of the skirt was decided by the fact that her
aunts, in the front row, firmly perused their programmes from
the beginning of her dance to its conclusion.

The entertainment went with varying success, after the
manner of its kind. The local hits and personal allusions,
toilfuUy compiled and ardently believed in, were received in
damping silence, while Rupert Gunning's song, of the trucu-
lent order dedicated to basses, and sung by him with a face
that would have done credit to Othello, received an ovation
that confirmed Captain Carteret in his contempt for country
audiences. The performance raged to its close in a "Cake
Walk," to the inspiring strains of "Razors a-flying through
the air," and the curtain fell on what the Enniscar Independent
described cryptically as "a tout ensemble h la conversazione
that was refreshingly unique.**

*' Five minutes more and I should have had heat appolexy !"
said Mrs. Carteret, hurling her turban across the clerk's room,
"but it all went splendidly! Empty that basin out of the
window, somebody and give me the vaseline. The last time
I blacked my face it was covered with red spots for a week
afterwards because I used soap instead of vaseline!"

Rupert Gunning approached Fanny with an open note in
his hand.

"I've had this from your aunt," he said, handing it to her;
it was decorated with sooty thumb marks, to which Fanny's
black claw contributed a fresh batch as she took it, but she
read it without a smile.

It was to the effect that the heat of the room had been too
much for the elder Misses Fitzroy, and they had therefore gone
home, but as Mr. Gunning had to pass their gate perhaps he
would be kind enough to drive their niece home.

" Oh " said Fanny, in tones from which dismay was by

no means eliminated. "How stupid of Aimt Rachel!"

"I'm afraid there seems no way out of it for you," said
Rupert offendedly.

A glimpse of their two wrathftd black faces in the glass
abruptly checked Fanny's desire to say something crushing.
At this juncture she would rather have died than laughed.

Blunt cork is not lightly to be removed at the first essay,

The Connemara Mare 253

and when, half an hour later, Fanny Fitz, with a pale and
dirty face, stood under the dismal light of the lamp outside
the Town Hall, waiting for Mr. Gunning's trap, she had the
pleasure of hearing a woman among the loiterers say com-
passionately :

"God help her, the cra5rture! She looks like a servant
that'd be bate out with work I"

Mr. Gunning's new cob stood hearkening with flickering
ears to the various commotions of the street — ^she understood
them all perfectly well, but her soul being uplifted by reason
of oats, she chose to resent them as impertinences. Having
tolerated with difficulty the instalment of Miss Fitzroy in the
trap, she started with a flourish, and pulled hard until clear
of the town and its flaring public houses. On the open road,
with nothing more enlivening than the dark hills, half -seen
in the light of the rising moon, she settled down. Rupert
turned to his silent companion. He had become aware dur-
ing the evening that something was wrong, and his own sense
of injury was frightened into the background.

'* What do you think of my new buy?" he said pacifically.
"She's a good goer, isn't she?"

* * Very, ' ' replied Fanny.

Silence again reigned. One or two further attempts at
conversation met with equal discouragement. The miles
passed by. At length as the mare slackened to walk up a
long hill, Rupert said with a voice that had the shake of
pent-up injury:

"I've been wondering what I've done to be put into Coven-
try like this!"

"I thought you probably wouldn't care to speak to me!"
was Fanny's astonishing reply, delivered in tones of ice.

*' 11 " he stammered, * not care to speak to you! You ought
to know "

"Yes, indeed, I do know!" broke in Fanny, passing from
the frigid zone with characteristic speed, "I know what a
failure your horse dealing at the Dublin Show was! I've
heard how you bought my mare, and had her shot the same
night, because you wouldn't take the trouble even to go and
look at her after the poor little thing was hurt! Oh! I can't
bear even to think of it!"

; Rupert Gunning remained abjectly and dtimfoundedly
sil«nt.

254 The Connemara Mare

"And then,** continued Fanny, whirling on the final point
of her indictment, ** you pretended to Captain Carteret and me
that the horse you had bought was "a common brute,** a cob
for carting, and you said the other night that you had made a
fool of yourself over it! I didn't know then all about it, but
I do now. Captain Carteret heard about it from the dealer
in Dublin. Even the dealer said it was a pity you hadn't
given the mare a chance!"

"It*s all perfectly true,'* said Rupert, in a low voice.

A soft answer, so far from turning away wrath, frequently
inflames it.

"Then I think there's no more to be said!" said Fanny,
hotly.

There was silence. They had reached the top of the hill,
and the gray mare began to trot.

"Well, there's just one thing I should like to say,** said
Rupert awkwardly, his breath coming very short, " I couldn't
help everything going wrong about the mare. It was just my
bad luck. I only bought her to please you. They told me
she couldn*t get right after the accident. What was the good
of my going to look at her? I wanted to cross in the boat
with you. Whatever I did T did for you. I would do any-
thing in the world for you "

It was at this crucial moment that there arose suddenly
from the dim gray road in front of them a slightly grayer
shadow, a shadow that limped amid the clanking of chains.
The Connemara mare, now masquerading as a County Cork
cob, asked for nothing better. If it were a ghost, she was
legitimately entitled to flee from it; if, as was indeed the case,
it was a donkey, she made a point of shying at donkeys. She
realized that, by a singular stroke of good furtune, the reins
were lying in loops on her back.

A snort, a sideways bound, a couple of gleeful kicks on the
dashboard, and she was away at full gallop, with one rein
under her tail, and a pleasant open road before her.

"It*s all right!*' said Rupert, recovering his balance by a
hairbreadth, and feeling in his heart that it was all wrong,
"the Craffroe Hill will stop her. Hold on to the rail."

Fanny said nothing. It was, indeed, all that she could do
to keep her seat in the trap, with which the rushing road was
playing cup and ball ; she was, besides, not one of the people
who are conversational in emergencies. When an animal.

The Connemara Mare 255

as active and artful as the Connemara mare, is going at some
twenty miles an hour, with one of the reins under its tail,
endeavors to detach the rein are not much avail, and when
the tail is still tender from recent docking, they are a good deal
worse than useless. Having twice nearly fallen on his head,
Rupert abandoned the attempt and prayed for the long stiff
ascent of the Craffroe Hill.

It came swiftly out of the gray moonlight. At its foot
another road forked to the right; instead of facing the hill
that led to home and stable, the mare swung into the side
road, with one wheel up on the grass, and the cushions slip-
ping from the seat, and Rupert, just saving the situation with
the left rein that remained to him, said to himself that they
were in for a bad business.

For a mile they swung and clattered along it, with the wind
striking and splitting against their faces like a cold and tear-
ing stream of water; a light wavered and disappeared across
the pallid fields to the left, a group of starveling trees on a
hill slid up into the skyline behind it, and at last it seemed as
if some touch of self-control, some suggestion of having had
enough of the joke, was shortening the mare's grasping stride.
The trap pitched more than ever as she came up into the
shafts and back into her harness; she twisted suddenly to
the left into a narrow lane, cleared the comer by an impossible
fluke, and Fanny Fitz was hurled ignominiously on to Rupert
Gunning's lap. Long briars and twigs struck them from
either side, the trap bumped in craggv ruts and slashed through
wide puddles, then reeled irretrievably over a heap of stones
and tilted against the low bank to the right.

Without any exact knowledge of how she got there, Fanny
found herself on her hands and knees in a clump of bracken
on top of the bank; Rupert was already picking himself out
of rugs and other jetsam in the field below her, and the mare
was proceeding up the lane at a disorderly trot, having
jerked the trap on to its legs again from its reclining position.

Fanny was lifted down into the lane ; she told him that she
was not hurt, but her knees shook, her hands trembled, and
the arm that was round her tightened its clasp in silence.
When a man is strongly moved by tenderness and anxiety and
relief, he can say little to make it known ; he need not — it is
known beyond all telling by the one other person whom it con-
cerns. She felt suddenly that she was safe, that his heart was

2 $6 The Connemara Mare

torn for her sake, and that the tension of the last ten minutes
had been great. It went through^her with a pang, and her
head swayed against his arm. In a moment she felt his lips
on her hair, on her temple ; and the oldest, the most familiar of
all words of endearment, was spoken at her ear. She recov-
ered herself, but in a new world. She tried to walk on up the
lane, but sttimbled in the deep ruts and found the supporting
arm again ready at need. She did not resist it.

A shrill neigh arose in front of them. The mare had pulled
up at a closed gate, and was apparently apostrophising some
low farm buildings beyond it. A dog barked hysterically, the
door of a cowshed burst open, and a man came out with a
lantern.

" Oh, I know now where we are!" cried Fanny wildly; **it*s
Johnny Connolly's! Oh, Johnny, Johnny Connolly, we've
been run away with!"

"For God's sake," responded Johnny Connolly, standing
stock still in his amazement, "is that Miss Fanny.?"

"Get hold of the mare," shouted Rupert, "or she'll jump
the gate!"

Johnny Connolly advanced, still calling upon his God, and
the mare uttered a low but vehement neigh.

"Ye're deshtroyed, Miss Fanny! And Mr. Gunning, the
Lord save us ! Ye're killed, the two o* ye I What happened ye
at all? Woa gerrl, woa gerrlie! Ye'd say she knew me, tne
crayture."

The mare was rubbing her dripping face and neck against
the farmer's shoulder, with hoarse whispering snorts of recog-
nition and pleasure. He held his lantern high to look at her.

"Musha, why wouldn't she know me?" he roared. "Sure
it's yer own mare. Miss Fanny! *Tis the Connemara mare I
thrained for ye! And may the devil sweep and roast thim
that has told through all the counthry that she was killed.

RS* WILTON'S Bxpec
tationst The Story of a
Legacy^ by Jane Richardson*
Illustrations by E« A« Furman'*'

MRS. WILTON sat in consultation with her three daugh-
ters the day after her husband's funeral. She had
been a great belle in her girlhood — a large florid woman, with
an abundance of blonde hair. The two elder girls, Cecilia
and Edith, resembled her, both in appearance and in the
indolent good nattu^e which was their mother's chief char-
acteristic. Susan, the younger, had been named by her
father for his mother, and the name suited her. She re-
minded one of some plain, old-fashioned flower. She had
been bom with the instinct of helpfulness, and all her life had
been ready to do the tasks which others shirked, or over which
they rebelled and grumbled.

But she was no neglected Cinderella to be snubbed and set
aside; on the contrary, they adored her and had firm faith,
with good reason, in her practical sense and sotmd judgment.
While her sisters were tmdeniably handsome, Susan was
hopelessly conmionplace; she was short and plump, with
glossy, brown hair, honest brown eyes, and good teeth; cheer-
ful and hopeful even under the most adverse circtmistances.

Her husband's sudden death had been an overwhelming
blow to Mrs. Wilton; he had been open-handed and hospitable
to a fault, and had never anticipated a time when bis family
might be deprived of his support. He had been a successful
lawyer, but spent generously the liberal fees that he earned,
so that there remained nothing but the house in which they

♦Written for Short Stories.

2S8

Mrs, Wilton's Expectations

lived — fortunately tinencumbered — and a modest life in-
surance.

Mrs. Wilton was as helpless as a baby, and the two elder
daughters scarcely less dependent; there was nothing by
which either of the two might have added to their insufficient
income.

"I suppose you could take lessons," said their mother,

tearfully. In every crisis of life her mind reverted instantly
to the idea of "taldng lessons" in something or other, as a
certain, if future, panacea, for existing ills.

That Cecilia and Edith lacked both faculty and persever-
ance was left out of her calculations, and the length of time
required to attain an3rthing approaching practical proficiency
was also overlooked.

Mrs. Wilton's Expectatiofis 259

"Cecilia might take tip her music again and fit herself for
teaching," she said.

"There are already twenty-seven music teachers in Madison,
mother," Susan interposed, not willing that they should
deceive themselves or waste time in undertaking the im-
possible. "Miss Fry, Signor Rubini, Miss Francis — "

"Oh, for mercy's sake, we don't want the whole list," Cecilia
exclaimed, impatiently.

"I think that Edith could do something with her elocution,"
the poor mother suggested after her first failure. "You know
how the Clarion praised her when she read *Curfew Shall not
Ring To-night.' It said that if she devoted herself seriously
to dramatic art there was a brilliant futtu-e before her.'*

"Oh, it says that of everybody — even of Essie Pringle, and
you know what she is."
Mrs. Wilton began to sob.

"I never saw such a kill-joy as you are, Susan," she said
at'last, with her black-bordered handkerchief at her eyes.

Susan flushed a little; she sat on a low ottoman at her
mother's side, fondling one of her fat, white hands, the pudgy
fingers glittering with diamonds.

"No, dear," Susan said gently. "I'm not a kill-joy; I am
only trjring to keep you from wasting the little that we have
in experiments that are not worth while."

"There's your tmcle Jabez, he is certain to help us. He
never forgets us at Christmas, nor on any of your birthdajrs.
Though he hadn't seen your father since he went out to
California, he was very fond of him when they were boys, and
he always meant to visit us.'
"No, he won't forget us," Cecilia echoed, hopefully.
"We can't depend upon that either," said the practical
Susan, "he may 'remember' us, and he may not. We know
how pectdiar he is, and I don't think, in any event, that we
can cotmt upon a man, at his age, shouldering the responsi-
bility of another man's family — ^though the other man was his
own brother; especially as he never had made up his mind to
have a family of his own."

"You disapprove everything,'' said Edith. "What do you
advise — ^that we shall march in procession to the poorhouse,
with Mamma at the head?"

"Not at all; I propose that we shall depend upon otu-selves,
and iDegin with something that offers at least a reasonable

26o Mrs. Wilton* s Expectations

chance of success. I've thought a great deal about it," she
went on, "and I frankly admit that my plan has nothing
novel to commend it; it isn't romantic, and we can't at all
feel certain that we shall succeed; thousands have failed at it,
but, on the other hand, a few have prospered.

**What is it^" demanded Cecilia. '^Something we'll hate,
I know. When people are poor they always have to do the
things they hate; never the things they like."

**What I propose," said Susan, tmhesitatingly, "is that we
turn this house into — a boarding-house."

There was an exclamation of horror. They had always
prided themselves — ^with all their old-fashioned hospitality —
on their exclusiveness.

"Open the house to everybody and anybody — nef*er,'* and
they shook their heads vehemently.

"To anybody that is respectable — and can pay," Susan
replied, unabashed.

In the end she had her way. By coaxing, by the exercise
of tact enough to have carried a government through a
delicate diplomatic controversy, she obtained her mother's
consent; and, not only this, induced her self-indulgent sisters
to establish themselves in very desirable quarters on the top
floor, her mother only remaining undisturbed.

The house was soon filled with the usual flotsam and
jetsam that drift through life, content with, or temporarily
resigned to, their homelessness; the yotmg rector of St. Jude's,
Miss Vantage, the principal of the High School, a rich widow
with her two daughters, several young business men, among
whom was Richard Burrell, to whom Susan had been engaged
for a year. All were tractable and reasonably well content,
except old Mr. Worthington. Mrs. Wilton had been very
dubious about him, but he had come to her well recommended
although appearances were certainly against him. He was
very shabby, often disagreeable and trying in many ways, and
he beat her down to much less than what she assured him
were "her regular rates."

There was but one room vacant when he came, a small
stuffy chamber in the rear, but after much fault-finding he
said that it would do. He was exacting about the cooking,
and imperious in his demands for hot water, although Mrs.
Wilton said plaintively that she could not understand why,
since he, apparently used so little. . But she grew accustomed

Mrs, Wilton's Expectations

261

to him, as one gets used to a pinching shoe, and turned him
over to Miss Vantage, who played chess with him occasionally.
From her he learned of their "expectations," and that their
relative in California had really sent them the money with
which to undertake the
boarding-house.

**More fool he," remarked
the old man crossly, as he
protested against an imfore-
seen checkmate. "They're
a worthless pack."

'*0, don't say that!"
exclaimed the good-natured
schoolteacher. "I'm sure
Miss Susan is as good as
gold."

"Well— 5*^'^ all right,
maybe/* he admitted tenta-
tively, making another un-
lucky move. It was true:
Susan was as good as gold.
The whole responsibility ^i
the establishment had
fallen upon her willing
shoulders; she did the
marketing, paid the
bills, regularly and
promptly, and concil-
iated the dissatisfied, and
had worried through the
first year with imimpaired
temper and credit.

Uncle Jabez had given
them a helping hand, as
Miss Vantage had said, but
he had not over-exerted
himself in this direction.
However, what he had done
gave Mrs. Wilton grounds of hope for better things to come,
and she dilated eloquently on his wealth and generosity.
Whenever the outlook was especially discouraging, she con-
fidently declared that "he would not let them suffer."

..^

362

Mrs, Wilton's Expectations

They had held their own and no more. Susan had not
expected to grow rich, and was grateftil that they had not
fallen into debt. But the house had suffered: the furniture
began to show signs of hard usage ; the carpets were growing
threadbare, and the profits of the business would certainly

not enable her to replace them when they were quite gone.

And she had other troubles. She had insisted upon releas-
ing Burrell from his engagement, arguing that his salary was
not more than sufficient for two. She would not consent
that he should be burdened with the support of her mother
and sisters, as hundreds of other women had done before her.

Mrs. Wiiton's UxpedaUans 263

Btirrell, who was superintendent of the electric lightworks,
had to admit that she was right, and, while he released her,
he did so with the clear tinderstanding that he considered
himself still irrevocably bound, and should continue to do
so as long as she lived, or until she married some other man.

And, moreover, he came to board with them, and fotmd
consolation in seeing her constantly, and helping and com-
forting her in a thousand ways.

He was especially fortunate in being able to mollify old
Mr. Worthington, listening patiently to his complaints and
his interminable stories, and he even relieved Miss Vantage
at chess, permitting himself to be beaten with the utmost
amiability. But his indulgence drew the line at the old man's
criticism of the house and its management. Not only did he
stop him, but he intimated pretty plainly that he was ungrate-
ful. '*I reckon I am," he replied, gruffly, "but I haven't any
patience with their fool talk about their rich kin; I don't
believe they have any."

This, however, was to be at last proved beyond cavil. Mrs.
Wilton received a letter from Jabez Wilton's agent in San
Francisco — he never wrote, himself; he always telegraphed.
The letter stated that Mr. Jabez Wilton would start east that
moriiing, and be with them five day's later. Mighty prepara-
tions began at once. They had never seen him, as has been
explained — ^not even a picture of him, for he was one of those
few people who do exist who refuse to be photographed.

They talked eloquently — all but Susan, who maintained
her ordinary composure — of his yacht, his ranches, and his
fine house on Knob Hill, and Mrs. Wilton hinted that he
might take Cecilia or Edith back to California with him.
Susan, in this event, would remain behind, of cottrse, and
marry Burrell.

Mrs. Wilton insisted upon giving up her own room to Uncle
Jabez, and went to the expense of buying a new carpet and
new curtains; she also brought out the few remaining relics
of their former prosperity — pictures and bric-k-brac and
embroidered cushions.

"Even then," she remarked, *'it will seem very poor and
plain to a man who has lived in such luxury as he has enjoyed
all these years."

Old Mr. Worthington was grumpier and more crabbed than
ever through all these preparations. He said very disagree-

264 Mrs. Wilton's Expectations

able things, insinuating that if Mr. Jabez Wilton were poor
**they would never lift a finger for him."

**0h, come, that isn't fair," said Burrell, to whom the old
man thus freed his mind. **I don't think that Mrs. Wilton
would be really unkind to anybody. She does her best, and
you must remember that she isn't used to this sort of thing."

"Better women have been."

**That may be; but she has honestly tried her best; you
haven't been ill-treated or neglected in any way, and, if you'll
excuse me for saying so, I think they've been very patient
indeed."

Mr. Worthington growled something indistinctly to the
effect that "they'd been paid for it."

"Money don't pay for all you've had here— 7and I tmder-
stand that Mrs. Wilton has made an exception in your favor
that she really could not aiford."

"Nobody forced her to do it; she don't have to keep me.
I can go somewhere else."

"Not where you would find another Susan," Burrell
retorted quickly.

The face of the crabbed old man softened. "No," he
admitted, "that's so, for there isn't another Susan." Where-
upon Burrell forgave him. The eventful day came, dull and
threatening, with a biting east wind. A fire crackled in the
grate, casting rosy shadows upon the wall and ceiling of the
cheerful room, which was in readiness for its prospective
occupant. At the last moment Susan had filled a bowl with
splendid yellow crysanthemums and placed it upon a table by
the window.

Mrs. Wilton and her two elder daughters wore becoming
new gowns, and there was much excitement amongst the
boarders. Old Mr. Worthington was the only one who
entirely ignored the impending arrival. At breakfast he had
been very dissatisfied about his coffee; the toast was scorched,
he said, and he sent it away, and he looked dubiously at the
fresh-laid eggs, whose integrity he openly questioned.

"Leave him to me," Susan said, and she brought fresh
coffee, made more toast, and so coaxed him into some sem-
blance of tolerable behavior, but as he began so he continued.

Miss Vantage, at length, boldly remonstrated, setting
down his cross-grained mood to the jealousy of querulous
old age.

Mrs, Wilton's Expectations

265

The train was due at four o'clock, and Biurell and Susan
had gone to the station, hoping to recognize the expected
arrival by some sort of intuition.

Mrs. Wilton ran up-stairs after they had gone, to see if any
thing needful had been forgotten in the guest chamber.

On the threshold she detected an unmistakable odor of
tobacco. She opened the door and stood transfixed.

There sat old Mr. Worthington in his shabby dressing gown,
lounging in the armchair, smoking his pipe, his sUppered feet
on the fender.

266 Mrs. WiUon*s ExpecUaions

Newspapers were scattered about, and he had been lying
on the lotinge, as the disordered pillows made evident.

"Well, recUly, Mr. Worthington!" said Mrs. Wilton, her
eyes flashing — she knew him to be capable of anything — "I
must say that this is tmpardonable."

She was always ladylike.

He turned and glanced at her calmly over his shoulder,
and did not stir.

"Sit down, Arabella," he said at length, "and don't excite
yourself."

Arabella indeed! Addressing her by her Christian name!
He had never been quite so impertinent as this.

She walked across the room and stood beside him, panting
with indignation.

"I've a right here," he said with tmusual mildness. "I'm
the man you've fixed up this room for, and Susan will not find
me at the station. I've been in your house some time, as
you'll allow."

Mrs. Wilton did not in the least comprehend what he was
saying; she was so dazed that she could not speak.

"This has been done before," he went on, "I've read about
it. I wanted to make certain as to who and what you all were
before entering into an arrangement that I might regret.
Sit down, do." And thus urged she dropped limply into a
chair beside him. The truth at last dawned upon her, but
she cotild only look at him in silence.

"You've been really kind and patient — and I've tried you
purposely. I like you, Arabella — and Susan. She may have
this house, if you agree — it will be just the thing — and you
and the other girls may go back to California with me, if you
have no better plan."

Mrs. Wilton had no better plan ; and it was so arranged.

FI^YER In Coal: The

Story of a Capable Woman,
by Arthur M. Chase. Illus-
trations by E. A. Furman*

«ie %ie tie «ie

THE door of my outer office opened sharply and a deep
voice addressed the office boy.
"Stand over against the window, sonny, for Fve brought
contagion. Is the boss in? Yes? Then just wait till I
give him a scare."

There was a heavy tread across the floor and a shrewd,
ruddy face xmder a battered derby hat peered in at me. My
visitor, with an elaborate air of caution, advanced slowly,
disclosing xmdemeath the ruddy face a weather-beaten

♦Written for Short Stories.

268 A Flyer in Coal

overcoat buttoned up to the chin, and beneath that again a
weather-beaten, skimpy skirt, worn however with the un-
trammeled grace of a pair of trousers.

"Come in, Mrs. McGk)nigle," I cried. "Glad to see you.
How are you?"

"Up and doin'," she replied, extending a big, mittened
hand. " I was just after wamin' your boy, for three-quarters
of me family is down wid the whoopin'-cough. The balance,
me old man, is in the hospital along wid Jerry McCafferty
on accotmt of an argument on the coal question. He's
doin' nicely, thankye. Yes, McCafferty got all that was
comin' to him; but the end of it was the two of them threw
each other into the hold of the "Peaceful Stream," and
there was some damage done in the shape of broken bones.
Me old man broke an arm and a rib; Jerry, he broke an
arm and two ribs. Yes, it's a bad thing to have the purvider
of a poor family smashed that way. But," said Mrs. Mc-
Gonigle, sitting down and liberating a sigh that fluttered the
papers on my desk, "that ain't all."

"Dear me, Mrs. McGonigle," I said.

"Well," she replied, with a quizzical look, "perhaps it's
dear me Mrs. McGonigle, and perhaps it isn't. That's what
I've come to you to find out.

"Now you see, Mr. McNamara," she went on, in a con-
fidential but hoarse murmtir, "I knew nothin' about the
scrap tmtil a whole push came on board the ' Charity ' hollerin'
that me husband and McCafferty had got kilt in a fight. So
I puts out right away for the "Peaceful Stream." My first
idea was to mix it up wid Mrs. McCafferty, but she's such a
very little woman, I gave it up. So instead I chased along
after the ambulance to the hospital, and found out the
whole of the damage that McGonigle had got.

"Well, when I got back to the boat me three childer was
roarin' wid the whoopin'-cough. And wasn't that the
diwle to pay? Ye see, the 'Charity' belongs to the Wyomin'
Valley Railroad, and it doesn't do for their captains to be
cuttin' up the way McGonigle had. If they heard of it
there'd be the grand bounce, sure. And where would I go,
turned out on the street wid three sick childer, and one dollar
and three cents in me pocket? And what would McGonigle
do, comin* out of the hospital and findin' his job floated

A Flyer in Coal 269

away from him? It's not easy for a canal-boat captain to
find a berth, these days.

***Now,' ses I to mesilf, *Mary McGonigle, it's up to you.
YouVe got to protect your childer, and you've got to hold
on to your old man's job. How'U ye do it? Not by sittin'
still, ye old stuff,' ses I. *Ye've got enemies as well as
friends on the canal-boats, and it's likely enough the enemies
will be tellin' tales about you. What'U ye do?'

"What did I do? Well, Mr. McNamara, it was just the
limit. I outs wid me scissors and cuts off me hair. There
wasn't much of it, but I hated to lose it. And I sneaked
ashore wid a pair of McGonigle's pants in a newspaper. In
a tennymint house I made a change, and I went on up-town
wid me petticoat in the newspaper. And me a dednt,
middle-aged woman.

** Where was I goin*? To the offices of the Wyomin'
Valley Railroad. And who should I go to see? Sure, the
main gazeyboo, the president himself. So I into the big
offices and past all them little scribblin' clerks to a glass door
marked President, and widout bein* asked, in I stepped.

***Who let you in here?' says a sharp lookin' feller behind
a desk. 'I can't see anyone, I'm very busy.'

** * I'm lookin' for Mr. Courtenay, President of the Wyomin'
Valley Railroad. Are you him?' ses I.

"*Yes,' ses he, very snappy.

***Well, Mr. Courtenay,' I ses, *me name is McGonigle,
Jack McGonigle, captain of yer canal-boat 'Charity.' I
just thought I'd run up and see if there was anjrthin* ye
wanted done. I'm a willin' man for work,* I ses.

**Well, he'd hardly looked at me.

***See Mr. Wilson of the Lighterage Department,' he ses,
scratchin* away wid a pen.

"I laid me hand on the door knob; but thinkin' that as
long as I'd come I'd make all the impression I cotdd, I asks
very perlite:

'"Where is Mr. Wilson, sir?'

** I thought he'd fly over the top of the desk at me.

'''Go out into that office,' he bawls, 'and ask, ask, ask.'

"'Thankye sir,' ses I. And I'd opened the door when he
gives a yelp:

" ' Great heavens, who cut yer hair for ye?'

"I put up me hand like a shot, and there was a fistfull

270 A. Flyer in Coal

of it that me scissors had skipped, hangin* over me coat
collar. I gave it a quick twist, like a woman would, and
felt for a hairpin. And then — ye could have knocked me
over wid a poke of yer finger.

"*What in thunder!' ses the president, staring wid all his
eyes.

** I got hold of meself .

"'Me barber is an Eyetalian,' — I begins, but he begins to
snicker. And the harder I looked at him the worse he
snickered.

"*Ye seem to see somethin' funny,' I ses. But he only
kept on a snickerin*.

***Ye may be the president of a railroad,' I ses, 'and I
don't forget yer place or mine; but don't be gigglin' at me.
I'm an honest and respectable man,' I ses, 'and I'd ask ye
not to be snickerin' at me, Mr. Courtenay. Cut it,' I ses.
'A workingman has feelin's as well as ye, if he's a man.'

"And wid that me petticoat fell out of the newspaper.

"I got out of that place somehow, and I stamped out to
the elevator wid all the clerks starin' at me. And never a
word. A messenger come after me to say that the president
wanted to see me back.

" 'Not a word,' ses I. 'Not a word.'

"And me just shakin' wid rage and shame. But for the
sake of the childer I got out of there in a hurry, and never a
word. But oh, I'd have felt good to have punched the presi-
dent one for findin' me out.

"I was that tearin' mad I went straight home in McGonigle's
pants. It was dark on the pier, by good luck, and none of my
neighbors saw me. But when I stepped into me cabin, the
childer nearly flew through the winder, and Yan — he's the
deckhand, and a Dutchman — sat down on the hot stove.

" 'Yan,' I ses, 'if ye ever breathe of this to any livin' soul
I'll thump ye into a Frankfurter sausage.'

"He knew I'd have kept me word, and he's not told.

" 'Well, I'd made a nice mess of that piece of business. If
I'd let well enough alone it wasn't likely the railroad would
have heard of McGonigle's misfortune, and anyway such a
big gun as the president wouldn't have. But after Mc-
Gonigle's lady come a-masquerading to his office, he'd make
it his business to know what was to be known. And then
out would come what I'd been tryin' to cover up. And then.

A Flyer in Coal

271

j^

in would come a new captain for the * Charity.* And out
wotild go the McGonigle faiyiily. That was what I was up
against. And how would I go up against it? was the trouble
that was worryin' me.

** *Twas the next day I read a piece in the paper about the
coal famine in Bayport, a place a bit of the way up the Sound :
how the schools was closed, and the churches runnin* wid one
service a week, and the people put to it to keep warm wid
gas and oil and wooden sidewalks.

" 'Now, here's the foolishness of the railroads,' ses I, 'holdin'
boatloads and boatloads of coal down here in New York, when
there's a place like Bayport where they want it bad, and
would pay for it. Why, take this old 'Charity,* — she had
two hundred tons of hard coal, Qgg size, in her — 'up at Bay-
port she'd be worth four dollars a ton, safely, more than here.'

**And I figgered wid a pencil that would come to eight
hxmdred dollars. I had some
idea of goin' to the president
and askin* him what bethought
of sendin' a boat to Bayport,
and by that way gettin* solid
wid him. But when it came to
facin' him again after my mas-
querade, I gave it up. Besides,
it was all foolishness. He
might know more about Bay-
port than me; and if
he didn't, what was to
keep him from takin'
my idee and givin' me
the boimce at the same
time? So that settled
that.

**But the next momin* as
was washin' me face — which is
a grand time for idees to come
to you — I was hit wid a good
one. Why not take the 'Char- 1

ity' up to Bayport on me own

hook? Could I do it? Of course, for the 'Charity* ain't one
of your common canal-boats that has to be hauled arotmd by
a tug or a mule ; but she has a little engine that turns a little

272 A Flyer in Coal

splashin*, thumpin* wheel tinder the stem, and pushes her
along about as fast as a slow man can walk. And could I
sell the coal? Well, if the paper told the truth the people
of Bayport was ready to buy, and Fd be ready to sell. Only
what would happen to me if I sold two hundred ton of coal
that didn't belong to me? Well, I sat down, and I worked
it out in this way. If I sold the coal Fd give the company
a share of the profits and keep somethin' for meself, and
perhaps they'd think me smart enough to hold onto. Or, if
they put up a very strong kick, Fd give them all the profits.
After that, they'd scarcely send a poor grass widder wid
three sick childer to jail. And if they took all me profit and
fired me out in the bargain, I'd be no worse off than I was
likely to be. Oh, I seen that was an idee that might be worth
tryin'. And I seen it was an idee that would have to be tried,
after that gossipin' creature, Mrs. Mulligan, come aboard and
told me how her old man had got it from the day watchman
on the pier that there was goin' to be a new captain on the
•Charity. '

** *0h, Mrs. McGonigle,' ses she, *it's turrible hard on you.
Ye'U have to live on charity till yer old man gets back.'

" 'Don't yer beHeve it, Mrs. MulHgan,' ses I to her. **I've
lived on the 'Charity" a matter of three years, but I've lived
five-and-thirty years and never a day of it on charity. And
never a day of me life will I live on charity. So you kin
put that in yer pipe and smoke it.

" 'Well, the first thing to do was to get the 'Charity' out
from between the other canal-boats and tied up near the end
of the pier, so's I could sneak when I got ready. So I paid a
visit to Mrs. Mayer, me next neighbor, and told her all about
the turrible whoopin '-cough me childer had, and the con-
tagion, and how I couldn't help fearing as her childer would
catch it. Well, the upshot of that was the 'Charity' got a
new berth out near the end of the pier, and Captain Mayer
helped me a good deal in makin' the shift.

"The next thing was to sneak. I was sure of me boat, but
I wasn't sure of Yan. I got him down in the cabin after the
childer was asleep, and told him my idee. But he wouldn't
have nothin' to do wid it.

" 'We'd all git to yail' — which is what he calls jail — ^he kep
sayin'.

" 'AH right, Yan,' I ses. 'I won't ask yer any more; I'll

A Flyer in Coal 273

do the whole job meself. Only, perhaps, when I be tiyin' to
run the engine and steer all to oncet the boiler will bust, and
then Angeline and Alberta and little Agathar will all git
drowned.'

"I knew that wotild hit him, because he was tumble soft
on them kids.

"No, he wasn't goin' to let them git drowned. He'd git
the police and stop me.

** *Ye'll git the police, Yan!* I ses to him. 'Ye won't git
out of this cabin until I'm ready to go, and then I'll put ye
ashore. I don't want ye on this boat against your will;
but when ye step oif , ye say good-bye forever to Angeline and
Alberta and little Agathar.'

"Never argue wid a Dutchman. I didn't wid Yan, and
after awhile he began to think wid his pig-headed mind and
come over.

"Well, 'twas ten o'clock at night, everyone in the canal-
boats was in bed, the tide was settin' in strong, so ses I,
'now or never.'

"Shall I tell you how I ran the boat that night? Upon me
word I don't know. I may be a big, strong woman, and fit
to take the measure of McGonigle, as some say, but me
heart was in me mouth more than oncet that night. Every
tug that came chasin' along behind me I was afraid was sent
to fetch us back; and every time I see a rowboat pokin' out
from a pier I thought 'twas the harbor police after me. It
wasn't a rough night, but bitter cold; and if ever the lights
in the city looked warm and cosy to me they did when I went
up the East river that night.

"How we got through Hell Gate I don't know, whether
'twas by luck or miracle. The ' Charity ' is an unhandy boat
to handle in a current like that ; and what wid me not knowin'
the way too well, it's a mercy we didn't bring up against one
of them rocks. But we got through. After that 'twas plain
sailin' out on the Sound, big and lonely, and so cold it makes
me teeth ache to talk about it. First me feet would ache
until they got ntmib, and then me hands. I'd stamp and I'd
slap meself and I'd jump up and down, but I couldn't keep
warm a minnit. And the loneliness, Mr. McNamara, out
there on that black water why it looked like the nearest living
thing in sight was the stars over me head. And the bitterness

274 A Flyer in Coal

of the cold that would creep into the very marrow of yer
bones and make ye ache to breathe it.

** There come a time I nearly give up. I got colder and
colder, and wid the cold sleepier and sleepier. By and by I
didn't feel the cold so much, and just fell to sleep all over.
I punched meself and danced, but all the time I'd be carin'
less about doin' it; and carin' less about savin' the boat, and
about McGonigle and the childer, and just wantin' nothing
but to go to sleep. I finally got hold of mesilf and flopped
down into the engine room.

'**Yan,' I says, *for the mercy of Heaven let the boat drift
for awhile. I'm freezin' to death.'

"And I jest tumbled down on the floor. Well, Yan he
shook me and walked me around; and by and by he made
me a pot of strong, hot tea. He's a good soul, is Yan. And
wid the tea and stickin* to it I made out to stand it till the
shore in the East began to turn black and the sky above it
Ught.

**When the childer woke up wasn't they whoopin' wid the
cough and wid surprise at findin' the * Charity* out in the
middle of the sea? But they're good young ones. Angeline
got the breakfast and the other two took care of themselves.
And Yan took a trick at the wheel while I minded the engine
and warmed up me old bones. All the time, mind ye, the
'Charity' was thumpin' and splutterin' along in great shape.
And about nine o'clock of as grand a winter morning as ever
ye see she sailed into the harbor of Bayport as fine as an
admiral's ship.

'* * Where will she land ? ' ses Yan.

"*Sure, where ye see the coal pockuts,' ses I.

** As we swung up alongside the coal dock a feller come out
on the end of it.

***What boat's that?' ses he.

'* * 'Tis a coal-boat,* ses I ; * wid coal in it.'

**'Ye*ve come to the right place,* ses he. And he helped
us to tie up in a jiffy.

** * The boss will buy it off ye like a streak,* ses the man.

"* Maybe so, and maybe not,* ses I. * Where is the boss?'

*'Well, he showed himself comin' down the pier like a
runaway.

** * Coal,' ses he; *let me see it.'

** He seen it, and then we struck on a bargain. He'd give

A Flyer in Coal 275

me eight dollars the ton, and I held out for ten, cash down.
In the cottrse of the argyment he called me a robber.

'** Robber is it?' ses I. *A11 right, there's likely other
people in this town who want to buy coal and who are more
perUte/

"*You can't sell it except through me,' he ses. 'I'm the
regular coal dealer.'

••''And I've got the coal,' ses I.

*'The upshot of it was I struck a bargain wid me little man.
I'd let him have fifty tons at eight dollars, and he'd let me
sell the rest for what I could get, on his dock, and have the
use of his scales, and hire a couple of his men to unload. Wid
that settled I walked uptown and stopped in at the biggest
stores, just mentionin' that a coal boat was in and that we'd
begin sellin' in about half an hour.

"When I got back there was a mob on the 'Charity,' from
old women wid buckets to well-to-do fellers who'd come wid
a two-horse team. And as soon as Yan pointed me out they
made for me.

"'Gentlemin and ladies,' ses I, 'it's ten dollars a ton.

"Most of them thought 'twas too much and told me so.
But I told them there was places besides Bayport that wanted
coal, and they could take mine or leave it. And after some
argyment we got to work on a plan that I'd thought out in me
mind while comin* up. Yan bossed the unloadin', and I
looked after the weighin' and takin' in the cash. And I sold
me coal to them as came wid pails at ten cents the pail ; and
to them as brought wheelbarrows at the rate of fifteen cents
a pail; and anything over a wheelbarrow full at the rate of
ten dollars a ton. And no one, if I could help it, got more than
a ton. But they put up tricks on me. There was one feller
had a gang of boys buyin' pails full and dumpin' 'em in a
wagon that was hid behind the fence. And there was honest
lookin' men come back for their second ton and swore them-
selves blue in the face tellin' me they'd never been near me.
And the fights I had about the weights. But that coal went
and you could see the whole town of Bayport gettin' red
in the face wid the joy of gettin' warm again. And when I
ttuned in that night so tired I could hardly stand or see, and
saw all them winders in the town lighted up, I ses to mesilf —

"'They may send ye to jail for it, Mary McGonigle, but
to-day ye done a good turn of business.'

276 A Flyer in Coal

**The next momin' We turned over the fifty tons to the
dealer, and pretty well cleaned tap the cargo. And along
toward the end when trade was gettin* slack, a little pompous
major-general sort of a feller, in a fine carriage wid a coach-
man, came down on the dock in a hurry.

** * Me good woman,* ses he, * what are ye sellin' yer coal at ? '

**' Fifteen dollars the ton,' ses I.

*** Fifteen — !' ses he. *No, no, I know better. You're
sellin* it at ten, and an outrageous price at that.*

***It*s gettin* scarce,' ses I, 'and the price has gone up.*

'**0h that*s nonsense,* ses he. *I*m unhappily a little
short of coal, but 1*11 pay no such price as that. Why, me
money is invested in coal mines, and me son-in-law is the
president of one of the coal -carrying railroads.*

***I*m in the coal business meself,* ses I, *and I*ve learned
a thing or two about their way of doing business. Me price
is fifteen.*

***Well, he blustered and he argued and he said he*d
have me indicted. But I showed him there was mighty
little coal left in the ' Charity,' and said nary a word about the
fifty tons at the dealer's. And the upshot was I sold him
five tons at fifteen dollars. But me conscience reproached
me.

***Ye ought not to have done it, Mary McGonigle,* ses I;
'sellin' five tons to one man and the poor folks of the town
wantin' coal so.'

**So I goes up to the office of the dealer and asks him if
he won't set aside some of his coal, the same as I done, at
ten cents a pail for the poor people. And he, as I'd been
told, bein' a politician, and the reporter of the Bayport
newspaper bein' in his office, he said he'd set aside five tons.
He didn't say it though with a pleased air.

**But we parted good friends. He wanted to know when
I'd be up again wid a load of coal, and to be sure to let him
have a chance at the cargo. But before I set foot on the
* Charity ' he come after me hot foot.

*** What's this I hear?* he ses, mad as a hornet. *Ye sold
five tons to Mr. Wells at fifteen dollars the ton?*

"*Ye hear right,' I ses.

** * What d'ye mean by it? He's my customer. What d'ye
mean by it?* he bawls.

***It*s my coal he asked for and got,* ses I.

A Flyer in Coal

277

***The cheek of ye,' he ses. *Why, that man owns coal
mines. And his son-in-law is the president of the Wyomin'
Valley Railroad.'

**So that's me story, Mr. McNamara. I've done a good
turn of business, wid over nineteen himdred dollars hidden
around in me clothes; but I'm not sure I haven't overdone
me business a bit. What'll Mr. Courtenay say when he
hears how I stung his father-in-law? And how will I settle

wid the railroad company and get away wid some of me
profits? Them are questions I've come down to ask you,
while I've left the * Charity ' up beyond City Island out of the
way of the perlice."

**Mrs. McGonigle," I said, "there is one thing for you to
do, and that is to see the president of the Wyoming Valley
Railroad yourself."

278

A Flyer in Coal

** Before the perlice sees me/* said Mrs. McGonigle grimly.
"Yes, that's good advice."

'* And tell him your whole story." I added.

**Um-m-m," said Mrs. McGonigle. **And how about his
father-in-law?"

"Have you considered, Mrs. McGonigle," I asked, **what
relation the wife of Mr. Wells is to the president of the
Wyoming Valley Railroad? No? His mother-in-law."

A gleam shot from Mrs. McGonigle's shrewd eyes, and she
brought her big, knuckled fist down on my desk with a thump.

"That's an idee," she cried, "and I'm the woman to
follow it up. Good-bye, and thankye kindly. Til let ye
know how I come out. And ye '11 help us if we get into
throuble, Yan and me and Angeline and Alberta and little
Agathar."

Some hours later my telephone bell rang. I put the
receiver to my ear, and straightway withdrew my ear from

A Flyer in Coal

279

the receiver. After another and more cautious trial I thought
that a bellows must be operating at the other end, such a
snorting and puffing came crackling along the wire. Grad-
ually I distingtiished a human voice, evidently in very close
proximity to the telephone, and speaking in a tone of thimder.
"Is this Mr. McNamara himself?"
I breathed softly that it was. '

'*Well," buzzed the telephone with a series of gurgles and
snaps, **I seen Mr. Courtenay — and he says — I'm too smart
a woman to stay — out of the coal business."

DRAMA in tHe Pine
Foresti The Story of a
Russian Detective, by Fred
Wishaw*
^ ^ ^ ^

NICHOLAS SMIRNOF returned to his lodgings in the
Smaller Morskaya in St. Petersburg after a fatiguing
day's work. Smimof was a detective officer, a member of
the famous "Third Department*' whose ramifications in the
coimtry of the Tsar are unlimited, whose unsuspected mem-
bers may be one's brother, one's father, one's sister, one's
master, one's servant, the beggar on the footpath, the painted
lady in her carriage, the very lacquey that stands behind the
sledge of the Tsar.

Nicholas Smimof had an important case in hand. It had
been placed in his charge becatise, though a young man, he
was recognized by the chiefs of his department as one of the
acutest of all their many un-uniformed employees, because the
matter was urgent, and the capture to be made was of first-
class importance.

Smimof sat and talked with his young wife, the samovar
hissing comfortably between them; he sipped his scalding
tea and nibbled his Itunp of sugar.

"No luck again," he told his wife dejectedly. "I wish for
two reasons they had given the case to anyone else!"
• "They wouldn't, doosha moya,** she replied; "it is too im-
perative; they must employ 'their best agent, and that is —
you."

"Yes, if it were any other job; but this — well, in the first
place I never, as you know, believed in this poor chap's guilt
when we caught him and got him sent away ; and now that he
has escaped, I don't fancy I shall find him again. He is as
clever as they are made; the thing will be a failure, and I

*Prom Longman's Magazine.

A Drama I in the Pine Forest 281

shall lose caste at the Department. I wish to heaven they had
given the job to Katkof, or Valooyef, or anyone else."

"His wife is a pretty little woman,*' said Mrs. Smimof
coquettishly.

"Bah — one pretty little woman is all that I have eyes for.
I am sorry for her — an old friend, and all that — and for him
too; but of course the fact of our being old friends would not
influence me in the slightest degree in the performance of my
duty, and the Department knows that well enough, or I should
not have got the job. It is partly because I know poor little
Melnikof so well that I am set to catch him. Melnikof prob-
ably never knew the nattu'e of my employment under Gov-
ernment; he always imagined me to be an ordinary chinovnik
a common Civil Service clerk — "

"So did I," laughed Olga Smimof, "until you married me
and took me into your full confidence. I little knew what
a fox's lair I was coming into when you brought me here,
dooshkar

Smimof laughed and kissed his wife's hand; he was about
to reply when an official note was brought in to him.

"Bad luck to the Department and all its ways!** he ex-
claimed with annoyance, reading the letter. "I've got to
go out again, Olga."

"Is it news of Melnikof?" asked Olga.

"Heaven knows," said her husband; "I don't."

At the Department Smimof was ushered immediately into
the presence of a very high official — quite the highest.

"Smimof," said the great man, " I am somewhat] disap-
pointed in you. I had expected ere this to hear definite
news of progress. You know how great an importance is
attached by me to the capture of Melnikof. I may say that
his Imperial Majesty himself is aware of the state of affairs,
and is anxious that the miscreant should be arrested; yet you
have done nothing."

"I am busy. Excellence. I am following more than one
trail. In a day or two days I trust that — "

"Sooner, let us hope. Fortime, perhaps, favors you in this
instance. See here!"

The great man threw across the table a dirty sheet of paper
upon which were scrawled the following lines :

28 i A Drama in the Pine Poresi

**To his Excellency the Chief Officer, Third De-
partment, St, Petersburg.

'*Ryabova: March 14.

**There has been observed in the woods about here a
stranger of suspicious appearance. If your Excellency should
consider it worth your while to send an officer, I shall be
ready to show him where the individual may be seen.

KOSHKIN."

**Good/* said Smimof ; "that is well. This is one of the
trails I have tinder observation — ^the Ryabova district."

"WhoisthisKoshkin?"

"A gamekeeper. There is an English shooting-club in the
neighborhood, and this man watches the cotintry to prevent
poachers from stealing the. game. I have warned all such
people in the districts around St. Petersburg to keep their
eyes open."

*'Good — you have done more than I thought. You had
better attend to this stranger at once. Shall you require
men? police, uniformed or otherwise? Take what you require."

**I shall consider and make my own arrangements. You
may trust me. Excellence; by this time to-morrow night,
if all goes well, Melnikof shall be safely l5ring in the fortress
yonder."

*'Well, he is badly wanted, and neither you nor I nor the
prestige of the Department will suffer if matters turn out
as you expect. Good-night, and good luck attend your
efforts."

This man Melnikof had, but a year ago, been accused of a
grave political offense. He had not committed the crime, but
there had been a miscarriage of justice. Melnikof had long
been a persona ingrata at the Detective Department, and
when an attempt had been made to shoot an tmpoptilar Min-
ister at the front door of his Chancellery, Melnikof had been
arrested on suspicion, **tried," convicted, and sent to Siberia
to work on one of the agricultural penal settlements there.
The real culprit escaped, but Melnikof was among the by-
standers when the shot was fired; the Department had made
up its mind that if he had not actually pulled the trigger
he would be a very good substitute for the man who did,
hence his arrest and banishment.

Melnikof, be it admitted, though not the prime offender.

A Drama in the Pine Forest 283

had long been a sympathizer with the party of disaffection
in Russia; he may even have known of the intended crime.
But at any rate he was not the actual offender, and the astute
Smimof was perfectly right in his belief in the man's inno-
cence.

Melnikof had somehow contrived to escape, to dodge the
spies and human bloodhounds scattered over the forests and
villages of Siberia, through or near which escaped convicts
must pass in whichsoever direction they wotdd fly — indeed,
his romantic adventures wotdd fill a volume with matter of
no ordinary interest — ^and had eventually reached in safety
the neighborhood of St. Petersburg itself. But to enter the
metropolis was a difficult matter; and for a week he had
prowled the woods at night, lying hidden by day, existing as
best he cotdd upon anjrthing he could beg, bag, or steal,
seeking ever, yet never finding, some opportunity to enter
the city. Once there, his wife would, he knew, have some
scheme ready at the instant for his departure out of the
country, for she had been duly informed of his escape; but
he dared not show himself by day, and even by night he had
not as yet found an opportunity to make his final dash for
home and liberty. Up to this point he had been tracked
every inch of the way, though his pursuers were always
several days behind him. Bycarefid hiding he had now, he knew,
given check to his enemies ; but he must be found eventually
if he lingered much longer, and meanwhile it was difficult to
live, for food must be begged or stolen, unless game could be
caught, and the cold af night was still intense.

Smimof was not long in making his arrangements for de-
parture. He went home straight from the Department to
consult his wife, in whose good sense he had the greatest
confidence.

**I am off at once, Olga," he said. **A man down Ryabova
way has reported a stranger lurking in the woods; this is
probably Melnikof. At any rate I must go and see for my-
self. You are not to expect me until you see me.*'

**Don't get into trouble," said his wife. **Melnikof may be
desperate."

•*I shall be armed," said Nicholas. *'If I find him it will
be a case of 'hands up,* for he shan't see me till I am sure
of him.**

Then Smimof sent out for a troika, a sledge drawn by three

284 ^ Drama in the Pine Forest

horses harnessed abreast, and set oflE upon his cold journey
of twenty miles by road, wearing long Russian hunting boots,
warmly lined throughout with felt, and reaching to his hips.
A warm polooshoebka, a peasant's sheepskin tunic, sur-
mounted by a huge fur mantle, large enough to envelop him
to the heels, completed his visible costume; in his pocket
was a handy little revolver, a necessary companion in such
an enterprise as that in which he was now about to embark.

Olga Smimof watched him drive away with a sigh.

'*I that ought to help him all I can — and would if I dared!"
she murmured. ''Oh, what fools the agitators make of us I
Nicholas is good to me, and this is how I must repay him —
I must J or — *'

Olga had herself been a member of one of the many secret
societies existing in Russia. She had not, indeed, had
dealings with any of the more extreme of the revolutionary
circles; her part had been mere passive sympathy with those
who endeavored to wrest from their rulers a greater measure
of freedom than authority cared to give them. She had
pledged herself to help on **the good work" in any way she
could: by keeping her eyes open, by warning any who might
be in danger, by financial aid — ^if she happened to be in funds.
Her husband well knew of her connection with these societies
before marrying her; indeed, it was through shadowing
her in consequence of that connection, when discovered, that
he presently made the acquaintance with her which ultimately
led to marriage.

"Shall I denotmce you or marry you?" he had asked, laugh-
ing; and Olga had chosen matrimony.

"You will have to break with these foolish people," said
Nicholas. "Your own particular circle is harmless — oh, we
know all about them; but there are affiliations and ramifica-
tions which might at any time get you into trouble, and that
would not do for the wife of a detective of No. 3 Department!"

Olga had laughed and promised to renounce all connection
with her former associates, if they would allow her; and
indeed those associates never troubled their heads about
Olga, being — as Nicholas said — ^members of a harmless body
of discontents. Knowing their own harmlessness, they were
not even alarmed when Olga married a chinovnik. Had they
known that Smimof was a detective, they might have felt
uncomfortable, but of this they were ignorant — all but one

A Drama in the Pine Forest 285

of them, Vera Sooshkin. Vera had herself, lately married.
She had married a member of a far more dangerous circle
than her own, no other than Melnikof , whose acquaintance we
have already made. Vera had come in haste and agitation
to her old friend Olga, hearing of her marriage.

"Do you know what you have done, Olga?" she said. '*You
have married one of the bloodhounds. Did you know it?"

"I do now; I did not at first," said Olga. "But how do you
know of it, Vera?"

"There is not much that my husband does not know about
the bloodhounds," replied Vera. "You must take care,
Olga; marriage does not release you from your vows of alle-
giance to W5, you know. In case of anjrthing — you are still
bound to be on our side."

"I am going to know nothing. I shall be on neither side,
though, of course, I shall S5rmpathize with my husband," said
Olga firmly.

"Well, take care; my husband's party are strong and
vengeful people, you know, and they may expect you to help
us—"

"I shall do nothing against my husband. You are not a
true friend. Vera, if you allow your man to inform his party
of the circumstances — "

"I hope there will be no need," said Vera; "it would only
be in emergency."

But the emergency arrived. Nicholas Smimof had been
entrusted with the capture of Melnikof, and those in St.
Petersburg who belong to the circle of the escaped convict
were mysteriously and promptly aware of the appointment.
Vera Melnikof quickly appeared at 01ga*s lodging.

**Your man has been told off for the capture of my Sasha,"
she said; "are you aware of it?"

"Certainly," replied Olga, her heart sinking. "Why do
you ask?"

"You will be expected to supply us with information."

"I shall do nothing of the kind. How can you expect it.
Vera?" said the other, doing her best to maintain a bold
appearance. "If you arc a faithful wife, I am another."

"It is not a case of individual wishes, or of what one will
or will not do; it is a case of must. The Brotherhood insist.
I am merely their mouthpiece. What I have said I have been
sent to say."

286 A Drama in the Pine Forest

**I do not believe it. Vera. You are liis wife, and you are
acting as a wife would and should. I do not blame you. But
I am a wife also, and will do my duty to my husband."

"Then take care! You say you do not believe me; I swear
to you that I have received my instructions to demand of you
as I have now demanded, and to acquaint you with the de-
cision of the Cotmcil, which is that the Council must be sat-
isfied of your obedience, or — " Vera paused.

"Or my assassination will follow — I imderstand. Well, let
them do as they please. I can strike as well as they, and you
— ^Vera — ^would nattu'ally be the first victim, though I should
regret it. "^

"You mean that, rather than keep us informed of any news
there may be of Sasha you will denounce the Brotherhood in
my person. Now see, Olga, how foolish that would be. I
might be arrested — ^true; but the bloodhounds would follow
no farther upon the track. On the other hand, you would
certainly perish; possibly my husband would suffer also.
Nicholas might or might not gain the distinction of capturing
Sasha, but in any case he would lose you. Place one thing
against the other; does he gain in the end, or lose?'*

Olga reflected awhile.

"What, exactly, do they require of me?'* she asked at
length.

"Information as to Sasha's movements. He has gone out
of our sphere of knowledge. If he is seen or heard of in his
present hiding-places it can only be through spies on your
side; he cannot, poor lamb, communicate with us. Olga,
I have not pressed my own personal claims upon you, because,
as you point out, you too are a wife and love your husband ;
but place yourself in my position. I want him, Olga; God
knows how I want my husband back. I have a little child,
and she too wants her father. Let all this weigh, if you will, with
the other. We are wives ; our husbands are good men both —
most tmfortunately their interests conflict at this point, but
what might happen would be .far worse both for you and for
me than what has thus far happened.. I will tell you one
more thing. If he returns we . shall escape that very day
over sea. All is prepared; it can be done and shall be done,
and we shall not return. From the other side of the water
I swear that I will befriend your hi^band. If he loses caste
over this matter, I shall send him information which shall

A Drama in the Pine Forest 287

a thousand times redeem the present f ailiire. 'there are plots
and schemes in the air. I will give him timely warning which
shall enable him to do the Department such service that no
officer in their employ shall hold his head so high as Nicholas."

**Stop," said Olga. "Vera, it may be right or it may be
wrong, but I think I mtist do as you suggest. I dread the
assassin's knife — I am a coward; my husband would not have
me killed to save his reputation — he loves me. Also I am
unwilling that you should suffer — stay; swear to me that
what you have said is true I that your circle have threatened
me.

** Heaven knows it is the truth. I am a slave because oiu*
society — yours and mine — is affiliated with that of Sasha.
Sasha is a slave also. He is not an extremist, though in
moments of excitement and indignation he has both done and
said foolish things; but he would never counsel assassination,
still less take part in any violent measures. He is entirely
innocent of the crime for which he suffered."

"Well, you shall hear, I swear it. If Nicholas receives
information as to your husband's movements, you shall be
warned in time."

"God bless you, Olga. You have saved three lives — your
own, Sasha's and mine; for indeed I should not survive it
if he were now taken and punished. I know not that you
have not saved yoiu* husband's also, for, believe me, he is in
danger. As it is — well, you will see that you have acted
wisely."

And now, on the night of Smimof 's departure for Ryabova,
Olga hastened to give the news to her friend.

"Probably Nicholas will find and capture him this very
night," she said, "if this turns out to be he. If so, how will it
help you? He will be taken to the fortress. Yoiu* Council
would scarcely attempt a rescue from there!"

"Once he is taken, my husband will know how to proceed."
Vera smiled. "That is a matter long since arranged be-
tween us— before he escaped. One thing only I can promise,
that your Nicholas shall suffer no harm."

Meanwhile Smimof drove as rapidly as possible toward
Ryabova. . .The sledge roads were in. their usual spring-time
stiate.of almost impassableness. The stm of day warred with
•the:fro»t$ of mght;* the sun converted the snow into muddy

288 A Drama in the Pine Forest

slush, which at night hardened into iron-bound ridges and
ruts. The discomfort of driving over such roads at this
season is unspeakable, but the heart of Nicholas was full of
rejoicing, and he thought little of such small matters. At the
village of Sosna he left his troika and engaged a small rustic
sledge, for it would not be wise to approach Ryabova in the
larger vehicle, lest it should be seen or heard from the hiding
place of Melnikof, which might be near the road, and rouse
his suspicions.

At Ryabova he easily found Koshldn the keeper.

**Ah, you have come,'* said that individual. "Good; I
could not remember your name, therefore I communicated
with the Department."

"Is he still about here?'* asked Nicholas, and waited breath-
less for the answer.

"Certainly ; he goes every evening to the same place, hoping
to catch a black-cock at the springtide tok, I would have
bagged him for a poacher, but that I remembered your
warning, and thought he might be the chap you want."

"He has not seen you, has he, or been alarmed in any way ?"

"Heaven forbid! I am not such a fool. I see a fifty-rouble
note in this job."

"You shall have it if this is the man. If he attends the
black-cock tok it is time we went into the forest. Is there a
shalashka ready built?"

"It is that he uses, confound his impudence, every night."

"Dear Saints! — stop — ^he has no gun, of course?"

"Gun? poor wretch — ^no, nothing but his hands; yet he has
had one black-cock, if not two."

"Come, man ; we can talk as we go — ^takeme to the shalashka
quickly — describe the fellow — you saw him clearly and in
dayUght?"

"No, in half-light, when he left the shalashka at dawn. He
is a small man, smaller than you or I."

Arrived in the forest the conversation dropped, and all
further talk was in whispers; the men crept forward silently,
picking their way in order to go noiselessly. It was now
midnight.

"He comes at half -past one — ^before the black-cock,"
whispered Koshkin. "You are in good time. Here is the
open space in which the shalashka stands. It is now fifty

A Drama in the Pine Forest 289

paces from us, straight for that large star. Shall you be able
to find it?"

**Easily. Stop here, Koshkin. You have your big tooloop;
you will not be cold. It is possible that I may want you,
though unlikely. Lie here, and make no sound."

Smimof crept out into the open space, surrounded by pine
forest, in the midst of ^fhichtheshalashka stood: a little conical
shelter made of pine poles placed in a circle of six feet diameter
at the base, but converging to a point at top. The interstices
between the poles are filled with pine branches twisted in and
out. Within is accommodation for two men, or three at a pinch.
These little huts are run up for the use of the sportsmen during
the spring tournaments of black game. Hidden in his little
sanctuary the gunner may listen to the game arriving in the
darkness; he may hear them challenge and fight, and when
light comes he may watch the fun — an entertaining spectacle
— or kill a bird or two, at will ; for the black-cock are by this
time so intent upon the business of the moment that they will
not always fly, even at a gun-shot.

Smimof had no difficulty in finding the shalashka, though
the night was dark. Working noiselessly, he removed the
branches loosely set against the poles in one place in order to
admit of ingress, entered the hut, and replaced the branches
Then he eautiously adjusted his dark lantern, taking a single
instantaneous glance at the interior of the shelter as he did so.
The floor was covered with dry moss, a foot in depth. One
comer was indented as though a man had lain there ; Smimof
sat down in the opposite comer, wrapped his fur around him,
felt that his revolver was ready to hand, and waited.

The night without was as still as the very grave, and as
cold. A heavy frost was in the air, but no wind moved among
the pine trees. There was no sound, excepting — at intervals
— the thud of a mass of snow falling from the branches of
some tree in mid-forest. Suddenly a willow grouse, the male
bird, pioneer of the coming dawn, uttered his loud, strident,
laughing cry within a biscuit-toss of the shelter, startling
Nicholas from the light doze into which he had fallen. The
immediate reply of the hen-bird, the soft "ki-wow," five
times repeated, reassured him. "That won't do," thought
Nicholas; "I was nearly asleep! If the kooropatka had not
sung out I might have gone off!"

Suddenly there came a different sound. Far away in the

290 A Drama in the Pine Forest

forest, someone — or some large animal — was on the move.
Footsteps, slow and careful: this might be Melnikof coming —
it might also be fox, wolf, lynx, bear — anything.

Smimof held his breath and listened. Undoubtedly the
footsteps approached; slowly but surely they came nearer.
Then another sound — a muffled cough; it was a man, sure
enough. The footsteps drew near and nearer; now they
were crossing the open, now they paused at the entrance
to the shalashka. A man removed the loose branches and
entered, closing the aperture behind him, as Nicholas had
done. Nicholas shrank into his comer in order that he might
not be touched and discovered. It was pitch dark; he would
not be seen.

Then the new arrival sighed and groped his way to the
comer in which Smimof had observed his nest. He lay
down, and Smimof listened as he sighed and sobbed and
muttered, apparently praying. So a quarter of an hour passed.
Nicholas was in hopes that the fellow would fall asleep ; this
would be as well, for he could then make absolutely sure of
him; if it should come to a. fight the darkness was all in
favor of an unarmed man.

Suddenly there fell a startling hubbub of great flapping
wings without. A large bird came hurtling through the
darkness and alighted, with a thud and a grunt or croak,
close to the hut. This was the first of the black-cock, the
challenger par excellence, the King of the Tok, as the Russians
call him. Smimof heard his companion hold his breath
and listen, then relapse into his couch and breathe again.
Smimof*s own eyes were growing accustomed to the dark-
ness, and he fancied that he could now almost discern the
outline of the figure that lay in the moss opposite. If this
were so, the other would soon make him out also, and the
crucial moment would arrive.

"God send he may fall asleep first," thought Nicholas.

Presently a second black-cock approached. There was
the din of flapping wings, the thud of his settling, and in-
stantly following came the challenge "Chu-wish— chu-wish,"
responded to in a moment by the first arfival. The tok was
beginning.

Smimof heard his companion move. Gazing intently into
the darkness, he tbought he saw him rise and kneel, peering

A Drama in the Pine Forest 291

through the pine branches as though he would see what
passed without.

"I must wait a bit," came the whisper: '*it*s too dark
yet."

The tok began and developed, the challenging became
fast and furious. More black-cock knights arrived, and more
again ; judging by the sounds without the shelter there were
fights in progress at every point ; flappings of wings, challenges,
even the stamping and scuttling of the feet of the combat-
ants were audible on all sides.

The light strengthened. Smimof was no longer in any
doubt as to whether he really discerned the figure opposite
or only imagined it. He distinctly saw his man rise and step
across to his side of the shelter. He actually bent over
Smimof *s legs and began stealthily to remove a pine-branch.
In doing so he suddenly touched one of Smimof 's boots.

With an exclamation of terror he started back, and sat
down in his own place, holding his breath — watching — as
though he scarcely dared to formulate his fears.

Smimof now judged that the time had come for action.'

"Yes," he said aloud, **Sasha Melnikof, it is a man; it is I,
Nicholas Smimof. You are caught, my friend; do not play
the fool, for my revolver is at this moment covering you."

**It is God's will!" exclaimed Melnikof, with a choking
sob. **And it is you that have captured me, Nicholas! Well,
fear not, I shall not resist. I am weary of this existence, the
cold, the hunger, the fever, the being hunted — ^my God!
yes, I am glad it is over — "

'*How have you lived these days?" asked Nicholas.

**Each night I have caught one black-cock — I pounce upon
them in the darkness as they fight — it is easily done. I was
about to do this when I touched your foot. My God — it is
cold."

**I have more clothes than I need," said Nicholas; *'you
shall wear my poloo-shoobka; this big tooloop is enough for
me.

Smimof took off his sheepskin and handed it across. **We
will wait tmtil it is light enough to see our way; put it on and
rest awhile — ^sleep, if you like."

"No, I sleep by day. I would rather talk. Nicholas, in
pity — is my wife well? and the little one?"

"They are well."

292 A Drama in the Pine Forest

Melnikof crossed himself piously and muttered inaudible
words. Then he began, and for an hour he spoke of his
adventures: his escape, his life in forest and moorland, pur-
sued, befriended by peasants, a beggar, starving at times, yet
determined to reach his home ; "for I must see my dear wife
and the little one before I die," he ended, sobbing.

Nicholas was a soft-hearted man, and pitied his old friend,
but with him duty was paramount.

"It's no use, Melnikof,'' he said. "I am sorry for you, but
I have my career to think of, and my duty to my employers."

**0f course — I do not ask a favor of you,Smimof ; I am not a
fool. What I would suggest, if you allowed me, is in the
nature of a bargain by which we should both gain." He
paused.

"Well?" saidSmimof; "goon."

"There are papers of importance at my lodging; in ex-
change for these papers, or rather for disclosing their where-
abouts— ^my wife does not know of them and could not help
you to find them — I swear to you that you will not find
them without my aid — I demand half-an-hour with my wife
and child."

"I being present?"

"You being present. These papers would be a valuable
possession to you, Smimof; their discovery would be a
feather in your cap. With them in hand and my wretched
self captured — ^which has been a wonderful feat, and quite
incomprehensible to me — your career is made."

"Well, I agree. I may be blamed for it, but I will do as
you suggest. Perhaps we had better start at once. If I were
seen driving with you to your wife's lodgings it might be
misunderstood. It is now two o'clock — ^we shall reach town
by five ; the streets will be empty. Before six we shall be at
the Department."

The black-cock were in the very midst of the excitement of
battle and bloodshed. A belligerent pair were hectoring
and threatening within a yard or two of the shalashka as the
two men stepped out and disturbed them. Both birds flew
off with a loud tumult of beating wings. The noise gave
pause to the dozen duels going on at every point : as the two
men stamped over the frozen ground bird after bird rose and
fled away, some settling close by and continuing their heated
arguments, others flying as far as the forest, to sit and chal-

A Drama in the Pine Forest 293

lenge upon the nearest tree. A crane screamed out in the
half frozen marsh land a mile away.

Melnikof , though he had sighed and wept in the first shock
of his capture, was now in better spirits. **I am glad it is
over — ^this hunted existence," he repeated more than once;
*'and I shall see my dear wife and the child, thanks to you.
God bless you for it, Smimof."

**Don'tthank me," saidNicholas; *4t*s amatterof business."

Two hotirs later the three horses of Snlimof 's troika clat-
tered through the streets of St. Petersburg and drew up at
the house in which was Vera Melnikof 's flat, a modest lodging
at the top of the huge building.

**Dear Saints, how I tremble!" exclaimed Melnikof, as his
companion rang the bell.

"You have not yet told me where the papers are to be
found," said Smimof.

**In the kitchen there is a stone let into the floor in front of
the cooking-stove; they are beneath that stone. Someone
answers the bell — ^it is she — Verochka, my beloved!"

**Come into the sitting-room — you also, Nicholai Stepan-
itch, I will set the samovar before you — you have had a
cold drive. Will they try you again, my Sasha? will they
acquit you?"

''Dooshka, we have but half-an-hotir, and that thanks to
Smimof; thank him, you too! but for him, my beloved, we
shotdd not have met. Where is the little one? bring her."

The half -hour passed very quickly. Smimof sat stolidly
by and watched and listened while father and child and
mother — ^the child very sleepy and frightened — ^talked and
embraced and wept together. Then all adjourned to the
kitchen, and the stone was prised up by Smimof with an
axe. Sure enough, there lay a dusty packet of papers beneath
it. Smimof glanced at the bundle and pocketed it.

"You have performed your share of the contract, Sasha,
and I have performed mine," he said. "Time's up. I am
sorry. Vera Ivanovna; you will understand."

"Gro, then, husband; stay — one more embrace!" she flung
her arms about Melnikof 's neck. "Gro, and Grod keep thee!"
she said aloud; and she whispered in his ear, "Walk in front
when you reach the bottom of the stairs."

At the foot of the dark, unlighted stone staircase, gloomy

294 A Drama in the Pine Forest

even in full daylight, almost pitch dark at this early hour of
morning, Melnikof was walking in front. Two men suddenly
fell upon Smimof, who was just behind him; one placed
something over his mouth, the other held his arms. Smimof
struggled and tried to cry out, but the men were powerful;
he was helpless in their clutches, and the gag upon his mouth
and nose prevented him uttering a soimd.

*'I am done for," thought Smimof. *1 ought not to have — "

Then suddenly consciousness left him.

When he regained his senses he lay upon his own bed at
home. It was broad daylight. His wife, Olga, sat by his
bedside sewing.

'*01ga — what is it — what has happened?" he said. "Where
is Melnikof? Have I been ill? Did I dream it, or did I go
out and capture Melnikof?"

Olga kissed her husband and smoothed his forehead with
her hand. You must have been ill, dooshka moya*' she said.

**You went to make a capture, but a few hours later there
was a ring at the bell — ^this was five in the morning — and I
found you lying unconscious at the door. Who left you there
I know not."

'*01ga, we are ruined!" he sobbed, remembering all. **I
captured him and allowed him to escape." Smimof tried to
rise, but fell back. *'My head!" he exclaimed. **How ill I
feel! Go to the Department at once, Olga — stay; feel in
the pocket of my tooloop, is there a bundle of papers?" The
papers were there; Olga produced them.

"Thank God! they may save me," he said. "Leave them
for me to look at, and go quickly to the Department. Bid
them watch every station and every exit from the town ; it is
possible he may not yet have got away. Tell them I went to
Melnikof's lodgings for papers and was there attacked and
drugged. Explain all."

Fortunately for Smirnof , the papers proved to be of some
value to the Department, and though the Chief looked coldly
upon his outwitted employee for awhile Nicholas was not
deprived of his seniority. But Melnikof was not fotmd,
neither was his wife. As a matter of fact, they had escaped
by the early Finland train to Wiborg, reaching that city four
hours later, while Smimof still lay unconscious. At Helsing-
f ors they caught the steamer starting for Stockholm. They

A Drama in the Pine Forest 295

now live happily in London, where Sasha still associates
occasionally with those who are in touch with the wire-
pullers of anarchist and revolutionary circles. He has little
sympathy with them ; indeed he owes them a bitter grudge
for a year of great misery, which might have lasted lifelong
but for certain circtimstances which have been set forth above.
But both Sasha and his wife deem it a sacred duty to be upon
terms with their old associates in order to keep faith with
Olga and Nicholas Smimof , to whom they consider they owe
much, and who from time to time receive from them mys-
terious unsigned communications which are of the utmost
value to Nicholas, and by virtue of which he has by this time
achieved a reputation in the Department for astuteness and
sagacity second to none in the Empire.

It was his marvelous discovery of a certain plot to wreck
a train proceeding from the Crimea, a year or two ago, that
procured for him the favor of some of the very highest per-
sonages in the realm. This discovery has ever since been a
problem and a mystery to every other member of the De-
partment, but presumably Smimof himself knew to whom
he was indebted for the timely information which enabled
him to avoid the threatened catastrophe, for on that occasion
he made this remark to his wife:

**One never know's one's luck. Only think of it: I go,
thanks to my soft heart, and make an eternal idiot of myself
by letting a poor chap say good-bye to his wife before dis-
appearing for ever, and there comes of it — this!*'

"This" was a photograph, framed in diamonds, of a grateful
Imperial Highness!

SILVER CandlesticK:

The Story of a Noble Hotise^
by Edith King Latham

IT was a gift from my cousin, Mrs. Stephen Rogers, a
childless widow of ample means, who devoted the
greater part of her time to travel, wandering over the world,
from country to cotmtry, at the dictation of her fancy.

Now and again, I would receive from Cousin Harriet
a token of remembrance which told me in what particular
comer of the globe to locate her. Among these, were a
Zulu assegai, a Tanagra figurine, an embroidered satin
waistcoat of Louis XIV, a Kurdish sword, a curious ** longev-
ity" teapot and some fine bits of ivory from China, and
several pieces of rare porcelain and old silver, all of which
chummed quite sociably in my den, ignoring the fact that
they represented racial characteristics of antipodal remoteness.

The candlestick my cousin sent by a friend passing through
'San Francisco, en route to Honolulu. Accompanying the
gift was a letter which read as follows:

*' Perhaps you will not care for this souvenir of a far-away
kinswoman, my dear Robert, but the dainty little candle-
stick attracted my fancy, the other day, in an out-of-the-way
antiquary shop in London. The dealer was so evidently
anxious to dispose of it, although he insisted on a rather
stiflE price, that I hinted my suspicions of stolen property.
However, he told such a straightforward story that I believed
him and gave him very nearly what he asked. You need not
question the ethics of the transaction ; it is only another case
of impoverished nobihty, and the dealer's desire to realize
as much money as possible in order to start a new business
in America where his daughter resides.

'*I should like to keep the pretty bijou for myself, but

♦Written for Short Stories.

A Silver Candlestick 297

that would be folly in such a bird of passage as I have be-
come, so I send it on to you to find a place on the dusty,
bachelor shelves of your Russian Hill snuggery. The punches
are almost obliterated, but you may be able to decipher
enough to read the history of this aristocratic relic. It
instantly impressed me with an uncanny feeling of the
deepest mystery, which I am almost ashamed to confess.
You know my weakness. I went back two days later, to
the antiquary's, hoping to gain further particulars, but the
place was closed and the man gone.

**Now don't laugh at my girlish enthusiasm; even globe-
trotting has not cured it. Who knows but that you may
find, by this means, your elusive Great Story? You will,
no doubt think me very silly, but at least, believe me

Your always affectionate sister-cousin,

Harriet Winston Rogers.

Until Dec. ist, Aux soins de Carillon Frhres,

Paris."

The candlestick was a small affair, not more than six
inches in height, of good design and workmanship, represent-
ing a cherub holding aloft a torch in the top of which was the
receptacle for a small candle. On the base was stamped a
crest, badly defaced, with the letters E. V. underneath.

In the press of some rush work for my publisher, my
romance-loving relative and her pretty gift were alike for-
gotten, for the time, until Cousin Harriet's hinted mystery
was suddenly brought to light by an extraordinary interven-
tion of fate.

On a rainy evening in January, while climbing the steep
stairway which led to my eyrie, I was unlucky enough to
slip and badly injure a tendon of my right ankle. Following
this accident came a severe attack of the grippe which drove
away all inclination to serious mental exertion. To beguile
the tedium of the double convalescence, I resolved to take
up the study of the mandolin. A Club friend purchased for
me a sweet-toned instrument, and the music dealer^sent up
a teacher, a new acquisition to San Francisco's musical
circles, whose method and execution he warmly praised.

After two or three lessons, I was pleased to find ^myself
progressing famously in the use of the plectrum, under the

298 A Silver Candlestick

direction of the shabby Italian whom I found a man of such
charm and culture as to cause one to forget his poverty-
stricken appearance. On the day of the fourth lesson a
severe wind and rain storm came on, and the unpaved
streets on the hill were soon streaming with yellow rivulets.
I persuaded Signer Eccolare to remain until the storm had
somewhat abated and lunch with me, urging it as a personal
favor to a restless shut-in, as I observed the man hesitate.
When Wong Lee had removed the dishes and brought on the
cigars, I suggested going into the "den" to see the vista
of the Golden Gate from the wide window. It was too misty
for a satisfactory view, so I turned to the curio comer for
my guest's amusement. The Italian was greatly interested
in the collection, as I related the history of my treasures.
Knocking the ashes from my cigar, I picked up the silver
candlestick and passed it to him. **Here, Signor, see if you
cannot discover a romantic history for this pretty bauble,"
I said, laughing. "I have a cousin abroad, who has an
idea — ." I stopped, and clutched at the fellow who had
turned to the color of the dead, and seemed on the verge of
fainting. He tottered to a chair, while I hobbled on my
crutches into the dining room and poured out a glass of wine.
When Signor Eccolare had swallowed the stimulant, he
revived somewhat and feebly drew himself up with a pitiful
expression on his pale face, a mixture of sadness and joy.
For several moments he did not attempt to speak, then he
pointed a trembling finger at the candlestick which I had
hastily set back upon the shelf. "For the love of heaven,
tell me, when and where did you find it, and why is it
here?" he gasped. I gave him the substance of my cousin's
letter.

'*Your relative would be displeased, doubtless, and you
would refuse, should I ask you to part with it?"

I shot a rather sharp glance at the man. Signor Eccolare
winced. ** You think my request a strange one, Mr. Winston,
but I do not ask the candlestick of you without remuneration.
I have not sufficient money to tempt you, but I will give you
for it this ring," he said, drawing from his finger a beautiful
intaglio. **It was my father's, and my grandfather's, and
the father of my grandfather received it from a long line of
noble ancestors, yet I will give it in exchange for this little
silver candlestick which, to you, is merely a trinket, but,

A Silver Candlestick 299

to me, means more than life, the return of peace and honor
to the proud Vessanio. You asked me in jest for the history ;
yes, I can give it, if you will have the patience to listen.'*

'*I will listen with the keenest pleasure imaginable," I
declared,** but first let me make you more comfortable/' I
placed some pillows at his back and pushed a footstool at his
feet, then letting myself gingerly down on a couch, I signed to
him to proceed. Signor Eccolare gazed at the window, to-
wards the rain-enshrouded mountains on the Main shore, with
an absent expression.

**The house of Vessanio is of the oldest and most honorable
in all Italy," he began. '*I will not weary you by recounting
the history of the dukes of Vessanio, but I will confine myself
to the story of the silver candlestick.

"About the middle of the sixteenth sentury, Silvio de
Vessanio purchased from a Florentine silversmith this pretty
specimen of an artist's skill, and presented it to his newly-wed
wife, the yoimg Duchess of Pellamo. From the day when the
Duke had presented it, the candlestick had stood upon a little
table in her boudoir, holding a small wax candle which she
caused to be lighted every night before retiring. The little
taper gave a cheery, though not very powerful flame which
the Duchess could see from her bedchamber, and which she
liked to think, for she was of a fanciful turn of mind, guided
her to dreamland. The Duke, who adored his wife, was glad
to perceive the pleasure which his gift afforded, even though it
served no higher piupose than to gratify the whim of a beauti-
ful woman. It was, therefore, a sort of plaything, until at
the death of Silvio, Duke' of Vessanio, it became associated
with gloom and mourning.

The happy married life of the young couple was suddenly
darkened but little more than a year after their marriage,
when, one terrible day, the Duke was brought back to the
castle from a hunting tour, with a mortal wotmd. My ances-
tor lived to embrace for a last time his young wife and infant
boy, and just as the stm was sinking into the arms of night, his
eyes* began to glaze with approaching death. As though
dreading the journey through the dark, unknown passages, he
begged piteously for light. At a word from the Duchess, the
servants fetched all the candlesticks which they could hastily
gather, and surrotmded his bed, holding the dripping light
aloft. But still the Aying man was not satisfied. With the

300 A Silver Candlestick

reproachftd gaze of an ailing child, he appealed to the weeping
Duchess kneeling at his bedside.

'** Light, Elizabetta mia, it grows ever darker; can you not
give me light ? *' Torches were brought, but the Duke scarcely
noticed them, and his pitiful cry went to the heart. In des-
peration, the distracted wife ran from room to room, but all
the lights had been taken by the servants. Silvio was slipping
into the darkness alone, and she cotdd not help him!

Returning to the deathbed, the Duchess stimibled over the
small table in her boudoir and, scarce knowing what she did,
snatched up the little candlestick with its fresh taper. When
she approached her husband with the flickering light which
sputtered merrily, unabashed by the presence of death, the
Duke gave a great sigh of relief, an expression of peace over-
spread his brow, and while the priest murmured the office for
those in extremis, he raised himself, grasped the hand of his
stricken wife, gazed intently at the form on the cross, and
died.

**The Duchess did not long survive him, and the little candle-
stick afforded her the same comfort in dying that it had given
her husband. Two months after his passing, it was given
place among the great, tall stands which held solemnly blink-
ing lights at the head of her bier. Ever since that time, it has
been employed in the same sacred service for the d3dng and
dead of the house of Vessanio, tmtil five years ago, when it was
stolen from my father's palace. It would be impossible to
picture to any but a Vessanio the consternation caused by
this catastrophe. My father, an aged man, approaching the
close of life, was prostrated at the news. Three years before,
the little candlestick had lighted my mother to the spirit
world, and its sanctity was therefore, in his eyes, greatly en-
hanced. To die without this ceremony, which had now become
almost as holy as the ministrations of the priest, was all but
insupportable. My father was brought to his bed with a
severe illness, but, although he seemed very near death, his
spirit would not yield, something seeming to hold him to earth
until the precious heirloom should be restored. My brother,
my sister, and I were reduced to despair. Our home became
a place over which death hovered with sinister gaze. Further
and more terrible complications arose when it began to be
whispered about that I had stolen the sacred candlestick, in
order to prevent my brother's marriage with the Contessa

A Silver Candlestick 301

Lucia Paverra. It was my misfortune to also love the
Countess, although the base thought of placing an obstacle in
the way of my brother's choice had never entered my heart.
But because it had become an imwritten law in our family
that the Duke of Vessanio must present to his bride the little
candlestick, the nuptial office of the heirloom had grown to be
regarded as almost entering into the validity of the marriage.
At least, it bestowed a feeling of sacred awe in its more cheer-
ful service, which was very nearly as great as in its service of
death. Therefore, it was small wonder that the voice of
suspicion, when it had been turned from all others, should con-
demn me, and that, gradually, my father, my brother, my
sister, and all believed me to be guilty, especially as I was
observed to grow paler and more worn as the time approached
which was to give to another the woman I madly loved. Alas,
my father died in terrible agony of soul, reiterating the haunt-
ing fear that, as the custom of years was broken, he would be
unable to find my mother in Paradise, without the help of the
little talisman which had guided his ancestors to the brink of
the river. I believe he was wandering in his mind, for the
last rites did not give him comfort, and he passed from earth
with a terrible cry which froze the blood to hear.

"I shotdd have gone mad, or taken my wretched life, but
for one slender ray of hope. Just before his death, my father
turned to me who sat apart from the others at the death-bed,
and said : Tietro, if you are guilty, God have mercy upon your
wicked soul, for your father's curse will ever follow you, and
his restless spirit will be caused to wander in endless unhappi-
ness. But if you are innocent, set out and search the world
for the stolen relic. When you have fotmd and restored it,
you will receive my blessing ; you will also make possible the
wedded happiness of your brother.' As soon, therefore, as my
body is cold, go forth on your search, if you be not the craven
thing suspicion has branded you. And may God help you to
restore joy and remove disgrace from the proud name of the
Vessanio.

** You may imagine, Signor Winston that, innocent as I was,
I set out upon my quest as soon as my father's labored breath-
ing had ceased, eagerly hoping that I might return with joy
before the obsequies had taken place. But my efforts were
fruitless, and the large rewards offered were unclaimed, as
they had been from the first. Instead of returning to the

302 A Silver CandlesHck

funeral, I wandered over Europe, and finally, reached New
York where I was cruelly robbed by clever swindlers of the
remainder of the sum of money given me at my father's
request, I resorted to teaching Italian and the mandolin,
and contrived to make a precarious living, meanwhile per-
fecting myself in the English tongue of which I had already
considerable knowledge. By this time, I had relinquished
all hope of ever again seeing the object of my quest, and despair
sat hard upon me. All means for its recovery had failed.

''Three months ago, I learned through a friend in Italy,
that my brother's love for the Contessa Faverra had at
length defied the strength of tradition, and the marriage had
taken place. But it was an almost joyless ceremony, through
which a superstitious terror grimly stalked.

''Last June I embraced an opportunity of coming west as
companion to an invalid, but restlessness again possessed me,
and I felt impelled to journey further. I left Colorado four
weeks ago, and in San Francisco, of all places the furthest
removed from my thoughts, I find, without searching, the
precious token for the lack of which the happiness of five
lives was wrecked."

Completely unnerved, yet clutching at Cousin Harriet's
gift as though fearing it might again be snatched from him,
the man wept with great, tearless, heartbreaking sobs. I
rose and hobbled to the window. "I'm awfully sorry for you,
Signor Vessanio," I said awkwardly, " but the thing for you to
do is to take the candlestick and get back to Italy as quickly
as you can.

" And if you will allow me the privilege, I shall be happy to
oflfer you a loan in the matter of tickets, and that sort of
thing. It is sometimes a little inconvenient to be obliged to
arrange, without preparation, for an expensive trip like this."

The man's emotion, for a few moments, quite overcame
him. In a choking voice,* he exclaimed gratefully, "Many,
many thanks, my dear Mr. Winston, but you do not know me.
I have no claim upon you who might rightfully challenge
me to produce proofs of my statements, which would consume
several weeks to accomplish."

"Nonsense," I exclaimed, "I don't ask proofs; your face
speaks for you. And please keep the ring ; all I ask is a letter
describing the scenes at the Palazzo Vessanio when you arrive
with the long-lost heirloom.

A Silver Candlestick 303

"Now let's see what steamer you can take if you leave on
to-morrow morning's overland,'* I said, sitting down to the
telephone.

Some weeks later, on my first visit to the Club since my
accident, I was glancing through the London- papers, when
the sight of several lines in large type, at the head of a long
column, caused me to sink back in the big arm chair with a
sudden giddiness. This is what I read :

"FOUND IN SAN FRANCISCO!
A WORLD-FAMOUS RELIC.

"Story of the restoration of the priceless candlestick,

stolen three years ago from the Museum in Rome.

"Thomas Swinlon, to whom was paid the immense reward
offered by the Museum for the recovery of the valuable bit
of silverware, and who immediately disappeared, is now
known to have been but the agent for an exiled Italian with a
long criminal record, who, under various aliases, has played
the bunco game with a skilled hand. This time, it seems,
fate took a hand in the game and sent him stumbling upon a
most imlooked-for prize.

" The man is a rascal of rare cultivation, possessed of several
accomplishments, a mus'cian of no small talent, a fluent con-
versationalist in five different tongues, quick-witted to a
degree, and endowed with the imagination of a novelist.

"Frequenters of the Museum will rejoice to

learn that the precious relic will soon be restored to its accus-
tomed place where it will once more become the center of
attraction, by its association with one of the most tragic
events of Italian history."

I have since learned the true story of Cousin Harriet's gift,
but, although it is indeed a thrilling tale, I find myself
reverting with greater fascination to the pathetic history of
the mythical Vessanios, and, while I have devoted consider-
able valuable time to the memory of the lately departed
"Pietro," I cannot prevent a feeling of sympathy for the
poetic grief of the noble Italian family, as set forth by that
artist in crime and literature, "Signor Eccolare," to whom,
with respect, I dedicate his own fabrication.

HE Climax : A Story of an
Irish Village, by Kathcrinc Cecil
Thurston*

MICHAEL Prendergast shut the door of his dispensary
with a bang that Sounded down the empty street,
then lounged back against it and slowly lit his pipe. The
life of an Irish doctor in an Irish village is peculiarly his own
— as aloof from interference as his rough tweed clothes or his
manner of speech. The pipe drew badly; with the deliber-
ation that characterized all he did, Prendergast made his
position more comfortable and struck another match.

It was an exceptional September day. Across the roadway
the thatched roofs looked warm and brown as clustered bees ;
to his right the ducks clamored vigorously round the village
piunp; to his left, where the street curved, a fragment of sea
showed between yellow and whitewashed houses like a steel
band against the dazzling sky. He was no self-analyst, but
he was aware of the light, clear warmth in a lifting spirit.
Unconsciously he moved forward, and, looking up, let his
eyes rest with a certain contentment on the battered house
that spelt routine in his daily life — at the crooked window-
sashes and the notice of his attendance in half-obliterated
black letters on a white painted board: the whole comfortable
discomfort that he had at first chafed at, then tolerated,
at last learned to call life. For there is no place in the world
where the lotus-eater matures more rapidly than in the
solitary island shadowed by hills and lapped by tides. Like
many another, Prendergast had begun life with purposes and
energies; but the people, the atmosphere, the very soil of the
country, are alien to such things : the solid wall of influences
had prevailed, and his nature had dozed to sleep.

He was still gazing at the notice board, still ruminating

*From Blackwood's Magazine.

The Climax 305

pleasantly — ^the tobacco in his pipe glowing as he drew and
let go his breath — when a sound in the deserted street roused
him. A man*s laugh — ^its echo in a girl's voice — then foot-
steps, partly muffled in the sandy dust of the roadway. He
turned abruptly, raised his cap, then drew back a step into
his original position, slightly disconcerted for almost the first
time in his recollection.

The girl's form was familiar — familiar enough to bring the
slow blood to his face; but the man's was new, with the
intolerable newness of an unexpected, unreckoned-with
thing. He glanced over the slight figure in its spotless
flannels, and felt suddenly and hotly conscious of his rough-
cut tweeds: then the feeling fled before a fierce pang of
self -disgust at his momentary weakness. At this* precise
moment the two in the roadway paused. The man looked
coolly interested, the girl flushed with unwonted exhilaration.

**Grood morning. Doctor Prendergast," she said. '*This
is Mr. Astley, the friend from London that we expected last
night. His boat was kept back by the fog. He only arrived
from Cloghal two hours ago." She spoke a little hurriedly,
glancing from one to the other. Strangers were few at Rosscoe,
and introductions rare.

When she ceased speaking there was a pause. A group
of fishermen passed, carrying nets and lobster-pots, and the
ducks by the pump scattered in confusion. Prendergast
shifted his position awkwardly: the stranger, with absolute
tmconcem, screwed in his eyeglass, and surveyed him as he
might an interesting monument.

'*How d'you do?" he said.

Prendergast squared his wide shoulders. '*This is a tame
spot after London, ' ' he remarked. * * How does it strike you ? ' '

The other smiled. His smile, like everything from his
immaculate panama to his doeskin boots, was cool and
complete; it altered his face just enough to show a perfect
row of teeth, but it left his satirical, questioning eyes un-
touched.

'*The place is interesting," he said, **but it's the people
I've come for. I'm rather stud5dng the Celt." His words
dropped out with great conciseness, each syllable cut and
clear. Prendergast unconsciously began knocking the ashes
out of his smouldering pipe. At this point the girl interposed.

**Mr. Astley is writing a great book," she said, "and

3o6 The Climax

he's hunting for uncultivated types. Isn't that it?" She
looked up with naive admiration at the thin clean-shaven
face.

The last shred of tobacco fell to the ground, and Prendergast
raised his head. **He won't have to look far," he said.

Nancy Odell glanced round quickly. Ill-humor was new
in Prendergast.

Astley let his eyeglass drop from his eye; it dangled from
its string in the sim. **No," he said smoothly; ''I've dis-
covered that for myself."

The veiled sarcasm escaped Nancy; but Prendergast, with-
out ftilly understanding it, flushed.

** Good-bye, Miss Odell," he said. *' There's work waiting
up at my place." He held out his hand.

The girl looked ptizzled, then distressed. ** Good-bye,"
she said. **And will you dine with us to-night? I know
father wants you to — "

He hesitated. Her eyes were on his ; Astley was lost in
contemplation of the dispensary. **Very well," he agreed
brusquely. '* Thanks!" Lifting his cap, he turned on his
heel and strode down the street toward his own house.

The new-comer turned, his lips curved into sarcastic
amusement. ** Miss Odell," he said, ** I owe you an tmpayable
debt. I thought they had extinguished the primitive man
some htmdreds of years ago."

Prendergast reviewed many things that evening as he
climbed the steep hill to the Odells'. It seemed that chance
had taken Rosscoe — its picturesqueness, its lethargy, its
negativeness — and, shaking it rudely, had set it down again
in altered circumstances.

The sight of this stranger, with his cool superiority, his
insolence, exhaling another atmosphere in every breath,
had altered the very face of accepted things. The World had
penetrated into the Wilderness, which in our day is tanta-
mount to the Snake in Paradise.

He threw back his shoulders and quickened his pace; he
held his head high, but there were misgivings in his heart.
With slow exactness he ticked off events from the hour of his
arrival in Rosscoe four years ago, beginning with the damp,
drizzling day on which he had caught his first glimpse of
Nancy Odell riding up the village on her chestnut cob — a
slim girl of seventeen, with the longest and blackest eyelashes

The Climax 307

he had ever seen and hair still bound in a dense thick plait.
He recalled their first meeting and his subsequent invitation
to the old house crumbling away under its ivy; and with
the memory came his first impression of Nancy's father,
Denis Odell, the man who after a brilliant career at college had
returned to Rosscoe on his father's death, had taken up
life there, had married, and had gradually, by a process so slow
as scarcely to be discernible, passed from the ranks of those
who do to the ranks of those who dream. He remembered
everything — ^the whole chain of pleasant uneventfulness; the
days that slipped to nights, the nights that merged to days,
while outside, beyond the guarding sea and the wall of hills,
life went on as usual — fevered, despairing, hopeful, tireless in
its steady round. He stopped suddenly in his walk. What
had he really done in those four years? The question
glowered at him abruptly out of the falling dusk; with un-
accustomed force it stormed his n[iuid. He had done his duty,
had earned his reputation for goodness of heart, had been
charitable in his modest way. But what mite of knowledge
had he given to the storehouse of his profession? What had
he contributed towards the future of his own life? A great
blank met his view — ^an appalling, yawning void. For two
whole years he had been placidly in love. Until to-day the
need to put even that love into expression had never touched
his mind. He had been content in the silent acknowledg-
ment of the fact. Nancy knew that he cared for her — must
know it, he had reasoned ; and for the rest — ^they were young,
there was time enough. There was time enough! That had
been his philosophy till now. Now somehow everything was
changed.

His fingers moved with loose imcertainty as he opened the
iron gate, then with a more hasty step than he had used for
years he crossed the wide path to the house — the gravel
crunching imder his feet.

In the hall he was met by Odell. The old man looked
unusually alert : some of the light that had been in Nancy's
eyes that morning seemed to have passed to his.

*' You've seen young Astley?" he said almost at once,
linking his arm through Prendergast's and drawing him down
the corridor to the drawing-room.

Prendergast answered churlishly in a monosyllable. Though

3o8 The Climax

he had expected the words, he resented them now that they
were said.

**A clever fellow! A man with a future! It has wanned
my heart to see him, Prendergast. His father and I were old
friends. Poor Ned! He had a great spirit, but he lacked
the grit of this youngster. He belongs to the newer era, eh? "

He laughed with his hand on the drawing-room door, and
for the first time Prendergast felt a tinge of alienism in the
familiar house. It seemed that the brown walls stared down
at him with an imaccustomed air, that there was a new note
of criticism in the jar of the turning door-handle. Then he
moved forward into the lighted room.

The room — so large and so suggestive of faded splendor,
was softened by a great glow of candles; there were fresh
curtains on the long windows, and the bowls of stock on the
ancient grand piano seemed more numerous and more
fragrant than usual. He felt each infinitesimal difference as
he moved forward and took Nancy's hand.

In Nancy, too, there was a change. Her usual cotton
dress was discarded for a muslin the color of her eyes; her
beautiful hair was coiled with new care; a long gold chain,
the only ornament she possessed, was twisted around her
neck. Her youth, her charm, her buoyancy, struck Prender-
gast with a shock. He turned abruptly to where the other
guest stood.

Astley came forward, and they shook hands. In dark
clothes he looked even slighter of build and paler of face —
the coldness of his eyes alone defying all changes of attire
and alterations of light. His fingers pressed Prendergast*s
swiftly, then relaxed. They left the impression of steel —
so firm and so lacking in all warmth was their touch.

**Miss Odell and I have been discussing temperaments,** he
said suavely. **I hold that reaction is the keynote of the
Celtic nature; that the more lethargic it seems, the more
volcanic its outbreak when the climax comes.** He stopped
and adjusted his eyeglass.

Prendergast felt his blood stir at the cool inquisitiveness
of the stare, but he controlled the emotion.

**Such topics are beyond Rosscoe,** he said. '*Here the
climax comes first, and we talk about it afterwards.**

Astley inclined his head to one side and surveyed him
attentively. "Then you never self-analyze?*'

The Climax 309

"Never!" rose emphatically to Prendergast's lips, but his
host interposed.

' * Dinner awaits us , " he said. * * We go in without ceremony ,
Astley — Doctor Prendergast knows that."

Prendergast straightened himself, drawing back against the
piano to let Nancy pass; but Astley moved silently forward,
and held the door ajar for her. He was rewarded with a very
sweet smile as she passed into the hall.

That dinner lingered long in Prendergast 's mind. Astley —
superlatively interesting in ordinary moments — seemed to
develop a fresh side when partaking of a meal. Where the
rural mind grows dull, his galvanized. He talked much and
talked well. Prendergast sat silent and oppressed while he
touched on current literature, lingered over Socialism in its
last developments, and rounded neatly oflf with a personal
view on European politics. He watched Odell's absorbed
face and Nancy's mystified admiration; then steadily enough
his gaze moved on to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall
and paused on his own reflection. The picture it rested on
was not calculated to reassure. The eyes that met his own
lacked color, the skin had an uncertain tone, the sandy hair
refused to lie flat; lowering his glance, he arrested it once
more, this time on the ill-knotted tie and badly fitting coat.
How many times, he wondered, had he sat in that same seat
and viewed that same image with no glimmering of shame
while he criticized the new schoolmaster or discussed the
prospects of the potato crop! At the thought he set his
teeth.

Twice Astley appealed to him; but his ideas were glued
together, and his answers were wide of the point. More
than twice his host tried to draw him into talk; but the genial-
ity sounded like condescension to his overstrained ears, and he
responded tmgraciously. His emphatic sense of failure hard-
ened into pride. He thought savagely of the degrees he had
taken, of the hours he had sweated, of the whole uphill fight,
with little money and few friends, that had landed him where
he was. As the thoughts came quick and bitter, the servant
entered with coffee, liquers, whiskey, and hot water. With an
impulse new in its directness, he pushed back his chair and
rose. To the three surprised faces turned towards him his

3IO The Climax

expression seemed iinchanged; to himself it felt convulsed
and strange.

**Miss Odell," he said, **you mustn't mind if I say good-
night. There's a poor woman on the cliff who wants seeing
to. Old Mary Troy, sir," — ^he turned to his host. "She's not
long for this world, and I promised I'd look in before the night
was out."

Odell looked up. * ' Tush, man ! It's the old story. They're
always going, and never gone. Sit down and have a glass of
punch."

His tone was cordial, but Prendergast saw his eyes turn
back expectantly to Astley's face.

** Thanks, sir; but it's a true bill this time. Good-night."
He nodded to Astley. ** Good-night, Miss Odell." His eyes
rested on Nancy's face and his hand sought hers.

She pressed his fingers warmly, but her smile was preoccu-
pied, her attention also was elsewhere. It was a curious fact,
that of the three faces the one turned most steadfastly in his
direction — the one to show most interest in his movements,
most attention to his words — was that of his fellow-guest.

'* Good-night," Nancy said quickly — "though you don't
deserve even that. But if you must go, tell Mary I'll come
and see her to-morrow before twelve. I ought really to have
gone to-day."

"All right. Good-night."

Odell followed him to the hall and helped him into his
overcoat. As he rolled up the collar, Astley's succinct voice
reached them from the dining-room:

"So you are Lady Bountiful.? You make me wish I had an
interesting disease and a cabin on the cliflE."

Odell laughed. By an immense effort Prendergast echoed
the sound, then, shaking hands hurriedly, he opened the door
with a wrench and passed out into the chill quiet.

Leaving the grounds, he turned — ^not upwards towards
Mary Troy's cottage, but downwards, steadily and directly
to the sea. Deception in any form was foreign to him, but
the moment had come when he must have a new atmosphere.
Leaving the road, he gained the rocks by a footpath, and,
crossing them with steady, accustomed feet, paused on the
outer ledge, took off his cap, and let the air blow strongly
through his rough hair. Outwardly he was calm and dogged;
so also, by a strange affinity, was the mass of water at his feet.

The Climax 311

The oily sheen of autumn was over the black waves as they
sucked and murmured in sullen quiet. The primary elements
of his nature dumbly understood the restrained power and
answered to it. He stood for some minutes breathing in the
moist salt air; then he turned and slowly retraced his steps.
As he regained the road he stopped.

**ril tell her to-morrow," he said aloud. **I won't wait
another day.'*

But man proposes. Next day an urgent message called
him to the botmdary 6i his district, over the worst roads in
the cotmtry, and night was falling before he reached home.
The following day a fresh obstacle arose, and on the third
another. A week passed, and he had not yet seen Nancy
alone. To a more impetuous nature the delay would have
been insupportable. In Prendergast it called up the dogged
fatalism that lay deep in his character, and something of his
old philosophy rose again reassuringly. There was time
enough! Men like Astley might flit across the horizon of
Rosscoe, disturbing its elements, but in due season they must
inevitably flit away again and be forgotten. He stated this to
himself on the seventh night after the Odells* dinner, as he
sat in his lonely room by the light of his solitary lamp; and
he reiterated it in the sunlight of the next morning, as he
unpacked a chest of drugs brought by the post, and laid the
contents on the window-sill of the dispensary, to await sorting.
The philosophy was still in his mind as he sauntered across the
cliflE later in the day — ^his gun on his shotdder, his dog at his
heels. His eyes were on the heather in front of him, his bat-
tered brown pipe was well aglow, when he paused in the midst
of his meditation, arrested by a voice behind him.

'* Hallo, Doctor! Where are you off to? Haven't seen you
these hundred years."

It was the voice of Denis Odell ; and, turning, Prendergast
saw him emerge from one of the narrower tracks into the wide
path that encircled the cliff. He looked brisk and healthy;
there was a new spirit in his voice.

'*Had any luck?" he asked. **We heard you banging
away."

''Nothing to talk about." Prendergast spoke absently; he
was speculating on the change in his companion. In all the

312 The Climax

years of their acquaintance he had never known Odell to leave
his room, much less his house, before afternoon.

The other saw his thought. *' You're wondering,** he said.
'* It's the touch of the world that's done it. Why did none of
you here ever tell me I was vegetating? I'd have mouldered
into the graveyard ten years before my time if Astley hadn*t
turned up to rejuvenate me. He's like one of your tonics,
Prendergast — ^bitter to taste, but powerful in results." He
laughed.

Prendergast shifted his gun uneasily. "You've been show-
ing him the caves? " He nodded towards the track Odell had
just ascended.

*'Yes. The three of us have been exploring, and I've
beaten the two of them in the climb back. Not bad for a
dried-up recluse, eh?" He laughed again.

'*No." Prendergast shifted his position and whistled to
the dog. He knew that he himself could scarcely have out-
stripped Nancy in the ascending of a cliff had she cared to
reach the summit first; and at the thought the first fidly com-
prehended pang of jealousy shot over his senses. But instantly
he shook it off. What had this stranger to do with Rosscoe,
or life at Rosscoe? Nothing. He moved once more im-
patiently, and the dog stirred.

"Down, Rose! Quiet, old girl!" He looked uneasily
towards the side-path. The thought of Nancy and the
stranger alone on the brown rocky track filled him with
imgovemable thoughts. Then suddenly his mood changed
and lightened; his faith flowed back. "I hear them!" he
exclaimed. "They're coming! This is a new experience for
Mr. Astley." He laughed with a great reaction; there had
been a terrible moment, but the moment was passed. He
went forward quickly and looked over the cliff.

Nancy came first, her blue eyes alight, her hair blown about
her temples. She walked over the boulders and loose earth
of the track with the erect ease she would have shown on a
level road ; a pace or two behind came Astley, his pale face
a shade or two paler than usual, his thin lips apart. The girl
was the first to see Prendergast; she blushed quickly and then
smiled.

"Doctor Prendergast!" she exclaimed. "Where in the
world have you been hiding yourself all this time?" The
words were slight, the tone hurried, but they were sufficient

The Climax 313

to bring the blood in a slow tide to Prendergast's face. Uncon-
sciously he raised his head, and met Astley's amused, sar-
castic gaze.

**I have been working,'* he said.

Nancy gained the path and her companion followed. As
he reached Prendergast's side he raised his eyebrows.

** Does anybody ever work in Ireland ? " he asked innocently,
disentangling his eyeglass string.

Odell laughed. "Look out, Astley!" he called. "I'd
have broken your father's head for that thirty years ago.
Come here, little girl," he added, "and give me an arm home.
That climb was pretty stiff after all."

Astley and Prendergast drew back, and Nancy went for-
ward, patting the dog's head as she passed. Odell took her
arm affectionately, and they turned towards home.

The two men, left alone, stood silent and uncertain. A
second passed, then another; at last Astley broke the pause.

"Where there's no alternative. Doctor," he said, "it's best
to philosophize. Will you walk home with me? "

The delay that followed was acute in its suggestion. Pren-
dergast kicked at a tuft of heather, then looked down in deep
contemplation at his boot; Astley, his head inclined to the
left, his eyes gleaming with sarcastic query, watched him
with steady attention. The thought in each mind was visible
— in the one, keen, unemotional interest; in the other,
active distrust. The position was slightly ludicrous. Astley
laughed.

"Come," he said, "we each have our point of view. I am
superlatively irritating in your eyes; you are superlatively
interesting in mine. Now, yotir profession is one of philan-
thropy. Will you walk back with me.? "

The tone stung Prendergast, but the words amused him.
His humor, lifeless for a week, roused itself, and he echoed the
other's laugh.

"Just as you like," he acceeded. "I suppose I am a bit
chtirlish; we get like that from being alone."

Astley took the apology in wise silence, and they moved
forward towards the bend round which Nancy and her father
had disappeared. They walked slowly; it was a day to be
lazily enjoyed. The cliff was splendid in its fading heather,
the wide sweep of sea shimmered copper rather than gold;

314 The Climax

everywhere lay the colors and the peace of an autumn after-
noon. Prendergast eyed it placidly in the calm appreciation
that time and custom bring; Astley, after one cursory glance,
took no further notice of the scene, but fixed his whole con-
centrated interest on the man by his side. He looked as the
entomologist looks when he pins a new and rare moth to his
setting-board.

Looking back upon that walk, Prendergast could never
remember precisely what they talked about. He had a cer-
tain after-impression that Astley had been even more brilliant
and more individual than on the night of the dinner; that
slowly and by reluctant degrees his own innate dislike and
distrust of the man had thawed before his caustic charm, till
he had been drawn to discuss his life, his work, — even his sen-
timents. That was his impression; but his impression, seen
in the clearness of after-knowledge, is like a phantom light in
presence of the sim — a poor, tmtraceable thing, without color
or form. His first clear recollection dated from their pause at
the point where the cliflE track stopped and the road began.
Far away in the distance the figures of Nancy and her father
were discernible, heading steadily for home; above them the
corn-fields rolled away — yellow and cropped and cleaned of
their treasure ; below was the village, the rocks, and the strand.
The spot invited rest; Astley was the first to stop. Screwing
in his eyeglass, he turned sharply on his companion and sur-
veyed him deliberately with the old look that so roused
antagonism.

"This visit to Ireland has meant a good deal to me,'* he said.

The tone he used was peculiar — ^so pecuhar that Prender-
gast lifted his head. In an instant the partial softening of
his feelings was arrested; he drew back into himself — once
more watchftd, suspicious, ill-at-ease.

"What do you mean.?" he asked. The art of polite pre-
amble was unknown to him.

For a moment Astley made no answer. He looked across
the bay to where the second headland showed shadowy in the
haze. Then he looked slowly and deliberately back at
Prendergast.

" I mean that Miss Odell has promised to be my wife," he
said.

It was many hours later that Prendergast unlocked the door
of the dispensary, and, leaving it ajar, walked upstairs. He

^ The Climax 315

walked slowly and heavily — ^the toes of his boots stumbling
methodically against each tmcarpeted step, the sleeve of his
coat rubbing against the whitewashed wall. Entering the
bare constdting-room, he paused : his gim htmg from his hand ;
the dog, a yard behind him, stood attentive and surprised.
For several seconds he stayed immovable, then, stirred by
some tmtraceable thought , he lifted the gtm, looked at it,
and laid it aside. Taking off his cap, he passed his hand
slowly and perplexedly across his hair.

How he had parted with Astley, what he had said, how he
had borne himself, belonged to some vague, long-past time.
He had a shadowy memory of a cold concise voice, and of cold,
amused, intensely inquisitive eyes. Then came a knowledge
of escape and a recollection of walking — walking on and on,
without sense of distance or destination, in a fruitless attempt
to outstrip himself. With the remembrance of his walk he
looked quickly down at his boots caked with red mud; then
with the dazed, vacant look still on his face he crossed the
room to the window overlooking the street.

On the window-sill stood the packing-case that the post
had brought, the strewn shavings, the phials and boxes of
varying size. He looked at them stolidly, with difficulty con-
necting them with himself. Each one had been given its
place that morning by a man in the strong confidence of life,
each was glanced over now by a man who had lost the very
bearings of existence. Once more he passed his hand heavily
over his hair.

To emphasize his feelings in that hour wotdd be impossible
— he had none to emphasize. Neither rage nor loss nor deso-
lation held any part in his comprehension. He was merely
sttmned.

For well over ten nwnutes he kept the same position — ^his
hands hanging by his sides, his eyes fastened tmseeingly on
the litter before him; then swiftly, by one of those tiny in-
cidents that change events, he was brought back to movement.
The dog, lying under the table, stirred in its sleep, stretched
its paws shiveringly, and yelped. The sound, so familiar and
so commonplace, roused him.

** Wake up. Rose!" he said unconsciotisly. ** Wake up, old
girl!''

The sotmd of his voice in the still room was hollow; the dog
sprang up, twisted its body, yawned, and came forward, wag-

3i6 The Climax

ing its tail. A second later it thrust its nose amongst the
dibris of the window-sill, sending one small bottle rolling to the
groimd.

Prendergast stooped and recovered it. It was a narrow
bottle, neatly packed with fine white grains, and bearing a
significant label. As he drew himself upright again he held
it to the light, his face grimly relaxed.

**One pinch of this, Rose,*' he said, '*and ** But he

didn't finish. With a sotmd half fierce, half ironical, he broke
off sharply, and, holding the bottle between his fingers, walked
the length of the room. Three times he paced from end to
end, then pausing, he laid it aside in his ordinary drug cup-
board, and continued his promenade with empty hands.

He walked persistently for three minutes, as a prisoner
might tramp a jail-yard; then once more he paused, surprised
into quiet by a fresh sotmd — ^the soimd of steps on the car-
petless stairs outside. With a first imptdse he turned to
annihilate the intruder, then something in the steps them-
selves— ^something in the soft, considered mounting, held him
mute. The dog walked to the door and growled. The
growl steadied him.

'* Down, Rose ! " he said roughly, and moving past the ani-
mal he threw the door wide.

In the passage the pale face of Astley accosted him sharply
through the dust. He drew back, and his visitor made a step
forward; the light of question still flickered in his eyes.

**I rather thought of consulting you professionally," he
began, "and finding the door open I came up. Have I
transgressed?" He laughed, but his cold voice was more
alert than usual, his words more clipped.

In silence Prendergast drew back into the room.

The other still halted on the threshold. "Have I trans-
gressed?" he asked again.

"You may come in." Prendergast forced the monosyl-
lables. At the first sound of the chilling voice his whole mental
mechanism had tmdergone a change. As a cold douche sends
the blood tingling, the first word uttered by Astley had slashed
his lethargy into bits. All the silent antipathy that existed
from the first, all the new, intolerable sense of wrong that lay
dormant in his mind, flooded up and met. At school he had
earned the reputation of being hard to rouse; as he stood now
by the deal table, conscious in every pore of Astley's presence.

The Climax 317

he remembered by a strange linking of ideas one memorable
day in that same school-life on which he had, single-handed,
fought and conquered three boys of his own size. At the
recollection he crossed the room rapidly and stood once more
by the window, looking down into the deserted street.

Silently Astley moved forward, and in his turn also paused
by the table. **The fact is," he began, "my nerves gave me
a bad time this morning, and have left the legacy of a splitting

head. It struck me to come to you for relief ** As he

spoke he leant forward ; the light from the small windows was
growing momentarily duller. A September evening falls
rapidly once the sun has dropped.

**A headache?*' Prendergast said the word dtdly; he was
aware, in a strange, uncertain way, of a tightness — a sense of
congestion in his own brain. "A headache?" he said again.

**Yes; a headache."

The words reached him, but their meaning left him un-
touched. Without definite object he walked back into the
room, and, passing Astley, paused once more by the cupboard
in the wall. His hand strayed to the door-hinge and fumbled
there; the motion was unconscious, but it raised a new query
in his visitor's attentive eyes.

He left his place by the table and drew closer to Prender-
gast by two steps.

**Make me a dose," he urged; "you have the materials
under your hand." His voice was at all times distinct; when
he chose he cotdd make it vibrate like a bell. As he spoke
now he used all his power, and in direct and violent response
a change passed over Prendergast. He lifted his head,
straightened his shoulders, and once more passed his hand
across his hair. By some inexplicable force the blood that
had seemed massed in his brain rushed darkly over his face —
roaring in his ears, dancing before his eyes. He had been
moving, living, talking in a dream; now abruptly he was
awake, conscious of himself and of his loss, with a conscious-
ness that ran direct, without offshoot or divergence, into one
channel — the channel of violent, jealous hate. In that instant
of enlightenment, every impulse and every feeling concen-
trated to a point, he understood everything from the first
moment his eyes had rested on Astley to the present hour;
each item, each incident, each idea turned on the same pivot —
jealousy. Jealousy! On the spur of the thought he half

3i8 The Climax

turned, his hand clenched; then, with a motive altogether
novel, he paused on his impulse, and slowly, qtiite slowly,
turned back, facing the cupboard once again. Astley's words
seemed to hop in material form between the bottles, to stare
at him from the shelves. *'Make me a dose; you have the
materials under your hand!** Harshly, smoothly, suggest-
ively— in every varying note they were shouted and whis-
pered in his mind. '

**What do you mostly take?'* he asked. The words came
steadily enough, but it didn*t seem that the voice that spoke
them belonged to him.

Astley came forward another step. '*0h, anything — anti-

pyrin or the other stuff — anything you like ** He, too,

seemed slightly and unaccountably perturbed, but the per-
turbation escaped Prendergast. Such a man in such a mo-
ment is oblivious of everything but his own dominant thought.

His face had a gray pallor, his hand fumbled continuously
with the hinge. ** Heart sound.'*** he asked, without tiuning
rotmd.

For an instant Astley made no reply, then he laughed with
deliberate, sarcastic point. *'My dear doctor, what a ques-
tion to a man in my position! Siu^ely Miss Odell is the
authority there.** The words were light, but they were
meant to cut, and they fulfilled their mission. Prendergast
made no remark. For a complete minute he remained
absolutely motionless, absolutely mute; then picking up a
wine-glass he carried it across the room, half filled it with
water, and returned to the cupboard and his former place.
His face still had a leaden tinge, his eyes were fixed ; without
a glance at Astley he leant forward — ^his wide shoulders rob-
bing the cupboard of light. With jerking fingers he uncorked
a bottle, measured a pinch of white powder and spilt it into
the glass ; then, having added two other ingredients, he turned
round. His face was expressionless and without movement,
save for the throbbing of a nerve at the comer of his mouth — a
curious vehicle of feeling that answered to no control. With-
out a word he held the glass at arm's-length.

The light in the room was faihng. Astley, with sHghtly
nervous haste and head inquisitively thrust forward, moved
to his side.

*'This is the dose?'* he asked, his hand half extended, his
eyes bright with question and surmise.

The Climax 319

Prendergast saw each detail, and his innate physical loath-
ing of the man rose overwhelmingly. * * Yes ; this is the dose, ' '
he said in a dull voice, and thrusting the glass into Astley's
hand, he walked to the window and stood looking out.

All men have their dark — their terrible hour — to be lived
through, struggled through, crawled through, as the case may
be. How long Prendergast stood by the window and stared
through the dusty panes matters not at all ; whether a moment
or a lifetime, the issues were the same. He stood while the
savage tide of his jealousy leaped up in fire and fell back to
water — running in trickhng sweat down his forehead from his
hair. Then at last he turned. All life seemed gone from his
face, and he stooped like one who has passed through great
physical exertion, but the strained look had left his eyes.
Whatever his fight had been, it was fought through.

The room seemed very dim as he turned, but the glint of
the glass as his patient raised it slowly caught his eye as
Hghtning might have done. He sprang forward; the dog
made a frightened sound — half bark, half cry; Astley stepped
backward, overturning a chair. For a bare instant all was
confusion; then Prendergast drew back against the wall and
wiped his face. The dog had nm to him and was fawning on
his feet; Astley, with a colorless face and a smile on his thin
lips, was twisting and re-twisting his eyeglass string; between
them on the ground lay the shattered fragments of the wine-
glass, its spilt contents running in a thin stream across the
boards.

That night Prendergast did not go home; but when, worn
and exhausted, he let himself into his house next morning at
six o'clock, the first object that met his glance was a propped-
up letter on the hall-table. It was a thick letter in a square
envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand.

He had entered the house with inert movements. With
the same inertness he picked up the envelope and tore it apart.
It bore the date of seven o'clock on the previous evening —
exactly half an hour after the moment at which he had watched
Astley pass down the dispensary stairs. He scanned the first
lines dully; then a change passed over his face — ^the dark tide
of blood that suffused his skin in emotion swept over it, he
turned with unsteady fingers to the signature, then returned

320

The Climax

to the first page and read the letter to the end. It was care-
fully and concisely worded — ^the writing distinct and small.

'*My Dear Doctor," it began, **I am your debtor tmder
two heads — I owe you my apologies and my thanks. I came
to your village with a purpose and a theory; by your tmcon-
scious help I leave it to-morrow with the first ftdfilled and the
second verified. In short I came here to find you the quite
lethargic hero of a very promising comedy, and, having a turn
for htmian theatricak, I conceived the idea of playing scene-
shifter and audience in one — of providing a climax and watch-
ing the lethargic hero live through it. From your point of
view the act was unwarrantable ; but, as I once explained to
you, a point of view is a very prejudiced aflFair at best, and
when all is reckoned up no solid harm has been achieved. I
have gained an insight into the Celtic nature by a means no
more genuine than your dose of — shall we say antipyrin?
And for the rest, Miss* Odell is entirely charming; but such
pleasant pastimes as love and marriage lie in more worthy —
or should it be more suitable? — hands than mine. — Yours
faithfully, James Astley.**

Prendergast read the letter to the end, word by word; then
slowly, dazedly, unbelievingly, he turned back to the begin-
ning and read it through again.

HE Proving^ of Hamp
Paddleford: A Story of
the Southwest^ by Frank H*
Sweet*

"'HP ain't no use to pester me any more, Hamp/' she broke

1 in suddenly; "you ain't fitten to marry."
"But why ain't I [fitten ?" he pleaded. "I can lick any
man round here, an' you said yourself only yes'day that I
was hamsome an' mighty good nattired, an' — "

"An' barefoot," she finished scornfully. "Sakes alive,
Hamp Paddleford, ye ain't s'posin' I'd marry a man who's
got nothin' in this wide world but a runt pig his pap was
too lazy to care for. I ain't no onary Coon Flat girl," and
she drew herself up to her full height, with flushed cheeks
and flashing eyes. " 'Tain't cause I'm not usen to it," with
a proud, comprehensive sweep of her hand toward the earth
floor of the cabin. "My pap brought mam here, an' she's
been here ever since, with not so much as a new shovelful of
mud put on the chimbly that was only finished half way up.

No, it's all been Coon Flat so fur, but 'tain't goin' into no
marryin'. My man's got to have a cabin with a floor to it,
an' a cow an' hens, an' shoes for meetin' days — "

"I'll get all of 'em, Posey, every cussed one," he urged.
"You know—"

"Yes, I know; mam says pap was goin* to make her a
plank floor, but he never did. An' he was big an' strong an*
hamsome, like you. It's jest the Coon Flat way. Now there's
Tyke—"

His humility vanished instantly.

"Doggone Tyke!" he snapped. "He's got a cabin with a
floor, I know; an' he's a cow an' hens, an' is dickerin* for a
mule; but he ain't got nerve to fight a 'possum. An' he's
bow-legged an' squints an' ain't more'n five feet high. If a

♦Written for Short' Stories.

322 The Proving of Hamp Paddleford

gal like you is willin* to stand up 'longside of Tyke, then I
ain't in the hunt."

She looked at him placidly.

"I ain't sayin' but you're the better favored, Hamp; an' I
do like you, an* I ain't 'shamed to tell so," she commented;
"but you're twenty-five years old, an' ain't never owned a
pair of shoes for meetin' yet. Tyke was here yes'day an'
lowed to sheer all he'd got, an' he's a still in the mountain
that'll bring a-plenty right along."

"An* what did you say?" sullenly.

Posey laughed a little, then her face grew sober.

"Wall, I run him from the cabin, fust oflF," she confessed;
"but he wouldn't take that answer, an' sneaked back to the
door an' begged me to think it over. He said he'd come
ag'in to-morrer." She was* silent for a few moments, then
threw her head back defiantly, looking squarely into his
eyes. "An' I have thunk it over, Hamp Paddleford, an'
made up my mind for good an' all that I won't end my days
on no mud floor. That's all the answer I've got."

She looked superb as she stood there in the doorway, and
Hamp caught his breath in a half-sob of longing and despair;
then he turned and slouched down the path.

Opposite his own cabin he paused hesitatingly. His
mother was seated in the doorway with pipe in mouth, ready
for a talk. She had seen him with Posey. So he slouched
on to the next cabin, to where his particular friend lay
sprawled at full length upon the leaves.

"Done seen ye," the friend drawled significantly; "went up
the path full swing, an* come back with head droopin'. Hope
the brook ain't runnin* over no rocks nor nothin*."

Hamp grunted and threw himself upon the leaves,

"That onary Tyke was hangin' 'round thar right smart
yes'day," the friend continued, reflectively. "Course they's
nothin* to it; but gals — "

"He's lottin' to marry her, Sam," Hamp said listlessly.

"What I" and Sam raised himself to an elbow and looked
at his friend queerly. "Tyke carryin' off your gal, an' you
l5rin' here a-dreamin'. Why don't ye shoot him?"

"What* the use," mournfully. "'Twould only put me
furder away from Posey. You don't understan' her, Sam.
She'd say I was too big to jump on a little, sawed-off thing
like Tyke — an' she'd be right. Not but what I'd like to

The Proving of Hamp Paddle ford 323

shoot him though," vehemently, ** jest like I would a skunk or
snake. It's all he's fit for, to be shot. But I can't resk hard
feelin's with Posey."

Sam dropped back disgustedly.

"Gals are cert'ny queer," he gnmibled. "I'm glad I've
never got in with none of 'em. The idee of a hamsome
critter like Posey sidlin' up to Tyke, when a man like you
was makin' eyes at her."

"Oh, 't ain't the man, Sam. Posey likes me well 'nough;
but I ain't no plank floor, nor even a cabin; an' Tyke has
both, an' other things. I've never thought much about floors
bein' needed to prance 'round on; but when Posey spoke
like they was, I knew she was right. * If Posey 'd say every-
body ought to wear coats even when 't was hot, like preachers
do, an* that we should have shoes for every day in the week
an' I was lookin' in them eyes of hers when she said it, I'd
know she was right. Posey ain't like no other Coon Flat
girl that ever growed. Why, Sam," earnestly, "if one of them
little birds should drop twenty-five whole dollars right down
here on the leaves, I'd be willin' to put every single one of 'em
into a plank floor for Posey to walk on."

Sam gave a long, low whistle, and dropping his head back
upon his hands gazed thoughtfully at the bits of blue through
the interstices of foliage. Ten, fifteen minutes; then, he
suddenly returned to his position on one elbow.

"You must get Posey the floor, Hamp," he declared.

Hamp merely grunted something about getting his granny.

"But you must," Sam insisted, rising to his feet in his
earnestness.

"Why, man, you're the one who ought to be shot, not
Tyke. I ain't no gal man, but if I was an' had one like Posey,
no cussed little floor could come atween us. She should have
floors till she couldn't rest, if I had to bark my knuckles an'
keep my gun barrel red hot to git 'em."

"Tyke's comin* to-morrer," Hamp muttered, rising deject-
edly to his feet. " Right to-morrer; an' from the way Posey
spoke, there ain't to be no if an' mebbyin'. She'll snap *yes'
or * no ' right out, an' she'll stick to what she says. She won't
do no monkeyin'. The only way^I can see is to shoot him,
an' that would /make things wuss. A floored cabin's boun'
to cost a plum heap."

324 The Proving of Hamp Paddleford

"Yes," agreed Sam, "boun* to. But I've been piecin' the
thing out. You know that big hoss farm down in the valley ? ' '

** Hinckle's — ^yes. But he's done sold out."

" I know, to a whole passle of folks from the North — more'n
a himdred famblies some say. They're startin' a village an'
a whole lot of truck farms to grow stuff for city sellin', an'
the hoss farm is bein' cut up an' divided. But what I've been
piecin' ottt is this: they don't know nothin' 'bout bosses an'
are tryin' to sell 'em off, an' the animals are runnin' wild all
over the place. Hinckle an' his men have gone away, an' the
new folks don't know you an' me from Adam. We'll slip
down to-night, an' while you're makin' up to 'eir with that
smooth way of talkin' you've got, I'll snoopfin among the
scattered bosses an' run a couple into the bushes. Then
you'll jine me, an' we'll git 'em over t'other side'the moimtain
by momin', to that man Shanks. He'll buy anything at half
what it's wuth, an' not ask a question. To-morrer he'll slip
'em over the line into another State, an' that'll be an end of
the matter, only that you an' me will have forty or fifty
dollars apiece."

" Bill Todd got caught up with when he tried to run a hoss
from Hinckle's last year," said Hamp, thoughtfully. "He's
in jail yet."

"That's dif'runt," contemptuously. "Hinckle had a pair
of eyes in every fence post on his place; an' besides, you know
Bill Todd. A cow could catch up with him. Will you go? "

"Will I go?" Hamp turned suddenly to him with face
transfigured; he was another man — his form dilated, his eyes
flashing. "Will I go?" he repeated. "Man, I'd go if there
was two pair of eyes in every post, an' each pair sightin' me
across a gun-barrel. Ain't Tyke comin* for an answer to-
morrer? I'd give up 'cause I couldn't see no way; if I could
an* 'twas to pull down the moon, I'd kick my legs an' arms
off a tryin'. You ain't looked in Posey's eyes an' seen what I
have. Come."

Sam grinned derisively.

" Been hangin' round Posey 'bout three years, nigh's I can
reelect," he commented, "an* ain't never had a spurt like
this afore, not even a spurt big 'nough to steer ye into a pair
of shoes for meetin' days.v jReckon Tyke's crossin* the trail
has sort of stirred ye up. But come on. They's no sort of

The Proving of Hamp Paddle ford 325

hurry, for 'tain't noon yet; but I don't reckon ye'd be satis-
fied to wait now yeVe struck a scent."

It was ten miles to the new settlement in the valley; but
their long legs made it in a little less than two hours. As they
approached the cluster of dwellings which were taking the
place of the big bam and stock yards, they noticed what
seemed an unusual gathering for even the building of a
village. Nor did they hear the sounds of saws and hammers.
Instead, nondescript wagons were standing about, with horses
hitched to wheels or tailboards; other horses were fastened
to the fences, with saddles on, and men were walking about
or gathered in groups in earnest discussion. Hamp and Sam
paused irresolutely and looked at each other; then Sam
nodded, his face clearing.

'* 'Lection, of course," he said. "I heered they was goin*
to call the neighborhood together to talk over a school house
an* a courthouse, an' to 'lect town oflScers an' a sheriff, but
didn't know when. This is it. Wall," reflectively, ** I don't
reckon it'll make any difference to us. Only 'stead of skulkin'
off one side I'll go straight on with you into the crowd. Two
more won't make no jar. We'll sidle round an' make friends
till 'bout dark, then I'll slip a couple of bosses into the bushes
an* tie 'em. Folks won't notice with so much goin' on, an'
you makin' yourself conspic'ous all the time. Arter a while
I'll come strollin' back unconcerned like an' you an' me'll
talk some with everybody and then prance off straight oppo-
site, circling round to the bosses arter dark. That'll prove
an allerbi in case one's needed. But look yonder."

Hamp turned,. A big negro was heading directly toward
them, running at full speed. But as he drew near and saw
them, he suddenly swerved, sprang over a fence, and sped
across a field toward the nearest wood. With a ** Somethin's
done broke," Hamp cleared the fence at a bound and sped
after him. The negro was a large man and a good rtmner, but
Hamp was larger and swifter. At the end of a hundred
yards' dash his hand dropped heavily upon the negro's
shoulder, swung him round, and began to drag him back to the
group of men who had by this time joined Sam.

"Ding me if that wa'n't the best capture I ever saw,"
called one of them delightedly, as Hamp approached with his
prisoner. A clean jump an' run, an' a clutch like a steel trap.

326 The Proving of Hamp Paddle ford

That's the way folks ought to be took. Come to lection, I
s'pose?'*

"Why, yes, sort of," Hamp acquiesced, "me an' my friend
Sam lowed we'd step rotmd an' git 'quainted a little.'

* ' That's right ! That's right I ' ' heartily. * * We want every-
body round to jine in with us an' get law an' conveniences
started. We need 'em bad. This black feller's been makin'
chicken business pretty brisk lately, but we didn't have any
lawftd place to shet him up. I've kept him tied in my bam
three days, waitin' for 'lection to provide suitable officers an'
places. Live near by ? "

" 'Bout ten miles."

J' Wall, that's pretty close in a neighborhood like this; but I
hope you'll come in closer still. It's a mighty good thing to
have a neighbor who can capture criminals in such an easy,
off-hand way. Folks'll all be glad to know you. See,"
smiling and nodding significantly toward a group that was
hunying toward them, ** there comes a passle now. S'pose
you tell me your name so I can do the talkin'."

Hamp glanced sideways at Sam; but Sam was looking
straight ahead and did not appear to see him. Still, in spite
of the gravity of the face, he was conscious of a slow, con-
vulsive wink, apparently directed at a ttu^key buzzard floating
in the distance.

"I'm Hamp, for short," he said, answering both the man
and the wink; "Hamp Paddleford, altogether. My friend
is Sam Pollock. An* we'll be glad to jine in your 'lectin* an'
other business. We come down jest to be neighborly."

"Good! good for you!" cried the man, slapping Hamp
between the shotdders. " You're the right sort. My name's
Thompson — Bill Thompson, — an' that's my house right
ahead, the big one. Now for the introducin'."

During the next half -hour Hamp passed from one group to
another, soon establishing himself as an open-hearted, good-
natured fellow who was ready to make friends. And his
character was saved from undue gentleness by the story of the
negro's capture, which followed him everywhere.

At length a man stood up in a wagon body and began to
talk, and the scattered groups closed in about him, Hamp
and Sam in the very front. And to all appearance there were
none more interested than they in the fate of the school house
and courthouse and jail, and in the selection of suitable com-

The Proving of Hatnp Paddle ford 327

mittees and town officials. But though their hands and voices
were always emphatic and conspicuous, they were used in a
judicious seconding of the popular sentiment. In time^the
office of sheriff was reached, and as had been the case with
the other offices, it was to be decided upon by the popular and
easy method of showing hands. Those of Hamp and Sam
had been in the air most of the time ; but^now when^the name
of^BiU Thompson was called, they rose a little quicker and
their voices went a little higher. But as the noise began to
subside, Bill Thompson himself was heard speaking.

"Sorry, boys," he said; **but I've got to dedine. You
know how I'm fixed. Got more work than any two men
ought to do; an' you know a sheriff needstime of his own*
Get somebody less busy."

There was a few moments of consultation, then some one
called "Jake Potterl"

"No, no, boys," came a hoarse voice from somewhere on
the other side; "I'm like Bill Thompson, got too much work.
Try ag'in."

" Hamp Paddlefordl " cried Bill Thompson suddenly. " He's
the man we want. Why didn't we think of him before ? He
caught the negro, and he's big enough an' quick enough to
catch anything. Hamp Paddleford's the man."

"Hamp Paddlefordl" "Hamp Paddlefordl" "He's the
man we want ! " yelled the crowd, " Hooray ! "

Hamp's hand had gone up instinctively at the first sign of a
name being called. Now it dropped abruptly; and he stood
there with eyes and mouth wide open, amazed, dazed.

" What's it mean, Sam ? " he whispered hoarsely, " Are they
fooUn'Fil

"Shet up, you fooll" Sam snapped. "Don't give your-
self away now. No, they ain't foolin'; though you needn't
hold up a hand to vote for yourself. Great snakes I" with a
low, hilarious chuckle which was wholly lost in the yelling of
the voters; "it beats anything I ever heered of. We'll take
a dozen bosses 'stead of jest two. You're to be the sheriff
who'll go off in search of yourself. Ho! hoi Bet a dollar
you don't catch yourself, Hamp."

But Hamp did not notice, did not even hear. His eyes wer»
still blinking at the crowd, his mouth was still open. He
heard vagtiely, " I nominate Hamp Paddleford to be sheriff,"
and a little later, " Hamp Paddleford is voted sheriff, to go in

328 The Proving of Hamp Paddleford

office to-day ! " Then he felt Bill Thompson's hand upon his
shoulder, and heard his big, bliiflF voice sa)dng:

*' Congratulate you, Paddleford. It's a good job for a man
who ain't drove with work — ^you ain't drove, are you?"
anxiously.

"N — ^no, not very," Hamp answered mechanically.

'* Then it's all right," in a relieved voice. ** The job'U turn
you in seven or eight hundred dollars, mebbe a thousand. And
it woidd be better if you cotdd come an' live in our village.
It would be handier. Married?"

"No."

" Wants to be, though," Sam grinned.

"Good. Bring her right down — ^to-morrer if you can. I
know a nice little cottage all furnished that can be got. Come
to my house first an* let me help you get started."

*' But I don't," Hamp began, when Sam nudged him sharply.

When Thompson left he drew Hamp aside. "Look here,
man," he expostidated; "don't you go to hintin' nothin'
away. It's the biggest plxmi that ever fell into two men's
mouths, an' we can make our cussed fortimes if we only do
things on the quiet."

But a new expression had been coming into Hamp's eyes.

" You low it's all straight an'sure," he asked slowly; "that
I'm to be the sheriff for good an' all?"

"Course."

Hamp drew a long deep, wondering breath, a breath which
reached down to some germ of honesty and ambition that lay
beyond the influence of Coon Flat.

" Then I reckon you'd better give up that boss stealin' idee,"
he advised; " 'cause if you don't I'll be obleeged to 'rest you."

Sam stared at him.

"'Rest tnef*' he demanded.

"Yes; ain't I sheriff?"

"But you're in it with me, man."

Hamp shook his head gravely.

" Not any more, that way," he answered. " A sheriff has to
be plumb-square, an' to look sharp for folks who ain't.
Don't let's have any fallin's out, Sam, you an' me; we're too
good friends. But there's to be no more buttin' agin' the law.
Mebbe I can git you a Job with me as dep'ty or somethin'.
Now let's go back to Posey."

HE First and The
Second Isabella :

The History of a Trans-
formation^ by Evelyn Sharp*

ISABELLA THE FIRST was not, to the ordinary ob-
server at least, prepossessing in appearance. She was
lanky without being exactly tall, and gave one the impression
of having grown up in a great hurry and taken her dress with
her; and when I first saw her sitting at the bottom of her
class, the most noticeable thing about her was the length of
black stocking that she managed most ingeniously to ciu-1
round each of the front legs of her chair. She had the kind
of hair that suggests the rough-haired terrier; it was full of
short ends, and neither curled nor lay smooth, but stood
straight out from her head in little tufts, and so earned for
its owner her school nick name of *Tenwiper." But she had
the terrier's eyes as well — brown, wistful, mischievous and
kind all at once; and in spite of the youthftd redness of
her hands and her general inkiness — Isabella always con-
trived, somehow, to look inky ten minutes after her arrival
in class — and in spite of all the other marks she bore of the
tiresome, barbaric age of fifteen, it was possible to endure
much from her for the sake of those eyes.

For more reasons than one, Isabella made an illuminating
spot in my life, at the time that I happened to meet her.
She was the most ignorant member of the first class I ever
taught; and most teachers, I believe, have a friendly feeling
for the ignorant members of their first class. I was particularly
grateful to Isabella for being ignorant, for, as luck would have
it, the school that had rashly accepted my untried services
insisted on my beginning with a cotirse of arithmetic lessons.

♦From Temple Bar.

330 The First and the Second Isabella

I protested that arithmetic was my weakest point, and that
I had repeatedly been bottom of my own school in arithmetic,
while canying off prizes for German, botany, and a variety of
ornamental subjects. But my principal, who was rather an
imusual sort of person, said that she never wanted people
to teach subjects that were not their weakest points. So the
end of it was that I had to teach Isabella's class the subject
that was mine.

The new girl, no doubt, feels pretty bad at times, but it might
console her to know that the new teacher feels just like it,
only more so. And when I think of the rows of unsympathetic
elder girls who rose to their feet as I came into the classroom,
all of them, I felt sure, filled with accurate and exhaustive
knowledge of what I was going to teach them, I can only say
that I never want to feel it again.

"Have you done areas, carpets and wall papers, and so on?"
I asked, as I turned over the leaves of the arithmetic book
casually, and lighted, as if by accident, upon the page I had
studied far into the night before.

Of course, one girl said in a superior tone that she had,
long ago. Every teacher knows that one girl in the class has
always done everything. But I did not mean to have sat up
half the night for nothing.

"Then it will not hurt you to do them again," I promptly
told the superior one, who smiled rotmd at the others to show
what an easy time she was going to have.

I braved the critical gaze of the front row of experts, and
began to make conversation by way of putting off the evil
moment.

"It is highly important that you should know how to do
areas," I continued in an impressive tone. "Every woman
should know how to do areas. Think how useful it will be
when you're married and have houses of your own, to be able
to calculate how much carpet you will want for your floors

Here the class laid down its pencil and looked interested.
Evidently it did not anticipate arithmetic for the moment;
and their teacher being just as anxious as they were to fill
up the hotir before her with anjrthing in the world but arith-
metic, enlarged still further on the advantages of learning to
do areas, carefully concealing the fact that bursts upon us all
sooner or later that they make no allowance whatever for the
carpet having a pattern.

The First and the Second Isabella 331

A yawn from Isabella, and the slow iinctirling of one of
the long black legs, reminded me sadly that arithmetic would
in the end be expected of me, and I ran my finger down the
page of stmis with a horrible sensation of incapacity, as I saw
by the clock that I had filled up exactly four n^iinutes of the
time, and that the class still had fifty-six in which to find me
out.

"Let me see," I murmured, as if I had not settled at one
o'clock in the morning on the sums I was going to give them,"
**I think we will begin with this one — ^no, this one!" And I
set the result of my n^iidnight labors on the blackboard.

The rapidity with which that class did siims which had
taken me hours to prepare, was simply heartless. The su-
perior girl helped me a little by drawing pictures in her note-
book while I gave my explanation, so that, when she came to
do her sum and foimd, of course, that she had forgotten the
way, I had a good excuse for explaining it all over again.
And after that, just as I was again facing the awful possibility
of having to give them a sum that I had not prepared before-
hand, Isabella came to my aid.

"I can't think what's happened to the stupid thing," she
remarked, uncurling the other leg, so that they now both
stuck out straight in front of her; *l*ve got yards and yard??
more carpet in my answer than anybody else has!"

This, I felt certain, was going to be the moment when my
class would find me out. I had mastered my own difficulties
overnight, but I had not allowed for private and particular
difficulties on the part^'of a mere pupil. So I walked down,
quaking, to the bottom of my class, tripped over Isabella's
legs and arrived at her ink-besmeared sum,

I could almost have hugged her when I saw what she had
done. It was so delightful of her to make the same old
fan^iiliar mistake that I had made myself, time after time, in
my own school days. I am not even quite sure that in the
watches of the night before I had not made it over again.
Anyhow, there it was, staring at me from'^a 'page of mis-
shapen figures that might have been torn from my own note-book
just five years earlier. The mere sight of it was enough to
put me back suddenly in Isabella's place at the bottom of the
class— long legs, inky fingers and all.

"You see you have multiplied the walls and the ceiling
together, as well as the floor," I pointed out to her. "You

332 The First and the Second Isabella

couldn't carpet the walls and the ceiling, if you come to think
of it, now could you?"

"I suppose you couldn't," admitted Isabella, though she
was evidently not prepared for the idea that arithmetic
carpet could possibly have any characteristics of ordinary
domestic carpet.

"Never mind, we'll soon put it right," I went on encour-
agingly; **it's the mistake I always used to make myself."

The terrier's eyes swept swiftly round upon me, filled with
amazement; then they softened, all at once, into friendliness.

"Did you really?" she asked, in an'interested tone. "Did
you ever get them wrong?"

I nodded as I worked my way through the masses of
figures her ridiculous mistake had accumulated; and I won-
dered how I should have felt five years ago if it had ever
occurred to me that my arithmetic mistress was a human
person like everyone else.

Isabella continued to stare at me with interest. "Then —
then — ^were you really as stupid as me?" she pursued.

"Every bit as stupid," I confessed.

Isabella shot out her legs an inch or two further in the
excitement of the moment ; and the girl in front of her pulled
forward her chair with the dismal scrape characteristic of the
schoolgirl.

"And did you hate it?" was Isabella's next question,
"" "Yes," I said heartily, as I jotted down a last correction
over her shoulder.

Isabella drew a long breath and nodded until all her front
bits of hair fell over her eyes. ? *

"And you're so splendid now!" she exclaimed.

She apologized absently when I tripped over her legs again,
then drew them back slowly and sat for the rest of the lesson
in a curious attitude, with one foot doubled up under her,
and the other crooked round the leg of her neighbor's desk.
But I forgave her these and all her other eccentricities for the
sake of the service her stupidity had done me. Thanks to
Isabella the First, my arithmetic class never found me out.C"

"You see what happens when people teach subjects that
are their weak points," said the Principal at the end of the
term, when she read my report^of Isabella.

I had added another five years to my age when I met
Isabella the Second. She was sitting on the drawing-room

The First and the Second Isabella 333

floor, playing with her baby, as the maid annotinced me; and
I had a moment in which to study her before she turned round.

I do not quite know what I had expected to see. I knew
she had left school three years ago, that she had married
almost immediately, and had been Uving abroad ever since.
And of course I knew that the Isabella of twenty, who was a
a wife and a mother, would not exactly resemble the Isabella
of fifteen who had sat at the bottom of my arithmetic class.
For all that, the picture in^my mind as I followed the mait
upstairs had been that of a lanky schoolgirl with prominenr
hands and feet, a ragged head of hair, and ink everywhere.
So the second Isabella was rather a shock to me as I saw hed
kneeling on the hearthrug, crooning softly to the little^bundle
of white frills that lay on its back in front of her.

But when she jumped up and turned rotmd, I saw that the
same brown eyes were there, with the same friendly, doggy
look in them. They were all I could recognize about her,
for the terrier's hair had grown to the right length at last,
and curled and waved around her forehead just like everyone
else's, while the hand she held out to me was white and shapely,
as innocent of ink as of knuckles.

And the long black legs had become a Paris tea-gown.

It was the first time I had seen a pupil grow up, and I
wondered if it was always done like that.

"How charming of you to come! Do sit down,"^^ said
Isabella, in the manner of a hostess of thirty. ''Let me see,
do you take sugar? I really forget."

It was so deliciously overdone that I could not feel hurt.
Of course, Isabella had a husband and baby; and Isabella's
world just then held no place for anybody who had neither.
I fell into the situation with glee, and prepared to enjoy it
thoroughly.

"Two lumps, please, and the milk in first," I answered
gravely, wondering if these familiar details, that Isabella had
prided herself on remembering five years ago, would restore us
to our former footing. Of course, they did nothing of the sort.

"Richard takes three," was the perfectly imcalled for
observation that my words produced; and I reminded myself
hastily that the cup she handed me was not thick and white
with a pink rim round it, and that nothing could make the
cucumber sandwiches into thick schoolroom slices of bread
and butter. These belonged to the period of ink and knuckles.

334 The First and the Second Isabella

On her way back to the tea-table Isabella casually picked
up the bundle of white frills. Her attempt to look as though
it were quite the ordinary thing for bundles of white frills to
be lying about on people's floors, was also overdone; and I
again hastened to meet her halfway. After all, I was begin-
ning to find the same method could be applied both to the
first and the second Isabella — whether it was a sum or a baby
did not much matter.

"Oh, is that a baby?" I asked, as if I had not seen it before.

**Yes," answered Isabella, biuying her face in the midst of
the white frills. "It's mine," she added as an afterthought.

"I thought it might be yotirs. That's why I asked," I said,
htmibly "May I lookat her?" I added, putting down my cup.

"It's a boy," corrected Isabella with condescension. I
again recognized our changed positions. However, she
placed the bimdle gingerly in my arms and stood a little way
off, as if she expected something to happen. "Shall I show
you how to hold it ?" she added anxiously, the next minute.

She readjusted the baby on my arm and gave it a profes-
sional pat, which upset it dreadfully; and the tiny face in the
midst of the frills became riddled at once with the^cares and
the griefs of a lifetime.

"It is stirprising how few people know the way to hold a
baby," remarked Isabella, when the white frills had been
borne off by a magnificent nurse, and we could once more
hear ourselves speak. "Of course, it makes a difference if
you haven't got one yourself," she added graciously,

"Having one certainly makes a difference," I admitted,
looking at the solemn young person behind the tea-tray.

"Do you like Eton or Harrow best?" was Isabella's next
question with startling suddenness.

I jumped, and said "Eton" at random, because it came
first. . It would not have mattered though, if I had said
**Timbuctoo," for Isabella's thoughts were by this time twenty
years ahead.

"And after that Christ Church," she went on dreamily.
"Richard was at Christ Chiurch," she added as if that ex-
plained everything.

A sense of humor may do much; but mine would not let
me endure another moment of this sort of thing, so I made a
diversion by asking her hastily if she had been to the pan-
tomime yet.

The First and the Second Isabella 335

Isabella the First had adored pahtoniinies. Isabella the
Second looked sixaply htirt at such a suggestion.

"I could not possibly leave baby to go anywhere," she
explained. "I don't think much of a mother who does not
give up everything for her child."

It was too much. The picture of the first Isabella rose
irresistibly in my mind, and could not be effaced even by the^
strenuous yotmg woman who sat in all her married splendor
and patronized me. After all, there were still five years
between us; and five years had made a lot 0} difference in the
days when the inky occupant of the bottom place in my
class could not do her sums.

Isabella did not quite know what to make of a visitor
who suddenly collapsed into a fit of laughter. But the child
had not lost her instinct with all her other doggy qualities;
and she soon broke into a shamefaced laugh herself.

"It's all very well," she protested, "but you haven't got a
baby, have you?"

"No, my dear little girl, I have no baby and no Richard,
and nothing — ^nothing but a dull and stuffy knowledge of
how much carpet to order, when you want to cover yotir
walls and your ceiling and your floor with it I" I cried ma-
liciously.

Swiftly there leapt into her eyes a twinkle of mischief, and
to my joy I saw that Isabella the First had come back into
the room.

"You don't even know that," she chuckled. "Those sums
of yotirs never allowed for the pattern!"

"Ah," I sighed, " so you have discovered that too? Then,
after all, it is the most ignorant pupil in my class who has
fotmd me out."

"What do you mean?" asked Isabella.
I had a sudden inspiration to pay back the debt of gratitude
I had owed her for five years.

"There was once a teacher," I told her, "a teacher who
was horribly afraid of her pupils, and horribly ignorant of the
subject she had to teach — or at least she thought she was.
She wasn't really, you know; and she found out that she
wasn't through the bottom girl in the class.

"And what was the bottom girl in the class like?" asked
Isabella, who had altogether ceased to be strenuous, and was

336

The First and the Second Isabella

sitting on the end of the sofa near me, swinging her legs to
and fro just as if they were not covered with a Paris tea-gown.

**She was full of comers," I answered, "and her face was
full of features, and her hair was full of ends. Her legs were
always in the way, and she made you feel inky just to look at
her. But her heart was in the right place — if her collar
wasn't; and she taught that teacher how to teach. So the
teacher made up her mind that she would thank her for it
some day, if she ever got the chance."

"And what was the name of the teacher?" asked my
hostess demurely.

I shrugged my shoulders. "That doesn't matter," I said.

"Then what was the name of the bottom girl in the class?"
pursued my hostess with a whimsical laugh.

I looked her squarely in the face.

"Isabella the First." I answered.

RAITING: An Unfinished
Love Story, by Jean Madeline*
Translated from the French by
Florence Maclntyre Tyson*

** \ A 7ELL, it is decided — you are to go?"

V V ** Yes, Suzanne; it is my destiny that demands it."
She fixed her great, lovely eyes upon him sadly.
** You know it is not my fault — I would have been only too
proud and happy to be your wife — but since that is not pos-
sible, go, my love. We must each * dree our own weird.' You
must go into a new world; lead a brilliant and full existence.
You will be admired and sought for, and, I hope, very happy, —
I — shall grow old amid the narrow life of a little town, a little
road illumined by a little lamp — I shall always be a pro-
vincial, like those you make ftm of in your books — I shall keep
on wearing hoops, and shall look ridiculously. In the evening,
after my pupils have gone to bed, sitting in the chimney-
comer, I shall read your books andfindmyhappinessinfoUowing
the progress of your success, in seeing your name, your por-
trait in the papers, in hearing from a distance the soimd of
your triumphs. So I shall fasten to my existence a leaf from
your laurel-wreath, which will enrich my humble, qtiiet life.
Of course, like all girls, I have had my dream, which was
that we should travel in the same compartment, to use one of
your images. Sir Novelist; and I used to love to fancy that
our road would always be the same, and that together we
wotdd go to the end, in the same comer of the car, where fate
had placed us, without troubling ourselves about the stations
called out along the way. But apparently you must change cars

and here we separate. You get out — I remain in * ' Then ,

seeing some one approach, she gave him the delicious smile of

♦Translated for Short Stories.

33^ Waiting

a saleswoman, for sweet charity's sake, and offering him a
flower: **See, Monsieur Gerbaud, pray buy these pinks — ^for
the sake of the poor."

All aroimd them, the 'charity bazaar* had stirred into
unusual life, the chilly classrooms, whose bare walls were now
garlanded with evergreens, among which the yoimg girls, full
of delight at finding themselves shopkeepers, were doing a
thriving business.

In the halls, even in the gloomy courtyard, charming,
coquettish little aprons were flashing about, while amid the
universal gaiety, and offering of flowers and various trifles,
many an opportimity was seized for a handclasp or whispered
word — ^thus gathering a petal from the sad rose of Love.

It had begun as a little love affair, when they were children
at school. She was the daughter of Madame Lantelme —
School for Yoimg Ladies — who were dubbed **the little blue
girls," on account of their tmiform. On Thtmsdays, and
Stmday afternoons, when the "little blue girls" walked in
pairs arotmd the botdevard, imder the drowsy plantain trees,
they were always followed by a crowd of young wretches.
Each one had his sweetheart; it was the fashion at the college.
His had always been this slight, pale girl, with great, dark
eyes, who walked behind the rest with her mother, with a
seriotisness and precocity beyond her years. She had stirred
his youthful heart, whence spnmg up a vague tenderness.
And, too, on her side there awoke a certain agitation and
trembling sympathy for that look that never failed to seek hers.

By degrees these uncertain impressions were crystallized
into definite form, quite free from the usual coquetries and
sillinesses usual in such cases, and simple nosegays of violets
gravely offered and as gravely received, alone shed their
fragrance over the birth of this love. When, grown up, she
became the assistant of her mother in the school, and,he was
no longer a schoolboy, with ink-stained fingers, but a hand-
some young man, whose gaze began to catch glimpses of life,
the seeds placed in the ftirrows of their hearts had burst into
abundant bloom, and their love, already of long standing,
seemed each to date from that hour in which, in the long ago,
they had felt that they loved.

Then one day, Pierre Gerbaud, whose nature was sensitive
^nd open to impressions and feelings, which, whirling through

W(atmg

Iff

ihm

mud m tbthmatim dim

3^ anxj :ae aannr stwts rf his Sttle native to»i, it w»
«>g»f is:i 1 ^mg (i gftyitinn, an inteoie dose aor a
'ygg iccgaL 3gr aces, ntw thinp.

TieieB? le vent ont he vodd come aaw tfaoie cse^e::
fc srocspfla, standing placidly before their doooL ser
dpcesskxjes ejes fixed intently apoo the cpposre '
Tbeir iieas vere choked tmder a maa of flabby aesh, aor
tber any uoigiit of the world beyood, nor tza: «
created fcr aoght else, than to seD shoes or tc bxT ::«
aboTe aH else, it was these sanctimonioas petBcrcaccaB 3 a
oanow Kfe, that drove Pierre Gerband to despcn&oL Tier
fimited hoiison their existence, tnnmf CBmaokt wzis,
the same ciide of occupations and ideas w:u 6e ttn ac
resigned lassitude of horses in a tread&Ll. ijed ^ wzi

repulsion against which all that was his of }mL ^ kpe ^
aspiration revolted

He recalled a memory of bis chlfLxd, w^ 2sr-

vacation,hewouldgobyrailtopayav«:caKC" — "-
village. On the opposite side towaris *jt Ssrj. -j«'"--Z
lay straight amid its shining rails. Uar. t-lT,*^^ ^
the distance, and at this point tl«t»aii^^^^^* "* *
this Uttle boy, who hadnevergoQeberx.: -^ .^ '^' \
the known world. Whenhcthcr-^'i-^^ *"^*^ ^

lands,especiaUywhenhetho=gnT^^^.'^'"" ^'^'
beheld the disc, and akbcciieil^V/ ^' l"^

would picture to himself a: -ia:^-^.^' \^ "

intotheunbown^aUikKiccatta^-*-^^ ' '"" '
And now that the wxd '-jerxc ▼■ ^^'" "-'

irresistible force, this dac 'ti^ xca ^^ "'^''^' '''

niination of an his dreaza. --rp^ -'^ :- .

effc^ and desires, t::^^^.;- J--'
J^aspects^ '-- -

He became one Gt-::^^_ '" "" '

tee, »ho. maod -a e--^, " "" '^ = -
^» 3re ztrsiei

"".>

msuffidencv ^t-r« • ""
Oneofhttpigjj^-

341

rly about. Paris
.d disappeared.

mage. His hair
an. The porters
ir?" He shood his
.ds crossed^ behind
uth had quitted —
imed towards the
shivered painfully
louses on each side
misty November
overcoat and, his
to the avenue.
; who were hasten-
2rs at the fountain,
issed. A sentinel,
3p, and enveloped
a pile of clothing.

were lighting the
imed the twilight
of this charming
are apparent, was
. feeling of actual

. Heread"Caf6
I't know this: it

aning their heads
re raised. Then
■rs and evince a
stranger. Then
k and form into

lot punch. As
was lined with

'* Good evening!
and raised the

'3yes fixed upon
been opened?'*

«^VL

'' . -r

34® Waiting

temptingly under the gas jets. Over the harvest of little
yellow books, filling the window, Pierre intoxicated himself
with the fragrance of the freshly-cut leaves, and to turn with
the tips of his fingers their still damp pages, filled him with
strange delight. Then, choosing a volume, he would tear
along the streets till people turned to look, and reaching the
soUtude of his own little room, he would immerse his trem-
bling hands in its pages. But his especial joy was to loiter
at the library of the railroad station where the portly goddess,
who presided over the spot, would gaze from^her comer curi-
ously at the boy, who was always ready to stop among the
books. For there he foimd imited, the beverages that quenched
but to augment his thirst — the intoxication of new books, and
the stirring life of the station. In the midst of the clanging
of bells, the shrieks of locomotives, the bustle of travelers,
bringing with them the fascination of the unknown, he wotdd
console himself by fancying that to him, too, might sometime
come the happiness of going away.

For a long time Pierre hesitated. For Madame Lantelme's
daughter, whose himible livelihood was assured by **the little
Blues," did not dare to even think of going. Her life rose
before her colorless and straight, readymade without any-
thing of mystery or the tmforeseen. To help her mother,
then to take her place educating little girls, who wotdd leave
her to enter life, become mammas, then grandmammas, while
their children and grandchildren took their places in the bare
classrooms; till gradually she wotdd reach old age, cloistered
within the same narrow horizon, the monotony of days each
exactly like its predecessor.

But she accepted it all with the resignation of a nun. And
when Pierre begged her to place her hand in his and together
to face the unknown, she readied with a sad smile: " No, mon
ami, it may not be. The Good Lord has not granted me a
permit of travel."

Pierre came very near unpacking and settling down; for he
loved tenderly and truly this frail maiden, whose sad, dark
eyes showed sorrow bom in silence and alone. And for a
while he struggled against the fever that was consuming him.
But it was of no avail, and at last he determined to go.

The train reached the disc, then passed it. Pierre felt this
was the turning point of his life, and that he had indeed left

Waiting 341

the past far behind him. He looked eagerly about. Paris
was not yet there — but already Suzanne had disappeared.

A man descended from the railroad carriage. His hair
was white and his eyes those of an old man. The porters
approached : ** Hotel de Luxembourg, m'sieur ?*' He shood his
head, and standing with bent head and hands crossed behind
him, looked about that station which his youth had qtiitted —
to which his old age had returned. He turned towards the
avenue. The bare branches of the trees shivered painfully
under the chill of the violet sky, while the houses on each side
asstuned unwonted proportions in the misty November
evening. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and, his
hands still crossed behind him, he turned into the avenue.

He met very few people. Some servants who were hasten-
ing homeward after having filled their pitchers at the fountain.
Once a hack, whose driver was whistling, passed. A sentinel,
in front of the prefecture, had fallen asleep, and enveloped
in his great military cloak, he looked like a pile of clothing.
The traveler threw away his cigar.

On the other side of the avenue, they were lighting the
lamps in front of a caf6; their brilliancy turned the twilight
into darkness. The delicious dreaminess of this charming
hour, into which but the outlines of things are apparent, was
shaken by a crude reaUty, which brought a feeling of actual
suffering to the lonely wayfarer.

Crossing the street, he stopped at the caf6. He read " Caf6
de France," and saying to himself: "I don't know this: it
must be something new," he went in.

A dozen people were seated at the tables, leaning their heads
on their hands. The heads promptly were raised. Then
they began to whisper, to move their chairs and evince a
surprise full of curiosity at the entrance of a stranger. Then
every one was still, but finally began to talk and form into
parties to play dominoes.

He was seated on a bench with a glass of hot punch. As
he looked unhappy and the collar of his coat was lined with
fur, the host approached and addressed him: "Good evening!
have you just arrived?" He replied **Yes," and raised the
glass to his Ups.

The host remained standing before him, his eyes fixed upon
him. The other asked: "This caf6 has just been opened?"

342 Waiting

The man burst into a loud laugh. **Well, hardly! It is a
matter of twenty-five years' standing." The traveler ex-
claimed in amazement : * * Twenty-five years ! *' Then, bowing
his head: *'True! true!*' And the image of his absence rose
suddenly and took possession of him, till he seemed to per-
ceive at a distance, as if at the end of a long tunnel, this little
town the day he had left it. He remembered it was more than
thirty years ago. He saw himself forgotten, a stranger to all
that was around him, in which, indeed, he had no part. Then
he seized his hat and went out, leaving his glass but half
empty. The lamps of the esplanade were shining on the bare
branches of the trees. In a comer a pile of chairs, used for
the music in summer, was covered with a thick awning. The
empty pathways re-echoed to every step.

But on the botdevard on the other side, the fronts of the
houses were alight with the charm of the life of night. Not
the night of the coimtry, which erects a wall each side of the
road, beyond which lie the silent sleeping fields ; nor the dusty,
chilly life of the suburbs. But the warm, soft night of the
boulevards, through which pass exquisite toilettes, and fur
mantles, and luxurious flashes from brilliant windows.
Carriages returning from afternoon visits; charming figures in
front of the shop windows, admiring the beautiful things there
exposed, and leaving with smiles.

The man continued his way, more and more oppressed with
the feeling that once he had been a part of it all, and that now
he was nothing. Till this idea assumed within him a sensa-
tion of actual physical pain, among the trees and houses and
passing people, each eager for his own elbow room, and espe-
cial portion of air. It was the unhealthy sensation of a
broken, tossed-about creature, whose nerves are over-excited
by his sufferings, with whom the slightest sensation assumes
the keenness of pain.

So this poignant feeling drove him to qtiit the boulevard*
where there were too many people, and to choose a deserted
street, a poor country lane, lighted by but a single lamp. ,

There suddenly this feeling that was breaking his heart,
melted into a vague, sweet sadness which at first he was
unable to explain. But it brought him great consolation, as
if, on the edge of this shadowy silence, all the agitation of his
life, his unhappiness, the wretchedness of his evil days, had

Waiting 343

disappeared amid the tenderness of familiar objects in this
street so well known in the long ago.

And suddenly he understood.

He stopped before a two-story house. On the door was
written:

SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADIES,
MADAME LANTELME.

As he stood before the stone steps, the emotions of his child-
hood returned. His heart beat so violently, he could almost
hear it across the distance of thirty years. And once more
he saw himself before this door a lad in short trousers, and
later a young man, his heart full with his beautiftd love. And
then, for the first time in his life, he asked himself why, when
this door was open, and a kiss was awaiting him behind it.^he
had not entered, seized it and kept it forever.
''.^;Before his weary eyes, there passed a vision of a smile given
under the evening lamp, of a cozy, warm fireside. And he
groaned in the cold, dark street, this poor victim of a bad
life, who, after having struggled and broken his nails, had
returned woimded and suffering with infinite weariness.
Brusquely there arose before him the cold rigidity of the END,
this immutable barrier, that shuts in our horizon. This sen-
sation of the irretrievable fell upon him heavily, overwhelming
him with despair.

He went onward.

After taking several steps he stopped and hesitated. Then
returned drawn by an irresistible force. Once more the door
was before him, and he rung the bell.

He waited and was on the point of leaving when he heard
footsteps descending the stairs. The door opened.

A little old lady appeared, the strings of her cap falling each
side of her face. She was very thin with that meiagreness
of an old maidj who has never known the development of
maternity. She held in her hand a lamp raised high in order
to see more clearly. Seen thus, she made one think of a Uttle
life shriveled up, then wrinkled, then bent, then — silence.

He asked: ** Pardon, Madame. Madame Lantelme and her
daughter once lived here — Would you perhaps know — Could
you tell me ? "

The tiny old lady bent forward anxiously.

"I am Suzanne Lantelme, Monsieur."

She raised the lamp a little higher.

344

Waiting

"You do not know me?" asked the man.

She*shook her head: **No, no."

"Good-evening," he replied. And without another word
he turned and was swallowed up by the darkness.

She mounted the stairs slowly, full of anxiety over this
inexplicable, late visit.

Once upstairs, she opened the window to asstu-e herself that
the tmknown man was not wandering about the house. But
the little street was empty, cold and dark.

Then she seated herself once more in her little, solitary
chamber, which was the sanctuary of a modest, tender, never-
forgotten love. And, as happened every evening, the poor
little, loving old lady resumed her knitting of mittens for him
for whom she had been waiting thirty years, for whom she
would wait until the end, and whom she did not know, when
he came.

NDER the Great
SHadoMT: An Adventure
in Argentina*

LIGHT had come down on the pampas. Across the far-
stretching reach of wide-rolling prairie the lights of La
Vega glimmered faintly in the dim middle-distance. I
watched them resolving themselves into separate and indi-
vidual points of luminosity with feelings that were curiously
mixed, but in which joyful satisfaction certainly bore a con-
siderable part. A long day in the saddle lent additional
charm to the prospect of a cosy comer and a comfortable pipe.
Probably, had I known how near I was to come, before morn-
ing, to making my exit from La Vega in a sudden and invol-
untary manner, I shotdd have been less eager about my
entrance.

At Bejano I had obtained unwelcome confirmation of a
piece of news, the first whisper of which had reached me at Los
Santos. I was ** drumming" for one of the two great houses
which divided the wool and the hides of the Argentine; and
about midway on my ** stretch," which extended from the La
Plata down almost to the Colorado, I heard that the agent of a
rival was in front of me. The news fairly staggered me. It
was a clean breach of the rules, and I fotmd some difficulty
in believing it. It was probably the rough jest of some prac-
tical joker, or perhaps the sorry attempt of some impudent
pirate.

However, what had been doubtful at Los Santos became
certainty at Bejano. My '*run" was being worked, and I had
a pretty good notion that I could even put a name to the
** scut " who was working it. Between Los Santos and Bejano
I did a lot of hard thinking. The man, I had ascertained, was
a Levantine; my informant giving his age as thirty or there-

♦From Chambers's Jonmal.

34^ Under the Great Shadow

abouts. He was said to speak Spanish, French and Italian.
Whether he had any knowledge of English I was unable to
gather. But I heard that he was a mark with the ** pictures,"
and played a good hand at poker.

At this point my thoughts would persistently revert to one
Gregorio Stefanetti, a Greco-Italian who five years before had
absconded from Nice after embezzling eighteen thousand
francs from the leading banking-house in the municipality,
in which he was employed. Stefanetti I knew to be a clever
dog, both^sleek and sly. There was some reason, too, why
he might be tempted to take ** a rise " out of me. I had known
the man at Marseilles previous to his going to Nice, and had
warned certain people against him.

Stefanetti was a master of languages, had the soft, insinu-
ating manner of most Levantines, and was well acquainted
with commercial forms and business routine. He had been
tracked to Rio ; but there all trace of him was lost. He wotdd
be about thirty-two at the present time; and as I called up his
face from the dim crowd at the back of my memory, I seemed
to recollect having seen a very similar set of features only a
few weeks before on the fruit-quay in the Boca, the Italian
water-side quarter of Buenos Ayres. It had made no impres-
sion on me then; but now, as I tried to find an answer to the
riddle that was puzzling me, the face in the Boca stood out
clear and distinct as the face of Gregorio Stefanetti. The
closer I considered the matter, the more convinced did I
become that the Levantine of my informant was the Stefanetti
of the banking-house.

Scent, however, is proverbially capricious, and it was not till
I reached Bejano that it began to lie. The farther he got from
the iron road and the overhead wire, the less need for caution
on the part of the adventurer. The growers in the Bejano
district, therefore, had been advised by drctilar that Messer
Emilio Corentini, the representative of the house of B. & B. of

New York, would attend at the ** Fonda los Angelos" on

(here followed the date\ and would offer the highest price for
wool of any house in the market; or consignments would be
accepted for sale on commission.

It was really a most straightforward and business-looking
document. He had stipulated that delivery was to commence
immediately, and several loads had gone forward already.

The shape which the matter assumed, then, was this:

Under the Great Shadow 347

Stefanetti, who bad a face of brass under bis smootb olive
skin, bad evidently planned a bold coup. Tbe wool-sbipping
season was just opening. Wby not assume tbe r61e of agent
for a commission bouse? He bad a good appearance, a pliant
tongue, a pretty wit; was familiar witb tbe routine; and
could start at tbe bour. If be cotdd bag a few bundred bales
tbere was a fortune for him, besides tbe satisfaction be would
feel in scoring off me. I was just setting out to do my
** stretch." He would precede me by a few days, and get well
on tbe road before I should bear of him. In fact, he was just
in time to put tbe thing through real smart, and with tbe
minimum of risk. After passing Arrioba, beyond which the
railway did not run, be might snap his fingers at pursuit, or
purchase ** justice" witb a bribe. Moreover, wool would
make an opening for "pasteboard" and Stefanetti knew a few
tricks witb tbe cards. Besides, tbe clever dog might argue,
with ships in tbe river and freight on the road, would any agent
who knew bis business be likely to waste time peddling round
to pick up information concerning tbe identity of Emilio
Corentini, who bad snatched a few.crtmibs from another man's
table?

Tbe rogue, I considered, cotdd hardly calctdate on securing
more than a few hundred bales at most. Well, in any case,
Gregorio, I did not doubt, had made preparation to meet tbe
contingency.

La Vega, whose lights were now beginning to asstmie specific
shape and distinct individuality, was to be my last place of call.
If I did not happen on ** Messer Corentini " at tbe '* Fonda del
Sarmiento," Stefanetti, I reckoned, would have won the game
that be set out to play; and when I left Bejano, witb a two
and a-half days' journey still in front of me, tbe man had
already been gone from there a week. Wotdd he be likely to
loiter, witb me on his track? Hardly. Yet there is ever some
odd fraction turning up unexpectedly to interfere witb a man's
calculations; so I pushed on, covering the best bits of a bad
road as bard as a willing horse cotdd drive; and as night was
falling on the second day, I rode into La Vega.

As I turned my jaded beast into tbe straggling street, the
sound of noisy revelry struck loud upon the ear. It came
from the '* Fonda." I was pumped — ^wom-out with the long,
bard, anxious ride; and tbe blatant merriment seemed
prophetic of disaster.

348 Under the Great Shadow

Passing to the back of the low mud-wall which enclosed the
premises, I rode into the yard and made my way to the stables.
The yard seemed deserted. In the stables, however, there were
at least a dozen horses. Evidently the ** Fonda " had no lack
of guests.

I had been riding hard for two days with the purpose of
exposing a rascal; but now, when I guessed he might be
within touch, I had a strong feeling that the odds were against
me; and prudence whispered caution in taking the fence.

There was a light in the kitchen, and I moved towards it.
I thought it more than likely that I should there find pretty
Manuelita, the eighteen-year-old daughter of Barcelona Pete,
who ran the establishment. I had brought her a necklace — a
showy but inexpensive affair — blue beads strung on thin gold
wire. The girl would probably be in the kitchen. I would
go there and ascertain who was in the sala.

Moving across the yard, I peeped in at the tmcurtained
window. A lamp was burning against the wall, but the room
was empty.

A btirst of laughter came from the sala, The noise and
racket there were increasing. Out of a babel of voices I cotdd
distinguish tones of remonstrance. The windows on that side
were furnished with jalousies, and these were closed; but from
a hole high up in thfe wall streamed a narrow pencil^of light.

I left the kitchen window and looked about for something
that would enable me to reach the hole. Presently I stumbled
over a ladder. Half the rungs were broken, and one side was
longer than the other. But there was nothing else; so, rear-
ing it against the wall, I climbed up. From my position on
the ladder I could see over about half the room.

Immediately opposite the knot-hole sat a swarthy-faced
individual whom I recognized as Don Felipe Ricardo, the
steward of the largest estancia in the district. His lips were
livid, his features distorted. He was staring stonily across
the table at some one evidently sitting immediately beneath
me. On the floor at his feet a number of playing-cards lay
scattered about. Barcelona Pete, with the ace of spades in
his hand, his heavy jaw working ponderously, and his broad,
fat fingers gesticulating ludicrously, was hanging over Ricardo's
shoulders, apparently endeavoring to explain the situation.
The man below me was sitting too far back to be visible; but
half-a-dozen gauchos (natives of the pampas) were drinking

Under the Great Shabow 349

with some girls at another table, each with a mtirderous
cuchillo in his waist-belt. The presence of the girls seemed
to indicate some sort of "function." Evidently there was to
be a dance.

I tried all I knew to get a look at the man below me, but do
what I cotdd, I cotddn*t manage it. I felt convinced, however,
that the man was Stefanetti. Presently he began to speak,
and I was sure of it. There were tones in his voice that I
remembered; but it was chiefly by a certain expletive that I
fixed him. It was a favorite expression of Stefanetti's. He
was protesting against an imputation of cheating. I hap-
pened to know that Stefanetti had been caught using a ring
** hold-out" in the card-room of the Maritime Club at Mar-
seilles, and was expelled in consequence.

Without doubt he had been practising some trick upon
Ricardo. But what could be inducing him to linger on, when
every day added to the risk of detection ? He must know that
if run to earth he would lose his profit. Evidently he had
found some attraction at La Vega strong enough to cover the
extra risk. Perhaps, thought I, he finds the business of
plucking the pigeons returns him sufficient to pay for the risk.
Perhaps, again,*at a place on the ' outside edge,' like La Vega,
he thinks to brave detection and to defy arrest.

At this juncture, my eye happening to fall on the sullen-
looking visages of the^half-drtmken gauchos, for an instant my
heart stood still. Surely he was not waiting for me! At that
moment Manuelita passed through the room on her way to
the kitchen, and the man below started up, ran out, and
caught her by the waist. It was Gregorio Stefanetti. He
seemed trjdng to persuade the girl to something; but she
slipped from his grasp, made a rush for the door, and darted
from the room.

Stefanetti came back laughing. * ' She's wild as a hawk now,
Pete," I heard him say; **but by-and-by she'll come to my
whisUe."

I had mounted a step higher, in my eagerness to catch sight
of the man's face. The rung was rotten, and now gave way
beneath my weight, precipitating me to the grotmd. Picking
myself up, I ran to the kitchen. Through the window I saw
Manuelita. Her eyes looked as if she were crying. I tapped
gently at the door and called her softly by name.

350 Under the Great Shadow

"Who's there?" she asked in a voice that betrayed trepi-
dation.

I made myself known, and the next minute I was in the
room.

'*0h sefior!" gasped the girl, evidently surprised at my
appearance. "I thought it was that jackal Emilio. He
thinks I have gone to dress for the dance, and I was afraid
he had followed me. I hate him — I do! "

''Carrambol Manuelita, my girl," exclaimed I, "what's
wrong with you ? Who is Emilio, and what is he doing here ? "
Producing the little necklet, I threw it in her lap. ** A present
from Buenos A3rres," I said.

For a moment her eyes lit up with joy.

"How kind of you!" she exclaimed as she fastened the
beads about her neck; but the next instant she burst into
tears.

"Tell me what is the matter," said I, dropping into a chair.
"Who is this man you call Emilio?"

Briefly, her story was this:

Emilio had known her father many years ago, when he kept
a little wine-shop in the old town at Marseilles. She was a
child then, and did not remember him. He had been stajdng
in the house now for nearly a week — she looked at me curiously
as she said this, — gambling every night with the rdncheros.
The small men had soon been cleaned out ; but Ricardo, a man
of wealth and substance, had been winning down to last night,
when his luck turned; and to-night he had lost everything.

Emilio, I gathered, had been persecuting Manuelita with his
attentions ever since he set foot in the place. There was
something, she said, between her father and this man Emilio.
He had asked for her hand in marriage, and Pete had prom-
ised it ; Emilio undertaking to pay Pete fifty pesos (ten potmds)
on the day of the betrothal, and to spend twenty for "the good
of the house."

"Emilio," said Manuelita, "was returning to Buenos Ayres
immediately." Her father had settled it with the padre,
and she was to be married to-morrow. "But" — ^with the
fiery temper of the glowing South blazed fiercely in the pas-
sionate words — "he shall never have me. No, sefior, I hate
him— I do; and I'll kill myself first."

I thought it very likely, from what I knew of Stefanetti,
that there had been some previous passages between him and

Under the Great Shadow 351

Pete at the wineshop in Marseilles, and that this arrangement
was intended to settle the accotint.

"And the gauchos are here for the betrothal, then?" I
inquired.

"Yes, sefior — for the dance/*

So it was not for me he had been waiting, after all. Prob-
ably he had not expected me to reach La Vega till after he
had gone.

"I don't think there'll be any necessity for you to kill your-
self, Manuelita," I said. "I've a bone to pick with this gen-
tleman myself. I'll go off to the guard-house and bring up
the patrol."

As I uttered the words I laid hold of the chair. An excla-
mation of pain escaped me. For the first time I became aware
that my right hand had been badly sprained by the fall from
the ladder. At the same instant the door of the sala was
opened; voices and footsteps were heard in the passage,
coming towards the kitchen. I drew the bolt and stepped
into the yard.

My hand was burning like a furnace, the pain increasing
every minute. A bucket half-full of water stood outside a
door which led into a flagged entry. Plunging in my hand, I
bathed it repeatedly in the cooling element, which relieved
the pain, and then I followed the entry, which I concluded
would bring me into the street. At the end I passed through
a swing-door, and discovered myself in a long narrow passage
open to the sky. I followed it, turning sharply to the right,
and suddenly I was in darkness. My fingers now grasped the
handle of a door, which was opened from within, and the next
moment I found myself in the sala of the ' Fonda.'

"Good-evening, Pete," said I, putting on a bold face and
advancing towards him. "Any room for me? What's the
occasion?"

I thought the man looked chippy.

*'I didn't 'spect to see you down here, sefior," he stam-
mered, stealing a glance at Stefanetti, "for a couple of days
yet."

"I allow it," I said, coming farther into the room. "But
introduce me."

Pete turned half-rotmd, and then I perceived Ricardo. He
had his head on the table, and was apparently asleep. I kept
my eyes on Stefanetti

3S2 Under the Great Shadow

**My friend, Sefior Emilio Corentini," snuffled Pete, follow-
ing the direction of my eyes, ** acting for*'

"That man's name is Stefanetti," I broke in. I knew it
must come, and wished it over. ** I think you ought to know
that, Pete. He's wanted by the French police for forgery
and embezzlement."

I saw Pete turn livid under his olive skin.

**I challenge him to produce his authority to use the name
of the firm he travels tmder. He's a fraud and a cheat. If he
has won any man's money in your house, Pete, I tell that man
not to part with a single centesimo. (Jregorio Stefanetti, the
man who sits yonder, was turned out of the Cercle Maritime
at Marseilles for sharping."

Stefanetti rose. His restraint was tmnatural. He overdid
it, and that brought on the crisis.

"Sefior," he said coldly, "you have insulted me in a public
room. I demand satisfaction."

"You shall have it," said I, "and quickly. I will ask
Captain Gomez to wait upon you."

**Sacrer* he hissed between his teeth. "You will go to the
patrol, will you? I think not;" and he whipped out his
revolver.

The ball passed through my hair and buried itself in the wall.
At the same instant my hands were seized from behind and
pinioned to my sides. The pain this occasioned to my sprained
limb was excruciating. I thought I should faint. I saw
Pete pushing Stefanetti into his seat, and heard ManueUta
whisper, "It is to save yotir life, sefior. But, por Dios, your
hand is bad."

There was a loud singing in my ears,the room swam rotmd
and I sank upon the floor. I didn't lose my senses, however,
though I kept my eyes closed. Angry words were passing
between Pete and Stefanetti.

Presently I distinguished the voice of Manuelita. "Why
spoil the dance?" she was saying. "Twist a lasso round him
and lock him in the kitchen. Then when the gauchos depart,
let them take the gn^SP ^th them, and turn him loose on the
pampas."

''Bravo, hravissinto!'' chuckled Stefanetti. "A good idea.
Why spoil the dance, indeed! Pass along that riata, Barcey.
Here's Manuelita waiting to lend a hand. — Ah ! " he continued,
with a sudden change of tone, "so you've put on a new neck-

V

Under the Great Shadow 353

lace — ^have you, my beauty? — ^in honor of the evening, I
suppose?"

The girl made no reply, and presently I heard him say, ** A
green hide — eh? Why, it's strong enough to hold a bull.
Rouse up, Barcey; and W'^en our friend leaves the "Fonda**
to-night, you can trust me to see that he doesn't get into
trouble again. Bring up the patrol, would he? How would
that suit you, Pete?" and he grinned.

The men tied me up as tight as a mtunmy. Manuelita,
fussing around under pretence of helping, managed to slacken
the "turns" a bit here and there, taking special care of my
injured hand. But for this I should have doubted the girl's
honesty, her proposal had been made with such seeming
insistence and so heartily did she appear to second the efforts
of the men.

When they had me fixed, four of the gauchos carried me into
the kitchen; and with a sinking heart I heard Manuelita tell
Stef anetti to lock the door and put the key in his pocket. The
girl hadn't whispered a word in explanation. Beyond the
two sentences she had spoken when she seized hold of my
arms I had nothing to trust to.

I had been lying on the mud floor for perhaps an hour,
Ustening to the noise of the dancing; wondering if, after all,
I was to be left to die on the pampas; and thinking what
incomprehensible creatures women were, when the window
was gently opened and Manuelita bounded lightly into the
room. Stooping over my prostrate form, she cut the cords
and I was free.

"Your horse is outside, sefior," she said, drawing the bolt
of the door which opened on the yard. "Bring up the patrol
— quick! But, for my sake, remember my father. Quick!
There is no time to lose. I cannot stay, or I shall be missed."
Then she was gone.

I was pretty stiff, you may guess, and my hand gave me
some trouble; but I was tmder the Great Shadow, and I
managed to scramble into the saddle somehow.

"There's your prisoner, capitan,'' said I, addressing Captain
Gomez. "Gregorio Stefanetti, alias Emilio Corentini, forger,
swindler, cardsharper. Five years ago, capitan, certain
people offered a reward for him; two thousand francs; It
has never been withdrawn. It will be paid at Buenos Ayres
to-day on compliance with the formalities. But have a care,

354

Under the Great Shadow

Captain Gomez. Your man's as crafty as a cat. He cheated
the law once, remember. See that he doesn't cheat it again."

I had been back in Buenos A3rres some weeks when I was
sent for by the chief. Captain Gomez was with him.

**El capUan has called to see me about that business of
Stefanetti's," said he, glancing up from an official-looking
document which he had been perusing. **If you'll be good
enough to certify these papers, I think we may pay him the
reward. The man, it seems, has been shot while attempting
to escape."

I looked at the captain, but that officer was fiercely twirling
the ends of his mustache, with his eye fixed on the cornice of
the ceiling. The chief was filling up the order on Paris.

It is competent to every man to have an opinion, but it is
not always expedient to express it. I did not express mine.

\

N Offer of Marriage:

The Story of a French Wooing,
by Katharine L. Ferris* Illustra-
tions by Mabel L* Humphrey*

THE Englishman who, on being asked the way somewhere,
said "Drive due east till your horse drops dead, then
begin to inquire," was, we know, speaking of his own beloved
metropolis. Otherwise one might have been tempted, so
perfectly does the description fit, to think that he was in-
dicating the whereabouts of a certain French village known
to its inhabitants (and to a very few beside), as Sainte-
Agathe-du-Haut-Pas.

As to the "due east," it depends, of course, from whence
you come; but, leaving detail to be determined by circimi-
stances, you will arrive at Sainte-Agathe only after you decide
to follow the spirit of the directions given above. Some
artist men and women wander in there every summer, for the
plafce is not remote. It is merely tmtrodden of the tripper,
being far beyond reach of the railway and out of the direct
line of that Ultima Thule of the tourist, the high road, on
which the great wave of travel, almost spent, breaks in a thin
spray of bicycles propelled, apparently in the sole aim of
covering as much cotmtry as possible while avoiding all sight
of it save that of the ten feet of hard, white soil immediately
ahead of the front wheel.

If one has really decided to go to Sainte-Agathe, the first
step toward it is to take a ticket for another and quite dis-
tant town. Once there, the really exciting part of the jour-
ney begins. One does but rattle across the broad highway to
plunge into a well-marked road of seemingly firm intentions,
which, contrary to all expectations, suddenly grows tired and
lies down and dies in a field. Its successor takes up the en-

•Writtcn for Short Stories.

35^ An Offer of Marriage

terprise manfully, drives through a wood, meanders out on
the other side, struggles on in a series of short, sharp rises
and then, qtiite out of temper, abandons, with a peevish twist,
all idea of going to Sainte-Agathe and starts oflF at right
angles for a more attainable goal.

The third road, tmwillingly pressed into the service, dallies
along between most enchanting hedge-rows all abloom, wan-
ders vaguely up on to a broad plateau and, with the first sign
of decision it has yet shown, stops short at a sign-post.

Finally, a brief but efficient byway takes the matter in
hand and, plunging down one of the steepest hills I have ever
seen, brings up in the heart of the village at the portal of that
church from which the place takes its name, a church in size
and beauty out of all proportion with the pigmy flock of
cottages huddled rotind it.

Its patron saint, however, does her part by Sainte-Agathe.
Some portion of her anatomy, carefully preserved in an
amazing reliquary, is, it appears, possessed of marvelous
healing properties, fo that each Fifth of February sees a
long train of variously disabled persons seeking the aid of
the saint in their misfortunes. The belief in her power is the
more firmly held by the inhabitants of Sainte-Agathe in that
it is very profitable to their little town, and to money con-
siderations the peasant mind is at least as widely opened as
to religious superstitions, which is saying a good deal.

Once a year the fete day arrives, the village wakes into
animation, but, the day of pilgrimage past, it quickly settles
back into the somewhat stagnant tranquillity which reigns
during eleven months of the year, a tranquillity ruffled, but not
broken, by happenings of greater or less local importance —
the inevitable births, deaths, marriages and scandals which
appear as surely where two or three are gathered together
as in the most overgrown of cities.

A traveler who, having triumphed over the discourage-
ments we have mentioned, had wandered into Sainte-Agathe
on a certain Wednesday in June 189-, would have found the
tranquillity of that charming spot decidedly in abeyance.
House-doors stood open and unwatched. Children trans-
gressed all established rules of juvenile propriety tmheeded
and unreproved. Cats feasted royally on left-overs which
should have' been put safely by to serve for another meal but
were, in fact, left anyhow on tables and shelves. The K6r-

An Offer of Marriage

357

onacs' dog stole a valuable piece of mutton which never would
have been bought at all save that it was the f^te day of
gran 'mlT^, and he had eaten the choice morsel and was
innocently dozing in the sun long before Madame K^ronac,
that carefullest of housewives, discovered her loss. Indeed,
it was while she was returning from the butcher's with the
mutton imder her arm that she had made quite another dis-
covery which excited her so much that, flinging the precious
package down on the table, she went out again to share her
news with a few friends. Soon by far the larger portion of the
female population of Sainte-Agathe was gathered together
in groups discussing the affair with much flinging abroad of
hands, shrugging of shoulders and wagging of white-coiffed
heads.

And tnily, the stone which, suddenly thrown in its midst,
had so agitated the pool, was of no common proportions.
Figure to yourself that Madame K^ronac, quietly walking
homeward with her mutton under her arm as before stated,
had with her own eyes seen Joseph Tanguy, resplendently
arrayed, (as no sane man woidd be of a Wednesday without
grave cause), enter the house of Hippolyte Briac. This could
bear but one. interpretation.
If Joseph Tanguy, a sober
man, forty-five if he was a
day, and a widower since three
years agone, had put on his
Simday toggery in mid-week
to visit Hippolyte, it was be-
cause he meant to demand the
hand of one of Hippolyte's
daughters in marriage.

Hippolyte had three daugh-
ters, but the second one was
already married and the
youngest was, as all the coim-
tryside knew, affianced to a
grocer's clerk now doing his
two years in the army, and she was but awaiting the term
of his military service to help him set up again his counter
and scales. Therefore, Tanguy must be gone to ask for
the hand of Berthe. The village dames stood amazed. So

35^ 'A^ Offer of Marriage

likely a man, not young, perhaps, but still in the prime of
life and strength! No drunkard, either, and if — ^as was con-
ceded— ^he had no great lorpmet he was possessed of a field
or two and a snug, tight house, and the first wife had left
no children to trouble her successor. That, out of a whole
villageftd of possible mates, his choice should have fallen
upon Hippolyte's Berthel Hands were raised, mouths
stood open, white caps wagged portcsptously.

Sainte-Agathe was perfectly aware that it was four years
since Berthe had ''coiffed Sainte Catherine." Consequently,
she was now twenty-nine years old, and of a plainness — ^mon
Dieul — and without a sou. True, the other daughters had
been equally dotless, but Emm^line was a most amusing
creature, and Eugenie was pretty enough to ttim the head
of any man, and to put a miser out of conceit of his money-
bags. Whereas Berthe — oh, la! la!

On this pretext or that more than one loiterer happened
to be near Hippolyte's house when its visitor came forth from
it. He was accompanied to the door by both Hippolyte and
his wife, they, also, dressed in their best, and wearing a Sab-
bath air of festivity. The visit had, then, been anticipated.
Supposition turned into certainty. But, as Tanguy — a
rather sober faced Tanguy — ^took leave of his jovial host,
the latter was heard to cry, "Have no fear, Monsieur. She
win reflect, she will reflect!'* Certainty immediately gave
way to blackest doubt. ' ' Is it likely, I ask you, ' ' said Madame
K^ronac (and not Madame Kdronac only), "that a penniless
girl, above all, one who had coiffed Sainte Catherine four
good years ago, shotdd endanger so tmheard-of a chance by
taking time to reflect?"

But, though amajBement lingered, doubt was) perforce
expelled from the most skeptical mind when, the Sunday
following, the Cur^ read, before the assembled congregation,
the bans between Berthe Briac and Joseph Tanguy. Envy,
if envy there was, clothed herself decently in conventional
felicitations and was content to manifest herself by blending
with them a somewhat unflattering surprise.

Tanguy, could he have been questioned, would have con-
tributed little to satisfy the village wonder. He, himself,
was not without a vague feeling of astonishment when he
thotight of the step he had taken. Berthe was certainly no
subject to inspire a great passion, nor was Tanguy the man

An Offer of Marriage 359

to conceive one. Indeed, great passions in peasant com-
mtinities are remarkable for their rarity, and w^re far less
likely to intrude their inconvenient presences into the daily
life of Sainte-Agathe-du-Haut-Pas, than in the most fash-
ionable precincts of Vanity Fair. He had never, certainly,
formulated to his own mind the sweetness, strength and cap-
ability in the girl's character which, dimly perceived, had
pushed him on to try to make her his wife, and he cotdd, per-
haps, hardly be expected to distinguish in himself that
strange sixth sense, possessed by many men, which enables
them to tell at a glance just what woman out of a hundred
will make them comfortable, and which explains so many
sudden attractions. But the idea once formed, he acted on
it promptly and clung to it, as might have been expected for
a slow mind, with tenacity.

Tenacity was needed for, incredible as it seemed to her
townspeople, Berthe had received his proposal coldly. All
the enthusiasm had been on the part of Hippolyte and his
wife. They had never dreamed of placing to such an ad-
vantage a daughter no longer yotmg and never pretty — had,
indeed, almost foregone the idea of placing her at all. Con-
sequently, they were all delight; they fluttered and chat-
tered and laughed, lending to the occasion that gaiety which
it is conventionally supposed to produce spontaneously, but
they did it alone. Tanguy was too conscious of the honor
he was bestowing to regard it lightly, and he was very sensible
that Berthe, who should, by all rights, have been in a turmoil
of excitement and gratitude, was tmaccotmtably cool and
reluctant.

Certainly she wished to marry. Called upon to answer
the middle-aged aspirant, she did not deny that it would please
her much better to espouse Tanguy than to remain single, and
she even opined that no woman could prefer to be an old maid
in her father's house, a person without standing — ^to marrying
and gaining thereby a position in the world. Still, she ap-
peared an3rthing but eager, said she must have time to reflect
(a sentence afterward repeated by Hippol)rte, as we have seen
with an optimistic shade of meaning which she, be sure,
had never meant to give it), and attached conditions to her
marriage which were calculated to surprise her futiu-e husband
more than they flattered him. She must haye this — she must
have that. Did Tanguy mean to take up farming? Becatise

360 An Offer of Marriage

in that case, she would reqtdre a servant. On the contrary,
she was informed, he thought of buying a small business at
which they both could work — say a little cai^.. She let him
see that that would please her better. If she married him —
and patati and patata! Hippolyte was at his wits* ends, his
good wife scarlet with apprehension, and Tanguy said to him-
self that he had not known Berthe was so proud. Fortunately,
at least from Hippolyte 's point of view, the effect of these can-
trips upon him was the exact opposite of what the anxious
parents feared. We cannot say that his lady's behavior was
to the widower's desires as fire to tow. Nothing would ever
flame in Tanguy's soul again. If he had once possessed an
inflammable fibre it was gone from him — ^buried,perchance, in
the grave of the wife of his youth. But under her coldness his
intentions solidified into determination as water turns to ice
at the touch of winter. Had she been the most accomplished
of coquettes she could have acted no differently. Without
warming to her, he swore to gain her, and from that moment
he would have accepted her with much harder conditions than
she was at all disposed to lay upon him. He felt that his
dignity was at stake. Had he grown so old and so unpleasing
that he was a fit subject for the slights even of a woman not
young, plain and without a dot^ He had no idea of allowing
it to be thought so.

In fact Berthe was not proud. She herself was not the
least bewildered of those who were asking why she was holding
back from a lot which, two years before, she would have
regarded as the greatest, the most tmlooked-for, good luck.
If she had looked into the depths of the heart she was afraid
to question too closely, she would have recognized — and been
half surprised to recognize — ^that she was acting from senti-
ment, a sentiment vague indeed, scarcely defined, never
admitted, but strong enough to render the proposed marriage,
advantageous as it was, repugnant to her.

It was somewhat over a year ago that Chauteroi, the great
house of the neighborhood, being in need of repairs, the owner
had got a company of workmen over from Brest. Among
them came a certain Georges Lirienc, a young house painter,
whose handsome face speedily made him the object of no
ordinary interest to the girls of Sainte-Agathe. But if, in the
six weeks he spent among them, any preference could have
been attributed to him, that preference certainly took the

An Offer of Marriage 361

form of a shy friendship for Berthe, who was at least as old as
he was, and, by reason of her twenty-eight years, and her lack
of good looks, had come to be regarded as one no longer in the
nmning. Partly because of this, no doubt, but largely be-
cause his liking seldom carried him the length of open
demonstration of any sort, it had passed unremarked even in
Sainte-Agathe, inordinately greedy, as are all village com-
mimities, for gossip; so that the last thing to occur to dame
or damsel, as a basis for the girl's extraordinary conduct — it
was acknowledged to be ex-
traordinary— would have
been a tendresse for Georges
Lirienc, so little known, so
soon lost to view. Indeed,
the half impression he made
upon her was due far more
to the charm of personality,
instinct with beauty and
youth on one who had never
possessed the first, and no
longer possessed the second,
than to anything which had
passed between them, and the vague feeling which undoubtedly
existed at the bottom of her heart and was kept sacred to
his memory would soon have faded quite away had it not
been for one episode.

Plonarel, Sainte-Agathe's nearest neighbor, had been
visited by one of those caravans, half circus and half variety
show, which are so often to be met with in France, and all the
yotmg people of one village, including several couples, whose
only claim to be so classed was the unquenchable exuberance
of their spirits, had gone to make merry in the other, to swing
in the swings, ride on the wooden horses, try their luck in the
shooting galleries and otherwise divert themselves as is but
seemly at a ffete.

It was almost midnight when they turned their faces
homeward and stepped on to the white, moonlit road which
stretched between Plonarel and Sainte-Agathe. Berthe and
Georges were walking together, but by no means alone. A
nmning fire of pleasantries in which they were expected to
bear a part, and to bear it with a certain country cleverness,
under pain of becoming butts for the whole company, would

362 An Offer of Marriage

effectually have prevented any attempt at a tfete-k-tfete.
Not that Georges made any such attempt. That was never
his way. It was toward the end of his stay, and he was talk-
ing somewhat discursively of his prospects — of how he would
go back to Brest where he had a place waiting for him, or
would, perhaps, adventure as far as Paris where a strong
fellow not afraid of work could alwajrs make money, he had
heard, and more easily than in the provincial towns. He had
pulled two or three hedge-row flowers and was combining
them, as he spoke, with a few grasses and leaves, laying them
this way and that and finally binding them together with one
of their own stems. The somewhat disheveled result of this
amatetir florist's work he suddenly held out toward Berthe.

** In my village," he said, "when a man offers a girl flowers,
he means to ask her to wait tmtil he can put together enough
money to come and get her."

The girl looked at him amazed, then, thinking that she was
but listening to one more of the pleasantries which he had
been carrying on with much spirit during the evening, she
pitched her answer in the same key.

"In my village," she retorted smartly, "if a man had
nothing better than that to say to a girl, she would ask him to
pass that way again when he could tell her something worth
listening to."

And then — ^too late — she seemed to see that he had not been
joking.

"Ah," he said, with a long breath, that was almost a sigh,
" perhaps your way is safer. All the same — ^take my flowers,
Berthe."

She took the poor little bunch in silence, and almost in silence
they finished their walk. Later, in the privacy of her tiny
attic, she put one of the flowers in her prayer-book and tried
to put it out of her thoughts together with the whole occur-
rence, which had somehow left her both vexed and sad.

The leavetaking came a few days after, and the adieux
were, perforce, made in the presence of both Hippolyte and
his wife. Georges showed no rancor, but also no empresse-
ment, showed nothing, indeed, but the kindliest spirit of
friendliness, and Berthe congratulated herself heartily that
she had not been duped into taking more seriously what was
evidently, after all, only an awkward joke, thrown out, per-
haps, to see what she would say. It was not likely, it was

An Offer of Marriage

363

most improbable that he had meant what he said. And yet
what her reason admitted, her heart denied. Underneath
all the likelihoods and probabilities in the world, a feeling
persisted and grew that he had been in earnest. Cried down,
ridiculed, it still proclaimed itself, until at times she was near
acknowledging it, near owning that she was waiting, and glad

to wait, for Georges Lirienc until he should have saved money
enough to come back and claim her.

Alas! 'twas Tanguy who came — ^Tanguywith his perfectly
reasonable and very advantageous proposal; and the reluc-
tance she had shown, the conditions she had put to giving her
consent had been an ineffectual effort to delay a result which

364 -A^ Ojfer of Marriage

she knew must come. For, after all, she had no reason to
give for refusing a chance which, eighteen months ago, would
have surpassed her wildest aspirations, and which was held by
the whole village to be an inexplicable piece of luck. Georges
had gone and, except to hear indirectly that he had indeed
gone to Paris, she had had no news of or from him, no cause
to suppose that he had ever given her a thought.

So it was that the cur6 read the bans on Sunday between
Joseph Tanguy and Hippol)rte's Berthe, and preparations for
the wedding went merrily on. Tanguy, now that he felt less
sure of Berthe*s attitude of mind, was anxious to push the
affair to a conclusion, nor were the girl's parents of any other
way of thinking. They would all three have been exceedingly
mortified to show themselves balked, and consequently
ridiculous, in the eyes of their neighbors.

The lover's way was made none too easy for him during the
three weeks that preceded the wedding.

He heartily wished to gain favor, and made a great show of
deferring to her advice and consulting her about everything.
She gave her opinion if she must, sometimes sullenly, some-
times with a nervous irritability painful to witness, but always
as shortly as possible. About a week before the eventful day,
he came in, all importance, to ask what coat he should wear
to be married in, what hat, what shoes.

"I have lived so long alone that I don't know what 1 ought
to do," he said, "but I should like to look well and do you
credit, mademoiselle."

"Ah, b'en, wear what you please," answered his lady
sharply. "What difference does it make to me, do you
suppose? I sha'n't go back of my bargain because of your
coat or shoes."

After that he asked her no more questions, accounting for
her rudeness by saying that of course, she was not herself.
Her prospects had upset and tmnerved her. After the event
she would be calmer, quieter, as he had always known her.

On Saturday, three days after the wedding, the new
Madame Tanguy was standing at the door of the caf^ with
her knitting in her hands. She was not looking at her needles
though they were fl3ang at a surprising rate. She was watch-
ing the village postman who, on his afternoon round, was
coming toward her up the street, stopping at this house and

An Offer of Marriage 365

at that, giving and receiving the news of the day as well as a
few letters, and followed by the sound of merriment, for he
was a pleasant fellow, fond of his joke. When he came to the
caf^ he stopped and, ceremoniously dofifing his hat, asked:

"Does Mademoiselle Berthe Briac live here?**

"No, she doesn't,** retorted the young woman. "But,**
she seemed to consider; **if you like to leave a message for
her I can give it to her."

"Well, I guess I can't do wrong in leaving you this letter,*'
he answered, and, as he held out the envelope, " The latest
news from Paris,*' he went on. "Is he chic, atleast, your type!
What paper, as thick as parchment I"

As she turned away into the little room back of the caf^,
which was their kitchen and dining-room in one, she saw that
the letter bore, indeed, the Paris postmark, and while she
opened it she wondered who her imknown correspondent
could be for, to her knowledge, she had neither friends nor
relatives in the great city.

The letter ran thus:

"Mademoiselle :-^It is more than a year since I offered
you the flowers and you told me that the men of Sainte-
Agathe did not speak ^until they had something worth telling.
That is why, mademoiselle, I have given you no news of me.
But now you will permit me to speak, for I have established
myself with a color merchant, a fine position. I am getting
good wages, and he will make me his partner in a year or two,
if all goes well. In consequence I can ask you, not to wait
for me, but to marry me, if that would give you pleasure,
mademoiselle. If you find this agreeable to you, send me a
letter to 6 Rue Daguerre, Paris. In waiting, accept, madem-
oiselle, the most sincere sentiments of your devoted

Georges Lirienc."

There was silence in the Uttle room. The sun shone on
the new copper cooking utensils, and fell, in a broad shaft,
on the clean brisk floor. The kitten which the mistress had
brought with her from her old home, rose and stretched itself
and finally fell asleep again, its nose buried in its fluffy tail.
The tall clock scrupulously counted the seconds — ^tick-tack,
tick-tack, and Berthe sat on and on, one hour, two, gazing
before her with dreadful eyes which, for all their stare, saw
nothing.

Suddenly Tanguy bustled into the caf^.

366

An Offer of Marriage

"Berthe," he called, "where are you, Berthe? There are
customers waiting at the outside tables."

As he stood at the door, looking in upon her, he did not see
the letter in her lap, for the table was between them, but he
did note the indolence of her attitude.

**Some glasses, Berthe, and some white wine, quick," he
said, **while I get the siphons. You understand, my little

friend, it is not by doing nothing that one builds up a business."
He turned away, very affair^ and important, as pleased

as a child that there were customers waiting, that he could do

the honors of his new establishment.

Madame Tanguy arose, slowly and painfully, like an old

woman. She felt stiff and ill. Furtively she thrust the

letter into her bosom, and then, with dragging step, went out

to do her husband's bidding.

HIGH Was the Mad-
man?: The Story of a
Strange Case^ by Edmond
About^ Translated from
the French*

ONE might pass Dr. Auvray's house twenty times without
suspecting the miracles that are wrought there. It is a
modest establishment near the end of Montaigne Avenue,
between Prince Soltikoff 's Gk)thic palace and the gymnasium.
The tmpretentious iron gates open into a small garden, filled
with lilacs and rosebushes. The porter's lodge is on the left
side of the gateway; the, wing containing the doctor's office
and the apartments of his wife and daughter are on the right ;
while the main building stands with its back to the street and
its south windows overlook a small grove of horsechestnuts
and lindens.

It is there that the doctor treats, and generally cures, cases of
mental aberration. I would not introduce you into his house,
however, if you inctu*red any risk of meeting frenzied lunatics
or hopeless imbeciles. You will be spared all such harrowing
sights. Dr. Auvray is a specialist, and treats cases of mono-
mania only. He is an extremely kind-hearted man, endowed
with plenty of shrewdness and good sense ; a true philosopher,
an untiring student, and an enthusiastic follower of the
famous Esquirol.

Having come into possession of a small fortune soon after
the completion of his medical coxirse, he married, and founded
the establishment which we have described. Had there been
a spark of charlatanism in his composition, he could easily
have amassed a fortune, but he had been content to merely
earn a living. He shtumed notoriety, and when he effected a
wonderful ctu*e, he never proclaimed it upon the house-tops.

368 Which Was the Madman?

His very enviable reputation had been acquired "without any
effort on his part, and ahnost against his will. Would you
have a proof of this? Well, his treatise on monomania, pub-
lished by Bailliere in 1852, has passed through six editions,
though the author has never sent a single copy to the news-
papers. Modesty is a good thing, certainly, but one may
carry it too far. Mademoiselle Auvray will have a dowry of
only twenty thousand francs, and she will be twenty-two in
April.

About a month ago, a hired coupe stopped in front of Dr.
Auvray's door, from which two men alighted and entered the
office. The servant asked them to be seated, and await his
master's return.

One of the visitors was about fifty years of^age, a tall, stout,
dark-complexioned but ruddy-faced man, rather ungainly in
figure and appearance. He had thick, stubby hands and
enormous thtimbs. Picture a laboring man, dressed in his
employer's clothes, and you have M. Morlot.

His nephew, Francis Thomas, is a young man, about twenty-
three years old; but it is very difficult to describe him, as
there is nothing distinctive either in his maimer or appear-
ance. He is neither tall nor short, handsome nor ugly, stout
nor thin — in short, he is commonplace and mediocre in every
respect, with chestnut hair, and of an extremely retiring
disposition, manner and attire. When he entered Dr.
Auvray's office, he seemed to be greatly excited. He walked
wildly to and fro, as if imable to remain in one place; looked
at twenty different things in the same instant, and would
certainly have handled them all if his hands had not been tied.

"Compose yourself, my dear Francis," said his tmcle,
soothingly. ** What I am doing is for your own good. You
will be perfectly comfortable and happy here, and the doctor
is sure to cure you."

"I am not sick. There is nothing whatever the matter
with me. Why have you tied my hands ? ' '

** Because you would have thrown me out of the window, if
I had not. You are not in yoxu- right mind, my poor boy, but
Dr. Auvray will soon make you well again."

" I am as sane as you are, uncle; and I can't imagine what
you mean. My mind is perfectly clear and my memory
excellent. Shall I recite some poetry to you, or construe
some Latin? I see there is a Tacitus here in the bookcase.

Which Was the Madman? 369

Or, if you prefer, I will solve a problem in algebra or geometry.
You don't desire it? Very well, then listen while I tell you
what you have been doing this morning.

"You came to my room at eight o'clock, not to wake me,
for I was not asleep, but to get me out of bed. I dressed
myself without any assistance from Germain. You asked me
to accompany you to Dr. Auvray's; I refused; you insisted;
then Germain aided you in tying my hands. I shall dismiss
him this evening. I owe him thirteen days' wages ; that is to
say, thirteen francs, as I promised to pay him thirty francs a
month. You, too, owe him something, as you are the cause
of his losing his New Year's gift. Isn't this a tolerably clear
statement of the facts ? Do you still intend to try to make me
out a limatic? Ah, my dear uncle, let your better nature
assert itself. Remember that my mother was your sister.
What would my poor mother say if she saw me here ? I bear
you no ill-will, and everything can be amicably arranged.
You have a daughter."

** Ah, there it is again. You must certainly see that you are

not in your right mind. I have a daughter 1? Why, I

am a bachelor, as you know perfectly well."

"You have a daughter " repeated Francis, mechanic-
ally.

"My poor nephew, listen to me a moment. Have you a
cousin?"

"A cousin? No, I have no cousin. Oh, you won't catch
m% there. I have no cousin, either male or female."

" But I am your imcle, am I not ? "

" Yes ; you are my tmcle, of course, though you seem to have
forgotten the fact this morning."

"Then if I had a daughter, she would be your cousin; but
as you have no cousin, I can have no daughter."

" You are right, of course. I had the pleasxu-e of meeting
her at Ems last summer with her mother; I love her; I have
reason to believe that she is not indiiferent to me, and I have
the honor to ask you for her hand in marriage."

"Whose hand, may I ask?"

"Your daughter's hand."

"Just hear him," Morlot said to himself. "Dr. Auvray
must certainly be very clever if he succeeds in curing him.
I am willing to pay him six thousand francs a year for board
and treatment. Six thousand francs from thirty thousand,

37© Which Was the Madmant

leaves twenty-four thousand. How rich I shall be! Poor
Francis I*'

He seated himself again, and picked up a book that chanced
to be lying on a table near him.

"Calm yourself," he said soothingly, "and I will read you
something. Try to listen. It may quiet you."

Opening the volume, he read as follows:

" 'Monomania is opinionativeness on one subject; a per-
sistent clinging to one idea; the supreme ascendency of a
single passion. It has its origin in the heart. To ctire the
malady, the cause must be ascertained and removed. It
arises generally from love, fear, vanity, overweening ambi-
tion or remorse, and betrays itself by the same symptoms as
any other passion ; sometimes by boisterousness, gaiety and
garrulousness; sometimes by extreme timidity, melancholy,
and silence.

As M. Morlot read on, Francis became more qtiiet, and at
last appeared to fall into a peaceful slumber.

"Bravo!" thought the uncle, "here is a triumph of medical
skill already. It has put to sleep a man who was neither
hungry nor sleepy!"

Francis was not asleep, but he was feigning sleep to per-
fection. His head drooped lower and lower, and he regulated
his heavy breathing with mathematical exactness. Unde
Morlot was completely deceived. He went on reading for
some time in more and more subdued tones; then he yawned;
then he stopped reading; then he let the book drop from
his hands and closed his eyes, and in another minute he was
sound asleep, to the intense delight of his nephew, who was
watching him maliciously out of the comer of his eye.

Francis began operations by scraping his chair on the un-
carpeted floor, but M. Morlot moved no more than a post.
Francis then tramped noisily up and down the room, but his
uncle snored the louder. Then the nephew approached the
doctor's desk, picked up an eraser that was lying there, and
with it finally succeeded in cutting the rope that botmd his
hands. On regaining his liberty he uttered a smothered
exclamation of joy; then he cautiously approached his uncle.
In two minutes, M. Morlot himself was sectu*ely bound, but
it had been done so gently and so adroitly that his slumbers
had not been disturbed in the least.

Francis stood admiring his work for a moment; then he

Which Was the Madmant 371

stooped and picked up the book that had fallen to the floor.
It was Dr. Auvray's treatise on monomania. He carried it off
into a comer of the room and began to read it with much
apparent interest, while awaiting the doctor's coming.

Chapter II.

It is necessary to revert briefly to the antecedents of this
tmcle and nephew. Francis Thomas was the only son of a
former toy-merchant, on the Rue de Saumon. The toy
trade is an excellent business, about one hundred per cent,
profit being realized on most of the articles; consequently,
since his father's death, Francis had been enjoying that ease
generally known as honest ease; possibly because it en-
ables one to live without stooping to sordid acts; possibly, too,
because it enables one to keep one's friends honest, also. In
short, he had an income of thirty thousand francs a year.

His tastes were extremely simple, as I have said before. He
detested show, and always selected gloves, waistcoats and
trousers of those sober hues shading from dark brown to black.
He never carried an eyeglass for the very good reason, he
said, th^t he had excellent eyesight; he wore no scarf-pin,
because he needed no pin to hold his cravat securely; but the
fact is, he was afraid of exciting comment. He would have
been wretched had his sponsors bestowed upon him any save
the most commonplace names; but, forttmately, his cog-
nomens were as modest and tmpretending as if he had chosen
them himself.

His excessive modesty prevented him from adopting a
profession. When he left college, he considered long and
careftdly the seven or eight different paths open before him.
A legal career seemed to be attended with too much publicity ;
the medical profession was too exciting; business too com-
plicated. The responsibilities of an instructor of youth were
too onerous; the duties of a government official, too confining
and servile. As for the army, that was out of the question,
not because he feared the enemy, but because he shuddered
at the thought of wearing a uniform ; so he finally decided to
live on his income, not because it was the easiest thing to do,
but because it was the most tmobtrusive.

But it was in the presence of the fair sex that his weakness
became most apparent. He was always in love with some-

372 Which Was the Madman?

body. Whenever he attended a play or a concert he im-
mediately began to gaze arotmd him in search of a pretty face.
If he found one to his taste, the play was admirable, the music
perfection; if he failed, the whole performance was detest-
able, the actors murdered their lines, and all the singers
sang out of time. He worshipped these divinities in secret,
however, for he never dared to speak to one of them.

When he fancied himself a victim to the tender passion, he
spent the greater part of his time in composing the most
impassioned declarations of love, which never passed his lips,
however. In imagination he addressed the tenderest words of
affection to his adored one, and revealed the innermost depths
of his soul to her; he held long conversations with her, de-
lightful interviews, in which he furnished both the questions
and answers. His burning protestations of undying love
would have melted a heart of ice, but none of his divinities
were ever aware of his aspirations and longings.

It chanced, however, in the month of August of that same
year, about foxir months before he so adroitly bound his
uncle's hands, that Francis had met at Ems a yotmg lady
almost as shy and retiring as himself, a young lady whose
excessive timidity seemed to imbue him with some of the
courage of an ordinary mortal. She was a frail, delicate
Parisienne — ^pale as a flower that had blossomed in the shade,
and with a skin as transparent as an infant's. She was at
Ems in company with her mother, who had been advised to
try the waters for an obstinate throat trouble, chronic
laryngitis, if I remember right. The mother and daughter
had evidently led a very secluded life, for they watched the
noisy crowd with undisguised curiosity and amazement.
Francis was introduced to them qtiite unexpectedly by one of
his friends who was rettuning from Italy by way of Germany.
After that, Francis was with them almost constantly for a
month; in fact, he was their sole companion.

For sensitive, retiring souls, a crowd is the most complete
of solitudes ; the more people there are around them, the more
persistently they retreat to a comer to commune with them-
selves. Of course, the mother and daughter soon became well
acquainted with Francis, and they grew very fond of him.
Like the navigator who first set foot on American soil, they
discovered some new treasure every day. They never in-
quired whether he was rich or poor; it was enough for them

Which Was the Madmant 373

to know that he was good. Francis, for his part, was inex-
pressibly delighted with his own transformation. Have you
ever heard how spring comes in the gardens of Russia? One
day everything is shrouded in snow; the next day, a ray of
sunshine appears and puts grim winter to flight. By noon,
the trees are in bloom; by night they are covered with
leaves; a day of two more, and the fruit appears.

The heart of Francis underwent a similar metamorphosis.
His reserve and apparent coldness disappeared as if by magic,
and in a few short weeks the timid youth was transformed into
a resolute, energetic man — at least to all appearances. I do
not know which of the three persons first mentioned marriage,
but that is a matter of no consequence. Marriage is always
understood when two honest hearts avow their love.

Now Francis was of age, and imdisputed master of himself
and his possessions, but the girl he loved had a father whose
consent must be obtained, and it was just here that this yotmg
man's natxu-al timidity of disposition reasserted itself. True,
Claire had said to him, "You can write to my father without
any misgivings. He knows all about our attachment. You
will receive his consent by return mail.'*

Francis wrote and rewrote his letter a hundred times, but
he could not summon up the courage to send it.

Surely the ordeal was an easy one, and it would seem as
though the most timorous mind could have passed through
it triumphantly. Francis knew the name, position, fortune,
and even the disposition of his prospective father-in-law.
He had been initiated into all the family secrets, he was
virtually a member of the household. The only thing he had
to do was to state in the briefest manner who he was and
what he possessed. There was no doubt whatever as to the
response; but he delayed so long that at the end of a month
Claire and her mother very naturally began to doubt his
sincerity. I think they would have waited patiently another
fortnight, however, but the father would not permit it. If
Claire loved the yotmg man, and her lover was not disposed
to make known his intentions, the girl must leave him at once.
Perhaps Mr. Francis Thomas would then come and ask her
hand in marriage. He knew where to find her.

Thus it chanced that, one morning when Francis went to
invite the ladies to walk as usual, the proprietor of the hotel
informed him that they had returned to Paris, and that their

374 Which Was the Madmant

apartments . were already occupied by an EngKsh family.
This crushing blow, falling so unexpectedly, destroyed the
poor fellow's reason, and rushing out of the house like a mad-
man, he began a frantic search for Claire in all the places
where he had been in the habit of meeting her. At last, he
returned to his own hotel with a violent sick headache, which
he proceeded to doctor in the most energetic manner. First,
he had himself bled, then he took baths in boiling hot water,
and applied the most ferocious mustard plasters; in short, he
avenged his mental tortures upon his innocent body. When
he believed himself ctu*ed, he started for France, firmly
resolved to have an interview with Claire's father before even
changing his clothes. He traveled with all possible speed,
jumped off the train before it stopped, forgetting his baggage
entirely, sprang into a cab and shouted to the coachman:

*' Drive to her home as quick as you can ! "

"Where, sir?"

**To the house of Monsieur — on the — ^the Rue — I cant
remember.*' He had forgotten the name and address of the
girl he loved.

" I will go home," he said to himself, " and it will come back
to me."

So he handed his card to the coachman, who took him to
his own home.

His concierge was an aged man, with no children, and
named Emmanuel. On seeing him, Francis bowed pro-
foimdly, and said:

"Sir, you have a daughter, Mademoiselle Claire Emmanuel.
I intended to write and ask you for her hand in marriage, but
decided it would be more seemly to make the request in
person."

They saw that he was mad, and his imcle Morlot, in the
Faubourg Saint Antoin, was immediately summoned.

Now Uncle Morlot was the most scrupulously honest man
on the Rue Charonne, which, by the way, is one of the longest
streets in Paris. He manufactured antique furniture with
conscientious care, but only mediocre skill. He was not a
man to pass off ebonized pine for real ebony, or a cabinet of
his own make for a mediaeval production ; and yet, he under
stood the art of making new wood look old and full of apparent
worm-holes, as well as anybody living; but it was a principle
of his never to cheat or deceive anvone. With almost absurd

Which Was the Madmant 375

moderation for a follower of this trade, he limited his profits
to five per cent, over and above the expenses of the business,
so he had gained more esteem than money. When he made
out a bill, he invariably added up the items three times, so
afraid was he of making a mistake in his own favor.

After thirty years of close attention to business he was
very little better off than when he finished his apprenticeship.
He had liierely earned his Uving, just like the humblest of his
workmen, and he often asked himself rather enviously how
his brother-in-law had managed to acquire a competence.
If this brother-in-law, with the natural arrogance of a parvenu,
rather looked down on the poor cabinet-maker, the latter,
with all the pride of a man who has not tried to succeed
financially, esteemed himself all the more highly. He gloried
in his poverty, as it were; and said to himself with plebeian
pride: "I, at least, have the satisfaction ot knowing that I
owe nothing to anyone."

Man is a strange animal: I am not the first person who has
made that remark. This most estimable Monsieur Morlot,
whose overscrupulous probity made him almost a laughing-
stock, experienced a singular feeUng of elation in his secret
heart when he was apprised of his nephew's condition. An
insinuating voice whispered softly: "If Francis is insane,
you will become his guardian."

**You wilt be none the richer," responded Conscience,
promptly.

"And why not?" persisted the Tempter. "The expenses
of an insane person never amount to thirty thousand francs a
year. Besides, you will be put to a great deal of trouble and
have to neglect your business, very probably, so it is only
right that you should receive some compensation. You will
not be wronging anyone by taking part of the money."

" But one ought to expect no compensation for such services
to a member of one's family," retorted the voice of Conscience.

**Then why have the members of our family never done
an)rthing for me? I have been in straightened circumstances
again and again, and have found it almost impossible to meet
my obligations, but neither my nephew Francis nor his de-
ceased father ever rendered me the slightest assistance."

"Nonsense," replied his better nature; "this attack of
insanity is nothing serious. Francis will be himself again in
a few days."

376 Which Was the Madman?

** It is just as probable that the malady will wear him out
and that you will come into possession of the entire property/'
persisted the wily Tempter.

The worthy cabinet-maker tried to close his ears to the
insidious voice, but his ears were so large that the subtle, per-
sistent voice glided in, despite all his efforts. The estab-
lishment on the Rue Charonne was intrusted to the care of the
foreman, and the tmcle took up his abode in his ^nephew's
comfortable apartments. He slept in an excellent bed, and
enjoyed it very much ; he sat down to a well-spread table, and
the indigestion, which had tormented him for years, vanished
as if by enchantment. He was waited upon and shaved by
Germain, his nephew's valet, and he speedily came to regard
such attentions as a necessity. Gradually, too, he became
accustomed to seeing his nephew in this deplorable condition,
and to quite reconcile himself to the idea that he would never
be cured, but all the while he kept repeating to himself, as if
to ease his conscience, " I am wronging nobody."

At the expiration of three months he had become very
tired of having an insane person shut up in the house with
him — for he had long since begun to consider himself at
home — and his nephew's incessant maundering, and con-
tinual requests for Mile. Claire's hand in marriage, became an
intolerable bore. He therefore resolved to get rid of him by
placing him in Dr. Auvray's insane asylum.

'* After all, my nephew will be much better cared for there,"
he said to himself, "and I shall be much easier in mind.
Everyone admits that the best way to divert a lunatic's mind
is to give him a change of scene, so I am only doing my duty."

It was with this very thought in his mind that he fell asleep
just before Franics bound his hands. What an awakening
was his!

The doctor entered with a smiling excuse for his long
delay. Francis rose, laid his book on the table, and pro-
ceeded with volubility to explain the business that had
brought him there.

** It is my uncle on my mother's side that I desire to intrust
to your care," he began. ** He is, as you see, a man between
forty-five and fifty years of age, accustomed to manual labor
and the economy and privations of an humble and busy life;
moreover, he was bom of healthy, hard-working parents, in a
family where no case of mental aberration was ever before

Which Was the Madman? 377

known. You will not, therefore, be obliged to contend with
an hereditary malady. His is probably one of the most
peculiar cases of monomania that has ever come under your
observation. His mood changes almost instantaneously
from one of extreme gayety to profotmd melancholy. In fact,
it is a strange compound of monomania and melancholy.**

** He has not lost his reason entirely ?*'

**0h, no; he is never violent; in fact, he is insane upon one
subject only."

**What is the nattu-e of his malady?"

** Alas! the besetting sin of the age, sir; cupidity. He has
become deeply imbued with the spirit of our times. After
working hard from childhood, he finds himself still compara-
tively poor, while my father, who began life tmder like cir-
cumstances, was able to leave me a snug little fortune. My
uncle began by being envious of me ; then the thought occurred
to him that, being my only relative, he would become my
heir in case of my death, and my guardian in case I became
insane; and as it is very easy for a weak-minded person to
believe whatever he desires to believe, the unforttmate man
soon persuaded himself that I had lost my reason. He has
told everybody that this is the case; and he will soon tell you
so. In the carriage, though his hands were tied, he really
believed that it was he who was bringing me here."

**When did this malady first show itself.'*"

*'About three months ago. He came to my concierge and
said to him, in the wildest manner: 'Monsieur Emmanuel,
you have a daughter. Let me in, and then come and assist
me in binding my nephew."'

'*Is he aware of his condition? Does he know that his
mind is affected?"

"No, sir, and I think that is a favorable sign. I should
add, however, that his physical health is somewhat im-
paired, and he is much troubled with indigestion and insom-
nia."

"So much the better; an insane person who sleeps and eats
regularly is generally incurable. Suppose you allow me to
wake him."

Dr. Auvray placed his hand gently on the shoulder of the
sleeper, who instantly sprang to his feet. The first move-
ment he made was to rub his eyes. When he discovered that

378 Which Was the Madmant

his hands were tied, he instantly suspected what had taken
place while he was asleep, and burst into a hearty laugh.

"A good joke, a very good joke !" he exclaimed.

Francis drew the doctor a little aside.

"Sir, in five minutes he will be in a towering rage," he
whispered.

**Let me manage him. I know how to take him."

The good doctor smiled on the supposed patient as one
smiles on a child one wishes to amuse. "Well, you wake in
very good spirits, my friend ; did you have a pleasant dream ?*'
he asked affably.

"No, I had no dream at all; I'm merely laughing to find
myself tied up like a btmdle of fagots. One would suppose
that I was the madman, instead of my nephew."

"There, I told you so," whispered Francis.

"Have the goodness to \mtie my hands, doctor. I can
explain better when I am free."

"I will tmbind you, my friend, but you must promise to
give no trouble."

"Can it be, doctor, that you really take me for an insane
person?"

"No, my friend, but you are ill, and we will take care of
you, and, I hope, cure you. See, your hands are free; don't
abuse your liberty."

"What the devil do you imagine 111 do? I came here
merely to bring my nephew."

"Very well, we will talk about that matter by-and-by. I
found you sotmd asleep. Do you often fall asleep in the
daytime?"

"Never! It was that stupid book that — "

"Oh, ho ! This is a serious case," muttered the author of the
book referred to. "So you really believe that your nephew
is insane?"

"Dangerously so, doctor. The fact that I was obliged to
bind his hands with this very rope is proof of that."

"But it was your hands that were bound. Don't you
recollect that I just \mtied them?"

"But let me explain — "

"Gtently, gently, my friend, you are becoming excited.
Your face is very red; I don't want you to fatigue yourself.

Which Was the Madmanf 379

Just be content to answer my questions. You say that yoxir
nephew is ill?"

"Mad, mad, mad, I tell you!"

"And it pleases you to see him mad?"

"What?"

"Answer me frankly. You don't wish him to be cured,
do you?"

"Why do you ask me that?"

"Because his forttme is under your control. Don't you
wish to be rich? Are you not disappointed and discouraged
because you have toiled so long without making a forttme?
Don't you very naturally think that your turn has come
now?"

M. Morlot made no reply. His eyes were riveted on the
floor. He asked himself if he was not dreaming, and tried
his best to decide how much of this whole affair was real, ajid
how much imaginary, so completely bewildered was he by
the questions of this stranger, who read his heart as if it had
been an open book.

"Do you ever hear voices?" inquired Dr. Auvray.

Poor^M. Morlot felt his hair stand on end, and remembering
that relentless voice that was ever whispering in his ear, he
replied mechanically, "Sometimes."

"Ah, he is the victim of an hallucination," murmured the
doctor.

"No, there is nothing whatever the matter with me, I tell
you. Let me get out of here. I shall be as crazy as my
nephew if I remain much longer. Ask my friends. They
will all tell you that I am perfectly sane. Peel my pulse.
You can see that I have no fever."

"Poortmcle!" murmured Francis. "He doesn't know that
insanity is delirium unattended with fever."

"Yes," added the doctor, "if we could only give our pa-
tients a fever, we could cure every one of them."

M. Morlot sank back despairingly in his arm-chair. His
nephew began to pace the floor.

"I am deeply grieved at my uncle's deplorable condition,"
he remarked feelingly, "but it is a great consolation to me to
be able to intrust him to the care of a man like yourself. I
have read your admirable treatise on monomania. It is the
most valuable work of the kind that has appeared since the
publication of the great Esquirol's Treatise upon Mental

380 Which Was the Madman?

Diseases. I know, moreover, that you are truly a father to
your patients, so I will not insult you by commending M.
Morlot to your special care. As for the compensation you
are to receive, I leave that entirely to you."

As he spoke, he drew from his pocketbook a thousand
franc note and laid it on the mantel. " I shall do myself the
honor to call again sometime during the ensuing week. At
what hour are your patients allowed to see visitors?"

"From twelve to two, only; but I am always at home.
Good-day, sir."

**Stop him! stop him!" shouted Uncle Morlot. "Don't let
him go. He is the one that is mad; I will tell you all about
it."

"Calm yourself, my dear uncle," said Francis, starting
towards the door. "I leave you in Dr. Auvray's care; he
will soon cxu-e you, I trust."

M. Morlot sprang up to intercept his nephew, but the doctor
detained him.

"What a strange fatality!" cried the poor tmcle. "He
has not uttered a single senseless remark. If he would only
rave as usual, you would soon see that I am not the one who
is mad, but "

Francis already had his hand on the door-knob, but turning
suddenly, he retraced his steps as if he had forgotten some-
thing and, walking straight up to the doctor, said :

"My tmcle's malady was not the only thing that brought
me here."

"Ah," murmured M. Morlot, seeing a ray of hope, at last.
. "You have a daughter," continued the young man.

"At last!" shouted the poor tmcle. "You are a witness
to the fact that he said: *You have a daughter.' "

"Yes," replied the doctor, addressing Francis. "Will you
kindly explain "

"You have a daughter, Mile. Claire Auvray."

"There, there! didn't I tell you so?" cried the uncle.

"Yes," again replied the doctor.

"She was at Ems three months ago with her mother."

"Bravo! Bravo!" yelled M. Morlot.

"Yes," responded the physician for the third time.

M. Morlot rushed up to the doctor, and cried: "You are not
the doctor, but a patient in the house."

Which Was the Madman? 381

** My friend, if you are not more qtiiet we shall have to give
you a douche."

M. Morlot recoiled in terror. His nephew continued
calmly:

*'I love your daughter, sir; I have some hope that I am
loved in return, and if her feelings have not changed since the
month of September, I have the honor to ask her hand in
marriage/*

*' Is it to Monsieur Francis Thomas that I have the honor of
speaking?'* inquired the doctor.

**The same, sir. I should have begun by telling you my
name.*'

"Then you must permit me to say, sir, that you have been
guilty of no unseemly haste "

But just then the good doctor's attention was diverted by
M. Morlot, who was rubbing his hands in a frenzied manner.

"What is the matter with you, my friend?** the doctor
asked in his kind, fatherly way.

" Nothing, nothing! I am only washing my hands. There
is something on them that troubles me.**

"Show me what it is. I don*t see anything.*'

"Can't you see it? There, there, between my fingers. I
see it plainly enough. "

"What do you see?"

"My nephew's money. Take it away, doctor. I*m an
honest man; I don*t want anything that belongs to anybody
else.*'

While the physician was listening attentively to M. Morlot's
first ravings, an extraordinary change took place in Francis.
He became as pale as death, and seemed to be suffering ter-r
ribly from cold, for his teeth chattered so violently that Dr.
Auvray turned and asked what was the matter with him.

"Nothing,** he replied. "She is coming, I hear her! It is
joy, but it overpowers me. It seems to be falling on me and
burying me beneath its weights like a snowdrift. Winter will
be a dreary time for lovers. Oh, doctor, see what is the matter
with my head!"

But his uncle rushed up to him, crying:

"Enough, enough! Don't rave so! I don't want people
to think you mad. They will say I stole your reason from
you. I'm an honest man. Doctor, look at my hands,
examine my pockets, send to my house on the Rue Charonne.

38a Which Was ihe Madmant

Search the cupboard. Open all the drawers. You will find
I have nothing that belongs to any other person."

Between his two patients the doctor was at his wits' end,
when a door opened, and Claire came in to tell her father that
breakfast was on the table.

Francis leaped up out of his chair, as if moved by a spring,
but though his will prompted him to rush toward Mile.
Auvray, his flesh proved weak, and he fell back in his chair
like lead. He cotdd scarcely murmur the words:

* * Claire, it is 1 1 I love you. Will you "

He passed his hand over his forehead. His pale face
became a vivid scarlet. His temples throbbed almost to
bursting; it seemed to him that an iron band was contracting
more and more around his head, just above his brows. Claire,
frightened nearly to death, seized both his hands; his skin was
so dry, and his ptdse so rapid that the poor girl was terrified.
It was not thus that she had hoped to see him again. In a few
minutes, a yellowish tinge appeared about his nostrils; nausea
ensued, and Dr. Auvray recognized all the symptoms of a
bilious fever.

* * How unfortunate ! *' he said to himself. '* If this fever had
only attacked his tmcle, it wotdd have exuded him! "

He rang. A servant appeared, and shortly afterward Mme.
Auvray, who scarcely knew Francis, so greatly had he
changed. It was necessary that the sick man should be got
to bed without delay, and Claire relinquished her own pretty
room to him. While they were installing him there, his uncle
wandered excitedly about the parlor, tormenting the doctor
with questions, embracing the sick man, seizing Mme. Auvray's
hand and exclaiming wildly: '*Save him, save him! He shall
not die! I will not have him die! I forbid it. I have a
right to. I am his uncle and guardian. If you do not care for
him, people will say I killed him. You are witnesses to the
fact that I ask for none of his property! I shall give all his
possessions to the poor! Some water — ^please give me some
water to wash my hands!" He was taken to the building
occupied by the patients, where he became so violent that it
was necessary to put him in a straight-jacket.

Mme. Auvray and her daughter nursed Francis with the
tenderest care. Confined in the sick-room day and night,
the mother and daughter spent most of their leisure time
discussing the situation. They oould not explain the

Which Was the Madman? 383

lover's long silence or his sudden reappearance. If he
loved Claire, why had he left her in suspense for three dreary
months? Why did he feel obliged to give his uncle's malady
an excuse for presenting himself at Dr. Auvray*s house? But
if he had recovered from his infatuation, why did he not take
his uncle to some other physician? There were plenty of
them in Paris. Possibly he had believed himself cured of his
folly until the sight of Claire undeceived him? But no, he
had asked her father for her hand in marriage before he saw
her again. But, in his delirium, Francis answered all or
nearly all of these questions. Claire, bending tenderly over
him, listened breathlessly to his every word, and afterward
repeated them to her mother and to the doctor, who was not
long in discovering the truth. They soon knew that he had
lost his reason and under what circumstances; they even
learned how he had been the innocent cause of his uncle's
insanity. Fears of an entirely different nature now began to
assail Mile. Auvray. Was the terrible crisis which she had
unwittingly brought about likely to cure his mental disorder?
The doctor assured his daughter that a fever, under such
circumstances, was almost certain to put an end to the
insanity, but there is no rule without its exception, especially
in medicine. And even if he seemed to be cured, was there
not danger of a recurrence of the malady?

"So far as I am concerned, I am not in the least afraid,"
said Claire, smiling sadly. *' I am the cause of all his troubles.
Therefore, it is my duty to console him. After all, his mad-
ness consists merely in continually asking my hand. There
will be no need of doing that after I become his wife, so we
really have nothing to fear. The poor fellow lost his reason
through his excessive love ; so cure him; my dear father, but
not entirely. Let him remain insane enough to love me as
much as I love him I"

'* We will see," replied Dr. Auvray. ** Wait until this fever
passes off. If he seems ashamed of having been demented,
if he appears gloomy, or melancholy after his recovery, I can-
not vouch for him; if, on the contrary, he remembers his
temporary aberration of mind without mortification or regret
— ^if he speaks of it without any reserve, and if he is not averse
to seeing the persons who nursed him through his illness,
there is not the slightest reason to apprehend a return of the
malady."

384 Which Was the Madmant

On the 2sth of December, Francis fortified by a cup of
chicken-broth, and half the yolk of a soft boiled egg, sat up in
bed, and without the slightest hesitancy or mortification, and
in a perfectly lucid manner, gave the history of the past three
months without any emotion save that of quiet joy. Claire
and Mme. Auvray wept as they listened to him; the doctor
pretended to be taking notes, or rather to be writing under
dictation, but something besides ink fell on the paper. When
the story ended, the convalescent added , by way of conclusion :

"And now on this, the 25 th day of December, I say to my
good doctor, and much loved father — Dr. Auvray, whose
street and number I shall never again forget — * Sir, you have a
daughter, Mile. Claire Auvray, whom I met at Ems, with her
mother. I love her; she has proved that she loves me in
return, and if you have no fears that I will become insane
again, I have the honor to ask her hand in marriage.* "

The doctor was so deeply affected that he could only bow
his head in token of assent, but Claire put her arms around the
sick man's neck and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. I
am sure I shotdd desire no better response under like cir-
cumstances.

That same day, M. MorlotJ who had become much more
quiet and tractable, and who had long since been released from
the bondage of a straight-jacket, rose about eight o'clock in
the morning, as usual. On getting out of bed, he picked up
his slippers, examined and re-examined them inside and out,
then handed them to a nurse for inspection, begging him to see
for himself that they contained no thirty thousand francs.
Until positively assured of this fact he would not consent to
put them on. Then he carefully shook each of his garments
out of the window, but not until after he had searched every
fold and pocket in them. After his toilet was completed, he
called for a pencil, and wrote on the walls of his chamber:

''Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's money, nor anything
that is his r

Dr. Auvray is confident of his ability to cure him, but it
will take time. It is in the summer and autumn that physi-
cians are most successful in their endeavors to cure insanity.

SHORT STORIES

A MAGAZINE OF SELECT FICTION

VOLUME LII

OCTOBER NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

1903

THIS MAGAZINE IS PLANNED TO COVER THE
STORY-TELLTNG FIELD OP THE WORLD, AND
ITS SELECTIONS WILL BE OP THE BEST PRO-
CURABLE IN ALL THE VARIOUS LANGUAGES

**W0re J calUd upon to destgnate that class of composition which should best fulfil
the demands of high genius — should offer it the most advantageous fields of exertion —
/ should unhesitatingly speak of the short prose tale. The novel is objectionable from its
length. As it cannot be read at one silting, it deprives itself of the immense force
derivable from totality." — Edgar Allan Pob.

NEW YORK

The Current Literature Publishing Co.

34 WEST 26TH STREET,

THE NEW y.'-HK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

TILDEN fO'" 1 ^- ' '.•

INDEX TO VOLUME LII

OCTOBER NOVEMBER DECEMBER

At the Sign of the Sound Pig 4 fwnymous 3 1 2

Bachelor of Gottiiigen, A Augustift^De La Croix 201

Broken Glass C. F. Marsh 36

By the Waters of Sparta E. F. Benson 211

Captain of the Penguin, The 7. C. Plummer 320

Car Conversations Barry Pain 96

Defaulter, A Oskar Reich 333

Enchanted Pitcher, The : Emily A. Townsend 337

Face in th? Crowd, The Helen Sherman Griffith 257

Fur Coat, The Ludwig Fulda 50

Involuntary Olive-Branch, An Anonymous 166

Ivory Flute, The Aldis Dunbar 146

John Croft's Fortune Edmund Mitchell 59

Lady of the Rocks, The Frances A . Schneider i

Lapse in Doctrine, A Florence E. Stryker 72

Latter Day Cophetua, A ^gttes Louise Provost 83

Lord Cumberwell's Lesson W. E. Cule 99

Moonlight Guy de Maupassant 78

My Friend Mussard Ludovic Hal^ 156

Nicette Anonymous 281

Part Owners W, B, Hayward^ [ 26

Quetdon of Obligations, A Clifford Mills 288

Reckoning, The Herbert Lawrence Stone 190

Reincarnation of Jehu, A M. Imlay Taylor a 18

Rosa James Lincoln 139

Seraphina Andrew . Arnold 231

Sergeant's Idea, The J. Stanley Ellis 327

Soul of Judas, The Helen Sterling Thomas 300

Thirteen-Red Ellen E. H. Wildman 268

What the Moon Gave T.S. B. 228

With the Red Heavies Charles Edwards 350

Copyrighted, 1903

CURRBNT LiTBRATURB PUBLISHING CO.

^.Li irf..f,i

HE Lady of the RocKs:

A Seaside Tale, by Francis A*
Schneider* lUqstrations by Mabel
L* Humphrey*

♦ Ht' * *

WAIST high in water, with a badly sprained ankle and a
disabled and useless wrist, filling him with excruci-
ating agony, Ferris Wilmot, artist, clung with one hand to a
seaweed-covered rock, while with the toe of his uninjured
♦Written for Short Stories.

2 The Lady of the Rocks ^

foot, he propped himself against a submerged botdder, to
keep from slipping still further into the sea. Urged on by
an artistic impulse and the hope of reaching a point from
which he could obtain a good view for a lowtide sketch, he
had essayed to leap from one slippery rock to another, with
the distressing results described.

To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, were
rocks, great and small, heaped up in irregular masses, from
the water's edge, where they lay, now that the tide was out,
damp and green with clinging seaweed, to the margin of the
sparsely grassed downs. Par away to the south lay white
sand dunes, to the west stretched the blue ocean, and above
all shone the June sun. The nearest living creature —
except a flock of sand-pipers — was represented by a moving
speck, away long the shore, and whether it was a man or
a woman, coming toward, or going from him, Wilmot
could not determine. He was powerless to help himself, and
the tide was rising. He could feel it creeping up his body
as he clung desperately to his slippery support. If he
relaxed the tension on his hand and foot and let himself go,
was the water deep enough at this^point, to drown him he
wondered.

"I suppose the only thing for me to do is to hang on here
till the tide comes in and carries me off," he groaned.
"Well, it's my own fault,*' with a sudden accession of self-
reproach, "what the devil did I want with trying to perform
feats that only a native accustomed to these beastly rocks
from infancy, could possibly accomplish."

The distant speck had increased in size. It was evidently
coming toward him. He could see now that it was a woman,
and by the ease with which she made her way along the
uneven shore, he concluded that she was a "native." She
was still too far oflE to hail, and Wilmot watched her with
anxious eyes, fearing that she might diverge from her
course and turn away across the downs. But she came on
quite steadily — a tall, slender woman, wearing a simple
sunmier dress, and wearing it with a grace that led him to
discard his first conclusion, for surely no "native" would be
likely to array herself in a shirt-waist that fitted like this
girl's, or a skirt that his qtdck eye instantly informed him,
hung in the mode. She had evidently not seen him, though

The Lady of the Rocks 3

now within hailing distance, and was mialdng up the shore
when the young man shouted desperately.

"Hullo! will you be so kind as to come here a moment?"

The girl paused, looked around and caught sight of him.

**I am hurt!" he shouted by way of explanation.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and hurried toward him.

As she drew near, Wilmot, in spite of his pain, noted
that she was beautiful, with rare coloring of hair and com-
plexion, and exquisitely moulded features; and, as he looked
at her, he suddenly became aware that he had seen her
before.

"What is the matter?" she asked, her hazel eyes full of
concern.

"I fell in, trying to jump out to that big rock, which is
now nearly covered with water. I have sprained my ankle
and disabled my wrist and am helpless to get out of this
awkward position without aid. So I took the liberty of
calling upon you. I hope you will pardon me," he con-
cluded with a smile that ended in a grimace of pain.

"It would have been unpardonable if you had not called
me," she replied. "We must manage, somehow, to get you
away from the water, and then I will go for assistance.
The tide will be up to your neck in ten minutes, if you stay
here."

"But you are not strong enoughfto help me."

She smiled. "The difficulty will be to get purchase on
these slippery rocks. Now, make ready to help yourself as
much as you can."

Just how it was managed, neither of them could ever tell,
but Wilmot, giving what assistance he could, found himself
being drawn higher up on the rocks, and presently sank
down with a groan of pain, but with his body quite clear of
the water. The girl looked down at him with an added
tinge of color in her clear cheeks and her eyes aglow, but
otherwise undisturbed by the exertion.

"You are in great pain," she said, sympathetically.

"Oh, I shall be all right in a minute. But I am awfully
afraid that you have overtaxed your strength."

"Overtaxed my strength!" she excalimed, "Oh, no; I
am like iron. You will have to make one more eflEort when
you feelequal to it, and let me help you a little higher up on
the rocks, where the tide cannot possibly reach you, while I

4 The Lady of the Rocks

go for assistance. The place where you are now will soon
be under water."

"It is perfectly awful," with a look of chagrin, "for me to
trouble you so, but there seems to be no other way."

"There is no other way," she responded, with a smile.

Creeping laboriously along the rocks, where that was pos-
sible, or rising to an erect position and leaning heavily on
the girl's shoulder for support, Wilmot progressed by slow
degrees into the shadow of a great rock. Here, she did
what she could to make him comfortable, bringing wet sea-
weed to lay under his injured ankle and binding some of the
same cool, wet stuff about his limp and burning wrist.

"Tell me where you are stopping," she asked at last,
when this was done. "I had better go directly there and get
a conveyance for you."

"I am boarding at Rockville, with Mrs. Smithers," he
answered, "but that is fully four miles away. I can't think
of letting you take such a journey."

"I may possibly meet some one on the road whom I can
get to take you to Rockville — ^in any case don't worry —
I shall be back very soon," she said, encouragingly.

He watched her hurry away over the rocks and disappear
from sight as she reached the downs. A filmy bit of cambric,
blown from the direction in which she passed, was wafted
fitfully toward him. His eyes followed it eagerly. Pre-
sently a more energetic breeze caught the cobwebby thing
and puffed it directly into his hand.

"This must be her handkerchief," he thought, and turned
it about to see if there was a name in the comer. ** * K. O.,'
and what may that stand for?" but at this point in his con-
jecturing, being seized by a violent spasm of pain, he thrust
the foolish thing into his .pocket and fell to commiserating
himself. Slowly the moments passed. The wash of the sea
grew continually louder as the tide came in. Wilmot
craned his neck painfully to see how high the water had
risen, and found that the rocks upon which he had fallen
were quite submerged. His sufferings had now reached a
climax and he leaned back wearily and closed his eyes.

Presently he heard voices behind him and in a moment
more the girl appeared, accompanied by a man whom he
recognized as the Swede who worked in his landlady's
garden..

The Lady of the Rocks 5

"I met this man coming from Rockville and got him to
bring his wagon across the downs for you," she explained.
"He will drive you home."

"I can never thank you for what you have done," Wilmot
said to her, after he had, with great difficulty, been assisted
into the wagon.

"Never mind the thanks," she replied. "I hope that
your injuries are not really serious and that you will soon
recover. Good-bye. ' '

"But surely, you are not going in this way," he remon-
strated. "You will, at least, get into the trap and be driven
home."

"Oh, no; my home is quite out of your route, and it
woidd only prolong your agony, if you were to take me
there first. Get home as quickly as you can and have
yourself attended to," she responded, beginning to walk
away.

"It is too bad!" he cried, "I have given you so much
trouble. And am I to know you only as — ^as a good Samari-
tan!"

"That will do very well," she replied, looking back over
her shoulder and smiling. "Good-bye!" and she was gone.

"Do you know who that young lady is?" Wilmot asked
the Swede.

But the man explained that he had lived in the neighbor-
hood only a few weeks and knew no one. Mrs. Smithers, as
Wilmot knew, had but recently come to the place, and it
was useless to depend upon her for information regarding
the inhabitants of the region , or their summer guests. Mingled
with the agony of the long drive home, was the tormenting
thought ^that the girl's name and abode were likely to
remain a^ mystery and that when he was well enough to go
forth anil seek her, as seek he would, he had not the
slightest clue to her whereabouts.

"Unless this proves to be one," he groaned, touching the
handkerchief that lay in his breast pocket. There was
some comfort to be derived from its possession, and he drew
it forth and weakly lifted it to his lips.

Four weeks — ^four weary, tiresome weeks, in which the sun
shone and the sea sparkled and the country looked its best —
was Wilmot laid up. He had come to this remote New

6 The Lady of the Rocks

England coast, away from all possible distractions, on purpose
to work; and now, in the early part of his stay, just when
he had begun to feel in touch with his surroundings, this
disaster had come upon him. His spirit chafed and btuned
as he felt that the summer was slipping by and that a great
part of what he had planned to do was becoming daily more
impossible of accomplishment. Besides this, there was a
strong imderlying desire to meet again the owner of the
cambric handkerchief, whose lovely face, with a persistency
that was almost painful, kept rising before his mental vision
and claiming for itself not only present consideration, but a
sort of retrospective recognition that he racked his brains to
account for. The thought that she might leave the neighbor-
hood before he had an opportunity to see her again, wasj[a
tragic consideration that he could not bear to dwell upon.

" But whether I htmt her up here, or have to go to Kamt-
chatka to look for her, I will find The Lady of The jRocks,
sometime," he soliloquized, with stem resolve. And one day,
after he had begim to go about as usual, he did find her on
the shore, not far from the scene of his accident. She wore
a white dress and sat in the shadow of a botdder, reading.
Wilmot hurried with a recklessness quite inconsistent with
his recent experiences, across the intervening space, and stood
before her, his face glowing with the triumph of successful
quest. She looked up brightly and said :

**Vm glad to see that you are able to be about again."

'* Thank you. I'm all right now and am so glad to have
found you. I know I didn't make my gratitude clear, the
day you pulled me out of the water, and I've been longing to
see you and tell you how much I appreciate your kind oflSces
on that occasion."

Wilmot was extremely good to look upon, as he stood, tall
and straight and stalwart, gazing down upon her with earnest
eyes. Perhaps this truth was suddenly borne in upon The
Lady of The Rocks, for there was tmconscious approval in the
glance that lingered upon him for a moment, as she said with
a blush :

"Oh, indeed, you were quite grateftd enough. Don't
exaggerate my little services. Any other Samaritan would
have been as good."

**I beg to differ with you there. Besides, there were no
other Samaritans on the route and probably would not have

The Lady of ihe Rocks

been till long after I had been washed out to sea and eaten
by the sharks."

The girl laughed — a very pretty laugh, low and soft — ^but
made no comment. ** Wotdd you mind," he ventured, **if I
sat down here in the shade and rested a moment. My ankle
is not quite strong yet."

"Certainly not," and
she made room beside
her in the shadow.

"It is a singular
thing," he said, as he
dropped into the place,
"that I shotdd be haun-
ted by the belief that I
have seen you before
imder very different
circumstances. ' '

She turned her eyes
upon him with a won-
derinlg, retrospective
gaze.

"I am sure never
saw you tmtil the day of
your accident."

"Perhaps it is only
a chance resemblance,"
with a perplexed frown.
"But I was so sure"
— studying her face
intently.

The girl shook her
head slightly and looked
away toward the distant
sand dimes.

"Do you remember
havinglost anything the day you — ^rescued me ? ' 'asked Wilmot .

"Yes; I lost a handkerchief."

" Then I think I found it. But you must identify it, before
I can possibly give it up."

"That is easy. The initials * K. O.* are embroidered in one
comer."

"Are they your initials ? "

8 The Lady of the Rocks

"Of course/' she laughed and held out her hand for the
handkerchief.

**I suppose it would be great presumption if I were to ask
what *K. O.' stand for," he ventured.

** I think it would," she said, glancing at him and then away
at the sand dunes again.

" Will you sit in that position for a moment ! Your face is
coming back to me — I know now where I have seen you!"
he exclaimed, with sudden tritunph.

"Where?"

"At the comer of Thirty-third street and Madison avenue,
New York. Through the window of the Batons* carriage.
Miss Alice Eaton sat beside you."

"She flashed about, half startled, her face full of animation.

"And you know Miss Eaton?" she queried.

"Very well."

"She is a dear friend of mine. We went to college together.
How strange that you should have seen me with her, and that
you should have remembered my face all this time. It is a
year and a half since I visited the Batons. I stayed with
them a week, just before they sailed for Europe."

"Some faces are easily remembered," he said. "Did Miss
Eaton ever happen to mention a hard-working artist named
Ferris Wilmot?"

"Yes, several times. But you — are you Mr. Wilmot?"

"I have the present good fortune to be that individual,"

She looked at him radiantly.

**I am so glad. I saw some of your pictures, Mr. Wilmot,
when I was in New York."

"And how did you like them?" he asked, thinking how
greatly animation added to the wonderful charm of her face.

"Very much. Everybody does."

"Does everybody?" he laughed.

"Of course, everybody with taste does. I should hardly
have expected to find you in this lonely out-of-the-way
place," she went on. "I had an idea from what Miss Eaton
said, that you were rather fond of life and gayety."

"I am; but I like lonely, out-of-the-way places, too. They
are conducive to work, and work is my occupation nine-
tenths of time. But you — don't you find it lonely here?"

"No; I am not lonely. There is plenty for me to do.

The Lady of the Rocks 9

Besides, the amusements, such as rowing, walking and sailing,
are just what I like. I am always happy out of doors."

**Do you remain here all summer?"

"All summer," she replied with a half smile.

**Now, that my identity has been properly established,
and we find that we are both friends of Miss Eaton's, do you
think that there wotdd be any impropriety in my asking
what 'K. O.* stand for?"

**I think not," she replied, smiling. "They stand for
Kathleen O'Neil." She rose, "I am going home now, and
shall have to hurry in order to be in time for tea."

"May I walk home with you, Miss O'Neil?"

"I couldn't think of letting you. It is a long way and you
would only overtax your ankle. Good-bye, Mr. Wilmot,"
and she held out her hand to him.

He felt himself dismissed, but persisted eagerly.

"You will let me have the pleasure of calling upon you when
— my ankle is strong enough to admit of my walking so far."

She seemed irresolute, and a thoughtful frown gathered
between her lovely eyes. But in an instant it cleared away
and she looked up frankly into his face.

"I am afraid I can't ask you to call, Mr. Wilmot, though I
shotdd like to, very much. But it has been a great pleasure
to meet you, both on your own and on Miss Eaton's account."

Wilmot felt rebuffed, and yet was sure that no rebuff had
been intended; and he said, with a sudden sinking of the
heart.

"Then I am not likely to meet you again," and waited,
watching her face earnestly.

"Perhaps we may meet again. I am often on the shore and
you come here sometimes. Good-bye," and she hastened
away.

He watched her out of sight, feeling half disappointed,
half pleased. She had refused to let him call for reasons
which he was sure were good and sufficient, yet she held out
the hope that he might see her again — ^indeed, what she said,
might have been construed into an invitation. It was uncon-
ventional, andnot exactly what might have been expected from
a friend of Alice Eaton's — ^who was rather a straightlaced,
matter-of-fact little body — ^but it was ali right, he concluded,
as coming from The Lady of The Rocks, And at this point in
his meditations he turned homeward.

lo The Lady of the Rocks

Tom Brady's fish house was one of a dozen perched on the
steep bank of an inlet, formed partly by a massive break-
water which interposed a semi-circular barrier to the en-
croachments of the ocean, and partly by a natural depression
in the shore. The breakwater had been built for the purpose
of providing a safe and commodious moorage, where schooners
could be loaded with the granite brought down from the
inland quarries of the region ; and not, as some of the fisher-
men had grown to believe, for the better defense of the fish-
houses against the onslaughts of the sea. As a matter of fact,
they stood on their present site years before the heavy struc-
ture was thought of; but its presence was a great protection
and there was no more desirable haven for fishing boats for
miles along the coast, than Jones' Cove.

On the little platform in front of his door sat Tom Brady.
Tall, thin and muscular was he, with a brown, unshaven
face and kindly eyes, set in a multitude of wrinkles, a little
faded as to color, as if the sun had bleached them, but as
attentive and far-seeing as they had ever been. His clothes,
about which hung the odor of fish and in places an encrust-
ment of fish scales, were Worn and weather beaten. His
battered old hat lay on the platform beside him and a cool
breeze blowing in from the ocean, stirred the iron-gray
locks on the old man's forehead. He was mending nets and
his brown, knotted hands drove the shuttle in and out among
the coarse meshes with swiftness and precision. Below him
and beyond the shadow in which he sat, lay the shining
water of the cove, and beyond that again, across the gray
sea wall, stretched the blue ocean, calm and placid.

**You are very busy this morning, Tom," said Wilmot,
coming up on the platform behind the old fisherman.

**Wall, yes, I be, some'at. I ain't seen ye for mor'na
month an' ye uster come often — ^war uv ye b'en?"

"I fell on the rocks and hurt myself the other day, and
have been laid up."

"Whewl that was bad! Ye ain't b'en a-paintin' sence,
I s'pose?"

"Very little," gloomily. ''I've lost a lot of time."

"Wall, I s'pose ye wanter go on paintin' my pictur', don't
ye?" with a tolerant chuckle as though he were speaking to
a child about one of its playthings.

"Yes," was the reply, "I should like to. The light is

N

The Lady of the Rocks ii

just right this morning. I've brought the canvas and with
your permission will go to work — oh, you can't tell anything
about it yet — ^it's scarcely begun," as Tom peered curiously
over his shoulder at the sketch.

'*0h, ain't it? Dtmno much 'bout picturs, it moight be
a cow, or a man in a bo-at — or a fish, for all I knows," with
an indescribable inward chuckle, suggestive of great merri-
ment and good humor.

"It will come out all right, never fear," said Wilmot,
settling himself on an empty, upturned keg.

" Wisht I hed on my good clothes," put in Tom, regretfully.

"Your clothes are all right. You look well against the
dark doorway with your nets and barrels and boat hooks
and things showing dimly inside. I'm going over to Cod
Rocks next week, Tom, and I want you to take me in your
boat," concluded Wilmot, by way of diversion.

"What be ye goin' thar fur?" regarding the young man
curiously.

"Why, isn't there lots to see over there?" dabbing on
color.

" Nothin' but them blasted rocks," explained Tom, spitting
carefully over the side of the platform into the water.

"But they say the surf is splendid over there," pursued
Wilmot.

"Wall," meditatively, "Cod Rocks is a good 'nough place,
but 'tain't no better'n this fur surf. Why, here on a stormy
day ye kin see the waves bustin' out thar on the stones an'
throwin' up spray fifty feet'n more. No, no — ^ye don't need
to go to Cod Rocks to see surf. Jist wait till the September
gales comes, ye'U hev all ye want'n more Talkin' o' rocks,"
he continued, "w'en my little gal uster come home from
school, w'en she war smaller, she'd tell yam on yam 'bout
'em — how the angle uv incidence, as she calls it, come down
from the North Pole an' druv them rocks up in a heap-like,
on the shore. But I dunno wot the angle uv incidence is,
no more'n the babe unborn — couldn't git it through my
head, though the gal tried to make it clar. Mebe you know,"
with a wistful look in his bright eyes.

Wilmot tried to explain and the old man listened eagerly
and with a gentle shaking of his head.

"Guess I be too old to I'am. My gal, she's I'am't it all,"
proudly. "She knows 'nough for me an' her an' her mother

12 The Lady of the Rocks

Moight's well stick ter my fish," with chuckle. "But she
knows it all, my little gal does."

There was an indescribable tenderness and thoughtfulness
in his face as he spoke, that touched Wilmot's heart.

"Your little girl is very clever, isn't she?" he said, with
much deference and gentleness.

"Bless yel" his face brightening. "She's the cleverest I
ever seen — an* jist as fond an' dootiful to me an' her mother,
as ef we was clever, too."

"But that is not strange," responded Wilmot. "How
could she help being fond of you when you have done so
much for her?"

"I dimno, I dunno," he answered. "She's diflE'rent from
us an' she moightn't be. She's the best gal Uvin'! "

"I'm sure she's a fine giri," responded Wilmot, warmly.

"Ye.wanter go out'n help haul mackerel, some momin'?
They look moighty pretty in the nets, all a-shinin'. Ye'd
like to make a pictur' uv 'em, p'raps."

Wilmot had frequently sailed with Tom in his double dory
— ^which bore the somewhat inappropriate title of "Winged
Clipper" — before his accident. But never had he gone in
the early dawn to see the mackerel hauled; and he accepted
the invitation with enthusiasm.

In the course of the weeks that followed, Miss O'Neil and
Wilmot met several times, always on some part of the rocky
shore, where the girl seemed to spend much of her time,
reading and writing and sometimes making an attempt to
sketch. Always bright and responsive when their talk
hinged on general topics, she avoided markedly, all reference
to her personal affairs. Her reserve piqued Wilmot, though
he admitted his unreasonableness in feeling annoyed. "She
need not make it so very clear that she regards me merely as
a chance acquaintance," he thought.

"Do you know," he said to her one day, "I have grown to
associate you inseparably with this bit of coast. Shall I tell
you what I called you to myself, before I knew your name?"

"What?" she asked, with an amused look in her eyes.

"The Lady of the Rocks."

She laughed. " It was an odd name to give me."

"Not so odd. You seem to harmonize with the scene,
somehow. I don't know a lovelier bit of coast than this."

^

The Lady of the Rocks 13

"It can be a very cold and cruel bit of coast," looking out
at the placid sea. "Many lives have been lost on the hidden
rocks and reefs that lie out there. You should see it in
winter."

"Have you seen it in winter?" he asked, wonderingly.

"Many times," she replied and was silent.

One afternoon, in the middle of September, Wilmot, who
had been sketching, some miles inland, setting out on his
return walk through the woods, turned into an old, disused
wagon road and lost his way. For half an hour he rambled
on, hoping to find the highroad. Coming to a little elevation
at last, he saw the ocean lying directly before him, and be-
tween him and it, standing in an enclosure that skirted the
highroad, was a small brown-painted cottage with a gabled
front. At the back of the house, an apple orchard grew on
the hillside that sloped away to the sea; and the front garden
was gay with Fall flowers. As Wilmot approached, he saw
that there was a pump in one comer of the picket fence, with
a drinking cup turned upside down upon the top, and being
thirsty, he turned in at the little gate to get some water.

Down in the orchard, a woman was picking up apples, and
the sotmd of the pump handle, as Wilmot plied it, must have
caught her ear, for she glanced round suddenly, and, gathering
up her apron, which was full of early greenings, came over to
him. She was a tall, stout woman, with curly hair and a rosy,
good-nattued face, and she regarded him with a broad smile
as she came.

" I hope you'll excuse my trespassing," said the young man.
"I was awfully thirsty and your well looked tempting."

"Sure you're welcome. There's many a wan comes here
for wather. Mabe ye'd like some apples, too. 'Tis shwatc
they are," and she put three or four into Wilmot 's outstretched
hands.

"Thank you," he said. "You have a cozy place here."

" 'Tis cozy, but it's very owld. If me husband was here,
he could tell you manny tales about it. Sure, by the luk of
the things ye do be carryin', I'm afther thinking ye're the
artis' gintleman Tom was telling me about."

"Tom! Do you mean Tom Brady? "

"I do that."
'And is this Tom Brady's place and you are his wife?"

14 The Lady of the Rocks

'*Yis, faikes. And he's shpoke av ye often,"

**Tom and I are good friends, Mrs. Brady. I made his
acquaintance the very first day I came to this region, last
June. Many a sail and many a talk we've had together. I
am painting a picture of him and his fish-house, you know?"

"I do," said Mrs. Brady, **and 'tis blame to him that he do
be afther wearin' his owld clothes to have it tuk in. And
will ye step in and rest a bit — sure ye must be tired luggin*
all thim paintin' things."

**Some other day, if you will allow me, I shall be glad to
come," he responded, with a cordiality that won Mrs. Brady's
heart, **but to-day, I must hurry back to Rockville."

"Rockville is it! Sure it's the good six mile from here. I
haven't been there this manny a year. But come in next
time ye're passin* an' have a sup o' tea an* a bite. It's glad I'll
be to see ye," she said heartily.

Wilmot bade her good-bye and she stood and watched 'im
down the road, her bare arms resting on the wooden rail of
the picket fence.

The last of September had come, warm and rich in color,
with a sharpness in the air at night and morning that made
the sunshine doubly welcome. Letters had reached Wilmot
that made his early return to New York imperative, and yet
he lingered on, dreading to make the final wrench which
meant, not only separation from the beauty of the sea and
sky and woods and the free outdoor life he loved, but far more
— ^the relinquishment of those chance meetings with The Lady
of The Rocks, that had now become of vital moment to him.

The sketch of Tom Brady was finished, though not to the
satisfaction of the old man, whose opinion that he looked like
a "tramp," and that the fish-house **oughter ben red up a-fore
the pictur* was took," was expressed in straightforward
terms that could not be misunderstood. Wilmot fastened it
up with his sketching paraphernalia, one day and escaping
from the fire of Tom's criticism, walked along the downs that
skirted the shore, for about a mile, when the figure, for which
he was ever on the lookout, caught his eye. She had been
reading, but the book now lay in her lap beneath her folded
hands, and her eyes were turned seaward. He could see the
clear curve of her cheek and the fringe of black lashes above
it as he drew nearer.

V

The Lady of the Rocks i$

"So you are here!" he exclaimed. "I have not seen you
for so long that I began to think that you had gone away."

She looked around with a start and a tinge of added color.

"I've been too busy to indulge in my usual rambles and my
loafings on the shore — soon the weather will be too cold for
loafing anywhere," she added with a sigh.

"But you will be away by that time, won't you?"

"It is not my present intention to go. You know that my
home is here, don't you?"

"You never said so," he exclaimed reproachfully. "I
certainly had an idea that you were here only for the stmmier."

"Your imagination wove the fabric of that fallacy; I did
not tell you so," she laughed.

"No; and there was no reason why you should have told
me, only I am interested in what concerns you and — "

"Have you a sketch there?" she asked. "Won't you show
it to me?"

"It's a sketch of Tom Brady and his fish-house."

"A sketch of — ^Tom Brady. Please let me see it."

Wilmot tmtied the canvas and set it out on the rocks
before her. She sat looking at it a moment, a musing ^mile
on her lips.

"'It is very good, '•'she said at last, "and very like him."

"Then you know Tom?"

"He is — " pausing and looking up quickly into Wilmot's
face — "I could hardly have lived here as much as I have
without knowing him," she concluded with an odd little
smile.

"Tom and I are excellent friends, and as a particular proof
of his friendliness he has taken me out several times to help
haul his mackerel nets. To-morrow morning I go with him
again."

"That is indeed a mark of esteem," responded the girl.
"Did he ever speak to you about his 'little girl'?"

"His 'little gal'l he has told me voliunes about her."

"He is very fond of her," she remarked, stooping to place
the picture in a better light.

"What is she really like?" asked Wihnot.

"Oh, she is well enough in her way, I suppose. Her life at
college brought her into contact with ctiltivated people. She
is adaptable and profited by her observations of the manners
and customs of polite society."

i6 The Lady of the Rocks

**It must have been rather a strain on Tom's bank account
to send her to college, I should think."

''It was. But he and Mrs Brady made all kinds of.
sacrifices — spent the savings of years on the girl's education.
It was the object of their lives — ^as it is with most New
England parents — ^to give their child every advantage in this
way."

"But the mother cannot, strictly speaking, be called a
New Englander," said Wilmot, thinking of Mrs. Brady's
brogue.

.**No; but she has lived here long enough to have imbibed
New England ideas."

**And what does the girl do, now that she is educated?"

**She Uves at home with her father and mother — ^they
cannot bear her to leave them — ^and writes. Nothing great
— she will never make a name for herself — but she earns a
fair income."

''That's interesting."

"And yet; she is in an anomalous position. She has Uttle
opportunity to mingle with the class to which by education
and intellect, she belongs; and she has quite grown beyond
her associates in her own station. So you see that her social
intercourse is somewhat limited."

"It's a diffictdt position," Wilmot remarked; and then,
as if he had supplied the solution of the problem of Miss
Brady's Ufe, he concluded, "Why on earth doesn't she marry
and get away from it all."

"You are a logician!" she exclaimed, laughing. "And
will you tell me who among the quarrymen and the fishermen
and the little farmers of the region, would be best suited for
the matrimonial alUance you suggest? ' Marry and get away
from it all, indeed! ' "

" I don't want her to marry any of the people you mention,"
repudiated Wilmot, smiling at the girl's warmth, "I was
merely suggesting a solution of her difficulties. Isn't it
possible that she may sometime meet the fortunate individual,
who, combining the proper amount of intelligence and
breeding, with the proper amount of leaminig, may commend
himself to her good graces?"

"Perhaps," she replied gravely, ignoring his bantering
tone, "but it would be cruelly hard for her parents to feel
that she had gone quite out of their sphere. Besides, such

The Lady of the Rocks 17

a man would hesitate about marrying a girl of her birth and
antecedents."

"Not if he loved her—"

** Nonsense! " she interrupted, incredulously, '* Make it your
own case." , '^

"My own case — I — ^well, I wotddn't like to answer^off
hand. But I should prefer not to have Tom Brady for a
father-in-law, much as I like and respect him. It would be
incongruous. But luckily," he concluded gaily,** I won't be
called upon to make a decision. And now, don't let us talk
any more about Miss Brady, I want to talk about you."

** About me! What is there to say about me?" she asked.

•* Everything that's pleasant."

**0h, you are flattering me," glancing qtiickly into his
smiling face, "though there is nothing specific in your
remark."

** Shall I make it specific?" moving a little nearer.

"Better not. It would make the flattery more palpable.'

**But I am really serious and am truthfully stating my
impression of you."

**You know so little about me that you are qualified to
form an impression," she laughed.

"But I know quite a lot about you and haye guessed
more."

"What have you guessed?" with a flash of surprise.

** Nothing extraordinary," he .replied, catching her look
and wondering, momentarily. **But I won't tell you; you
were cynical about my first proposition. May I change the
subject to a less agreeable one and say something about
myself?"

** Certainly — ^and indeed, it will be more interesting."

"You are very polite and unselfish to say so."

His eyes were smiling still, as he spoke, and there was
such an air of comradery about him, that a sudden change to
gravity and earnestness of face and manner, seemed to
disconcert her, for she started visibly.

**I am going away in a few days," he began.

"I thought you meant to stay through October?" she
said.

Was it the breeze, or the qtdckened beating of her heart,
hat fluttered the light folds of her shawl she had draw

about her shoulders?

i8 The Lady of the Rocks

"But I can't go," he pursued, "without telling you what
befell me the first day I met you. Can you guess?"

"You — you sprained your ankle and broke your wrist."

"Oh, those were minor incidents, compared with the other
thing that happened. This time, I won't leave you to guess,
I lost my heart."

"You" — she began and started to her feet.

" Kathleen, I love you — ^will you be my wife? " he broke in,
hurriedly.

"Please don't say any more!" she pleaded, with a little
catch in her voice.

"Yes, I will," he insisted, "I will say it all. I have meant
to from the beginning," snatching her hand. "I have loved
you from the first moment I saw you that day you pulled me
out of the water — I have thought of you every moment
since "

"But I can't listen to you, indeed I can't! " she interrupted,
in distress, trying to withdraw her hand.

"Why can't you?"

"Please let go my hand."

"Not tintil you tell me why you can't listen to me," he
said, looking down at her with his heart in his eyes.

"There are reasons why it will be best for both of us, for
you to forget all about me — ^reasons why it will be impossible
for me to be your wife."

"And what may the reasons be, Kathleen? There could
be only two that I should regard as sufficient. One that you
love some one else — ^the other that you do not like me well
enough even to consider the matter — and somehow," stooping
to look into the girl's drooping face, "somehow, I am pre-
siunptuous enough to think that you do — and thinking so, I
am not going to be put oflE with — 'reasons'."

She shnmk away, putting out her hand as if striving to
interpose a barrier between them and saying:

"I am sorry — oh, very sorry to pain you — but you must
not speak to me any more on the subject."

" But I will speak more on the subject," persisted he; " and
speak and speak until you are obliged to hear me. I tell you
I love you, Kathleen, and I beUeve in my soul that you are
not indifferent to me. Do you think that I will let any
girlish fancy of yours come between us — or turn me from my
purpose," he cried, passionately.

Th€ Lady of the Rocks 19

"I am not a woman to be swayed by girlish fancies and I
tell you that what you ask can never be. You will know what
makes it impossible — Plater on — and — ^understand me — ^better.
I beg of you leave me now. Go back to New York: — see Alice
Eaton, she has returned — ^talk to her of me — she knows me
well and is fond of me. She has visited me here. ' '

"It will not be necessary for me to consult Miss Eaton on
the subject. Ah, Kathleen — ^be reasonable — ^be human!"

"I am reasonable and I am trying to be htunane, if not
human," she said, with a little laugh that sotmded almost like
a sob. ** No," as he would have taken her hand again. '* Do
as I ask, I beseech you. Go away — ^back to New York and
forget all about *The Lady of The Rocks.' Now go!" with
a passionate little gesture of dismissal.

He looked steadily for a moment into her beautiful eyes
and read in them such an earnest appeal for obedience, that,
after a moment, he said gently:

** I'll go now; but if you think I am one whit shaken in my
purpose, you are mistaken. You shall have time to consider
— ^two weeks, if you insist — and God knows how generous I
am, when I offer to wait so long — but I will have an answer
then — and if it is not the one I want, I will ask and ask again
until it is. Good-bye, for a while, Kathleen."

And he went away and left her standing with her face
turned seaward.

Noiselessly as a ghost, Tom Brady's boat glided out of the
breakwater, into the dim, white-capped sea and bent low
under the stress of the freshening wind, as her skipper headed
her northward. A tinge of rose flushed the eastern horizon,
but the sky overhead, with its broken masses of fl3ang clouds,
looked dark and threatening.

**I reckon ye won't see no stmrise this momin*," said Tom
to Wilmot, who sat amidships.

** Doesn't look like it now. How about that rudder, Tom —
do you think it will stand the strain of such a sea? "

'* Oh, it's all right. That thar splice hes b'en onto the rudder
sence the y'ar one. It never give away jdt," responded the
old man, with one of his odd inward chuckles. ''It's safe
enough. Mind now — she's goin' ter luff.''

Wilmot changed his seat and the boom swung over, the

so The Lady of the Rocks

boat careened on the crest of a wave and forged ahead more
briskly than ever.

"Thar'U be a nor'easter on afore noon," looking about him
and seeming to sniff it in the air. "We won't hev no more'n
time to make the mackerel nets an' back afore thar's a big
blow."

The little vessel sped away through the ever freshening wind
and the day settled down dark and sunless. .....

It was eleven o'clock and some one was knocking at the
door of the brown cottage — knocking hard and fast. Mrs.
Brady heard it, even above the uproar that the wind was
making outside and responded immediately.

"Somethin's happened to yer man's bo-at," said a breath-
less voice, "an' she's driftin' on the rocks oflE Pelter's P'int."

"Glory be to God I what's this yer telUn' me, Ezra — me
man's boat I"

"They sent me to tell ye," said the boy. "Mike O'Connell
an' Sam Brown an' John Harvey's put off in a bo-at from the
cove — ^but it's small chance they'll git thar in time."

Without hat or shawl Mrs. Brady hastened out, the wild
wind catching the strands of her curling gray hair and blowing
them about her frightened face. Breathlessly she followed
the panting Ezra, learning as they went the few scant details
known at the cove of the " Clipper's" untoward plight. No one
had seen her approach, all the fishermen being busy with
their boats inside the breakwater. But it had suddenly
occurred to one of them that Tom Brady's boat was not in the
cove, that he had gone out before dawn to haul his mackerel
nets, and that in such a sea as was raging it would be an
almost impossible matter for the "Clipper" to effect a safe
landing anywhere along that rocky coast. Going to a point
from whence he coidd look out across the walls of the break-
water, this man had seen her, helpless, disabled, drifting
swiftly with the wind and the tide upon the jagged belt of
rocks that lay out to sea about two hundred yards off Pelton's
Point.

"Twas the broke rudder done it," wailed Mrs. Brady. "An'
manny's the time I've axed Tom to buoy a new wan — an'
him that stubborn an' said there was loock in the shplice —
an' the garrul away in Bostin this minute. Phat'n I do? "

They had now reached a portion of the shore from which

Th€ Lady of the Rocks ai

the ** Clipper*' was visible. She was drifting helplessly, beaten
this way and that by the fury of the wind and waves and
carried stirely and swiftly upon the reef, which at low tide was
qtiite bare, but the position of which was now made evident
by the great waves that rushed in and broke upon it.

"My God!*' cried the woman, and sped on to gain a better
point of vantage. On the shore directly opposite the reef,
half a dozen men were gathered, and as the terror-stricken
woman approached, some of them stretched out kindly hands
to help her upon the great, flat rock where they stood, and
one of them said:

"Don't take on. Mis. Brady. Thar's some goin' out in a
bo-at to try an' help yer man, an' ma'be they kin save him
yit. They'll be out o' the breakwater in a minute. But it's a
hard sea!"

"O wirra, wirra, me pore Tom and the artis' gintleman,
and it's a corpse they'll be sendin' back to New York, I'm
thinkin'!"

The men in the doomed boat were waving to the group on
the shore, and Mrs. Brady, with streaming eyes, plucked oflE
her apron and waved it in return. By this time the rescuing
party had cleared the breakwater, and their dory was flounder-
ing in the mighty seas, two htmdred yards from the drifting
vessel. Wilmot and the old fisherman were divesting them-
selves of their coats and shoes and the watchers divined that
it was their intention to take what was now the only possible
chance for their lives, and that they waited only for the dory
to draw a little nearer before leaping overboard and striving to
breast the fearful force of the sea. Meanwhile the "Clipper"
was driven steadily onward to her doom.

"They're leavin' it too long — too long," muttered one of the
fishermen, shaking his head.

At that moment the two men stood up, side by side, on the
"Clipper's" gunwale and side by side, without an instant's
hesitation, sprang into the sea. Mrs. Brady hid her face and
the men about her grew a shade paler as the two figures dis-
appeared from sight. Presently they rose again, close to-
gether, struggling manfully to make some headway in the
direction of the dory. How slowly it crept toward them;
how the men labored at their oars; how quickly Tom Brady
seemed to tire. That his strength was giving out was evident.

99 The Lady of the Rocks

even before Wilmot who, with vigorous strokes, was holding
his own against wind and tide, went to his assistance.

"They be as good as drownded a'ready !" exclaimed the man
who had spoken before, "The artis' can't keep hisself an'
Tom afloat in that sea."

Supporting Tom, who was now miable to help himself,
Wilmot could make little or no headway. It was a deadly
struggle barely to keep the heads of both above water, and he
was fast becoming exhausted. The dory was now within
fifty feet of them, and one of her crew essayed to fling a line to
the drowning men. Twice, thrice, he strove, but each time
the wind caught it and as with sentient malice, blew it far out
of its proper cotirse. The fourth time, catching an opportune
moment when there was a lull in the storm, he flung it, and
Wilmot, groping blindly, caught it in a vice-like*grasp'and he
and Tom were drawn toward the boat.

" Yer man'U be saved to mend his rudder yit. Mis. Brady,"
said one of the fishermen, and she, trembling, weeping,
ejaculating, uncovered her face and saw the crew of the dory
lift the half-drowned men tenderly into the boat.

At that instant, with a crash of breaking timbers, the
"Winged Clipper" struck the reef.

Reclining upon a heap of nets and tarpaulins in his fish-
house, Tom Brady was "coming to," nicely, while Wilmot
recounted to a group of interested listeners how it was that
they had come so near death on the reef off Pelton's Point.
The primary cause of the disaster was, as Mrs. Brady had
divined, the break in the rudder post, which had been deftly
spliced by Tom and had weathered so many storms that it
had come to be regarded by him as a perfectly seaworthy
adjunct of his beloved ("Clipper." It [was]|when they
had covered more'than half the return trip that they
found themselves suddenly at the mercy of the wind and sea,
with the rudder drifting away on the crest of a huge wave.
For some time they managed to keep the "Clipper" head on
by means of the long oars, but these had snapped off, one after
the other, leaving them perfectly helpless, with the wind
and the tide bearing them steadily and swiftly toward the reef.

Later on, Tom, having completely recovered, went home
with Mrs. Brady; and Wilmot, escaping from the rather over-
powering expressions of her gratitude,, walked off toward

The Lady of the Rocks 2$

Rockville, promising to call and see the old couple next day,
A promise which he kept with the following results:

It was late in the afternoon when Wilmot set out to walk
to the brown cottage and the short autumn day had almost
closed in before he reached his destination. Mrs. Brady was
alone in the house. She greeted him with effusion, saying that
Tom and her daughter had gone to the cove, but would be
back presently.

"The gamil only come home this momin' and 'twas then
she heard how yoursel' an' Tom come near bein' drownded.
And she was that worrited about it, she wouldn't lave Tom
out av her sight all afternoon."

**Was she in Boston when it happened?" asked Wilmot,
seating himself in a position whence he could look out through
the open kitchen door and see the apple orchard, with glimpses
of ultramarine sea and crimson sky between the trees.

**She was that. She wint to see about some piece av hers
that's to be pooblished in a book."

*' Ah! " was all Wilmot said, but he thought of what Kath-
leen had told him about the girl and wondered what the
piece was about that was to be "pooblished in a book."
Mrs. Brady broke in upon his reverie.

**Sure she's as grateful as me an' Tom for what ye done —
an' I couldn't say more, Mr. Wilmot."

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Brady. When do you harvest
your apples, I can see lots of them on the trees still."

"Nixt week, please God, we'll have the apples oflE av the
trees an' in bar'ls. An' there comes Tom an' the garrul."

Wilmot, who had already caught sight of them, was gazing
intently at the two as they came up through the orchard.
The girl, tall and slender, walking with an affectionate hand
on the old man's shoulder. Two familiar figures, advancing
with the red sky at their backs. He swept his hand across
his brow as if to dispel some strange illtision. Mrs. Brady
watched them also, her arms akimbo and her stout body
poised ungracefully. Presently they paused in the kitchen
doorway, and Wilmot saw them as in a dream, silhoutted
against the western sky.

"Here's Mr. Wilmot come to see you, Tom!" cried Mrs.
Brady, exultantly.

"Wall, now!" exclaimed the old man, and bolted forward

34 The Lady of the Rocks

with an outstretched, brawny hand, which Wihnot wrung
silently.

"Come here, EStty. Here's Mr. Wilmot as we've b'cn
a-talkin' Ixmt. This is my little gal, Mr. Wilmot."

The girl advanced into the room. In the dim light, Wilmot
could not fully discern her expression, but felt the nervous
tremor of her hand, as he took it.

"Miss 0*Neil!" there was astonishment, reproach, yet a
vibrant note of pleasure in the exclamation. "I did not
expect to meet you here!"

"I know you did not. But I am glad to see you — glad
to have the chance to tell you how grateful I am for what you
did yesterday — ^when you saved my dear father's life."

"Elitty says she hev met you afore," put in the old man,
beamingly, "though she never said nothin' 'bout ye till
to-day. It's a won'er ye never happened down to the cove
w'en she war thar. I've often spoke to ye 'bout my little
gal, ain't I?" he went on, taking Kathleen's hand and draw-
ing her toward him. "She's the best gal — ^though she be
but my step-darter — ^but we don't never mention that fac',
do we Kitty, bein' as I married her mother w'en she war a
bit of a baby, an' she be^more like a darter to me than if she
actooly war."

Wilmot gazed at the two, still half dazed by the shock of
his surprise. He was trying to adjust his mind to the new
conditions. A hundred considerations whirled through his
brain. This was the woman he loved — ^at home and among
such stuTOundings — spoken to familiarly by this old man and
woman. Why had she not told him that she was only the
daughter of a fisherman and that her mother had begun life
as a cook or a housemaid. Kathleen had deceived him! and
yet — no, he had deceived himself. She had simply been
silent where she might have spoken — she had a right to be
silent, if she chose. But if he had known — could he have
helped faUing deeper in love with her? Suddenly, from the
chaos of his reflections, the one dominant truth asserted
itself irresistably — he loved her. And before this great, vital
fact all other considerations melted away like mist before the
sun. He loved her! And not fifty fishermen fathers or
housemaid mothers, thought he passionately, should stand
between them, if she loved him and would have him. So he
caught her hand and drew her away from Tom's side to his own.

The Lady of the Rocks

as

"I don't know," he said, looking earnestly into Tom's eyes,
**how much Kathleen has told you about our last meeting,
Mr. Brady — or whether she told you that I asked her to be

my wife?"

Tom and Mrs. Brady
both interposed with char-
acteristic exclamations of
stuprise.

''She wanted me to wait
for my answer," went on
Wilmot * * Won't you and
Mrs. Brady urge her to
give it to me now?"

"Sure, Kitty child, what
would ye kape Mr Wilmot
waitin' for. If ye care for
him, shpake up."

But Tom remained
silent, looking intently at
the girl.

" ' Daddy! " she said, ap-
pealingly, '''Daddy!"

He spoke presently,
with a little tremor in his
voice, but otherwise quite
cheerfully.

"I knowed this had to
come some time. An* thar
ain't no man as I could
think more worthy of ye
than Mr. Wilmot, Kitty—
an' so I says, if ye love
him — don't keep him
waitin' too long a-fore ye
say so."

' ' Are you sure — sure
that it is all— all right,"
said the girl almost in a whisper, turning to Wilmot.

"Qtiite sure, Kathleen, if you love me," he replied.

"And I shall be with them often? I could not bear to be
separated from them long — even — even for you."

"You shall not be," he replied, lifting her hands to his lips.

AR.T Oivnersi A Talc of
the Sea, by W* B* Hayward*
Ultistrations by R- T^ Schultz*

TOPPIN'S bad again to-night," said Mac, slamming the
foc'sle door and lighting his pipe. **He's looking
over the rail and mumbling to himself, like a man out of his
senses/'

"Toppin's a fool," said Snyder, decidedly.
''What's that?" asked a sleepy voice from a bunk.
**Toppin's a fool," repeated Snyder, **an idjiot. Td like
to see myself growing thin over a girl."
♦ Written for Short Stories.

Part Owners 27

"You ain't never had the chance," remarked the sleepy
voice. "Anyway, you couldn't grow much thinner."

"Shut up Tommy," said Snyder. "Can't you get a new
joke? I've heard that before."

The ill-smelling little lamp over the foc'sle table sputtered
weakly, and Mac took it from the|[socket to trim the wick.

"Toppin said to-night," remarked Mac, putting the lamp
back into its place, "that Miss Mary had refused him again.
She said that as she's the owner of the Rocket and Toppin
is only the sailing-master, it wouldn't be right for her to
marry him. Them was her words. I think she don't want
to share the profits the Rocket makes with Toppin. It's
cheaper to hire him at twenty-five dollars a month — ^that's
the real reason."

"Don't she love him?" asked Tommy, who boasted a girl
of his own in Perth Amboy.

"Course she does," replied Mac. "She couldn't get along
without him."

"Then why don't he desert and bring her round? " growled
Snyder. "I always said he was a fool."

"He may be a fool, but he's a good mate," said Tommy,
who had served imder "bad" mates.

"They be two fools," observed Mac, sagely, "and they'll
end by marrying. I think — "

The opening of the foc'sle door cut short Mac's discourse.

"Boys," said Toppin's voice from the deck, "Miss Mary
says we must get imder way at daybreak."

"Miss Mary, the owner," whispered Snyder, when the door
was closed, "the owner of the Rocket and the sailing-master
of Toppin. She's made him lose his bearings already, and
if they ain't spliced soon that man'U be a shipwreck. Did
you ever hear such a voice? It's like a gull in a storm. I
reckon he'll jump overboard some night if this keeps up."

Snyder paused for breath after this outburst.

Tommy's hand, holding a sou'wester, slid from underneath
the blanket and fanned the air. The light went out with the
first breath.

"Keep your reckonings to yourself, Snyder," he said, "I
want to sleep."

Early next morning the two-masted schooner Rocket, in
ballast, crossed the bar with a fair wind on her voyage down
the coast in search of a cargo. The crew, though busy on

28 Part Owners

deck, had time enough to glance aft occasionally. Toppin
was at the wheel, and Miss Mary sat near the companion-way,
silently watching the foaming wake of the little craft. For
an hour she remained quite motionless, with a troubled look
upon her features. Toppin's eyes moved slyly from the
compass to the cross-trees, and thence to the girl. These
stolen glances she appeared not to notice, although once or

twice Toppin saw the color come to her cheeks and her hands
clasp and imclasp. The sailing-master wanted to speak, but
all his thoughts seemed to have fled. At last he blurted out ;

"Miss Mary, the Rocket needs a coat of paint forward."

** Does she ? '* she replied, without raising her eyes. * * Then
ril tell Mac to have it done."

''Why don't you tell me?" asked Toppin.

"You," she responded, "I — I'm going to discharge you
when your month is up."

Her tones cut deep into Toppin.

"Discharge me?"

"Yes, I'm dissatisfied with you. Not with the way you
nm the ship, but the way you treat the owner. You've got
no business to make love to me. Haven't I often told you
that I would never marry any one? The Rocket is home and
everything else to me. Isn't that enough?"

She looked at the scarred hull, the weather-beaten rigging,
and the mildewed sails of the schooner with a rather subdued
expression. There was a deal of truth in what she said, for
the Rocket had been her home since as far back as she could
remember. . It had also been her father's home, and when he
died. Miss Mary, as the crew respectfully called her, in defer-
ence to his last wish stayed by the ship, earning her living,
just as the old skipper had earned his, by sailing the Rocket

Part Owners

90

up and down the coast, stopping wherever there was the
chance of finding a cargo.

Toppin, too, had spent nearly the whole of his life aboard
the Rocket, first as a boy with Miss Mary's father, then as
sailing-master when she assumed command of her legacy.
The idea of leaving the vessel hurt him almost as much as the
thought of giving up Mary. But Toppin was proud; he
would go without a word of protest.

The head-sails shook with a shift of wind, and Toppin forgot

his troubles for a moment to bring the schooner again on its
course. Mary saw, in the way he turned the wheel and
glanced aloft, the personification of the true sailor — cool,
alert, resourceful. She was fond of Toppin; he had always
been a good friend; and she wished for nothing more than a
good friend — ^for the present, at least.

* It wasn't a question, as Mac thought, of sharing the profits
made by the Rocket with another; that idea had never

30 Part Owners

entered her head. Toppin was kind, considerate, straight-
forward, and not a forttine-htmter, as she well knew, but
Toppin was also masterftd. She, on the other hand, had the
freedom of the sea in her blood, and her independence just
then weighed greater than her affection. In the end she
knew that Toppin's will would prove stronger than her own,
but in view of his persistency she felt that the only way to
postpone the end would be to discharge the sailing-master.

In spite of her self-reliance, Mary's act caused her some
misgivings, and as she again turned the matter over in her
mind it was rather with a spirit of remorse. Had Toppin
spoken then, her decision would have been revoked, and she
almost wished he would speak. The silent, grave face at the
wheel first provoked her sympathy, and then angered her,
because the eyes seemed to notice everything on the schooner
except the owner.

A light rain which then began to fall added discomfort to
her anger, and Mary went below. When she came on deck
some hours later Mac was steering. The wind had fallen to
a breath, and the sails flapped idly while the Rocket rolled
and pitched with the gentle swell. Toppin was forward near
the port rail, smoking and watching the vagaries of the
weather, as he often did when anything hung heavily on his
mind. His reveries were disturbed by footsteps, and turning,
he saw Mary coming toward him. •

"Miss Mary," he said, "we're going to have some fog.
It's getting thick out there," jerking his thumb in the direction
of the misty horizon. ** If we can get wind we'll run in close
and anchor for the night. There is no bottom out here."

Mary showed her disgust plainly ; she expected that Toppin
would speak of other things.

"All right," she responded, " do as you please. You're the
sailing-master."

It was now Toppin's turn to be disgusted.

"The sailing-master," muttered he, after she had gone;
"I think I'll give up the sea. It don't agree with me."

Toppin went aft and took the wheel.

" Mac," he said, " if we don't get a breeze we'll be in trouble.
The tide's carrying us inshore fast."

With the gathering darkness came the fog, cold, damp, and
impenetrable. Looking forward from the poop the Rocket
loomed up like a phantom ship, with masts and rigging and

Part Owners 31

sails faintly outlined against the gray blur. At intervals
Tommy rang the ttmeless little bell with a vigor bom of the
chilly atmosphere, while standing on the starboard rail, lead
line in hand, was Snyder. As the schooner rolled and yawed
without steerage-way, the creaking booms swung to and fro,
their canvas alternately blotting out the port and starboard
sidelights.

Toppin felt nervous and dispirited. The lead had given
him no sign of bottom, yet he knew instinctively that the
schooner was not far from shore.

"She'll have a better excuse to fire me if I run the Rocket
agrotmd," he thought, watching the cloaked figure that sat
on a water-tank a few paces away.

The stillness of the fog emphasized the constant drip of
moisture from rope and spar, and gave a double significance
to each sound aboard the schooner. Eight bells had barely
struck when a cry of "Bottom" came from Snyder. With a
sense of relief Toppin threw the wheel hard to starboard.

"Get the sail oflE her," he shouted to Mac, "and stand by to
anchor."

Possibly it was the creak of the tackle in the blocks, or
the rattle of the chain in the hawse-pipe that drowned all
other noises, for no one heard the scraping sotmd against the
keel. The Rocket swxmg gently as the chain was paid oflE,
but only for a moment. Then something seemed to lift the
stem up and it trembled. With this came a series of hard
bumps against the htdl, which ended as suddenly as they
began.

"Mac," said Toppin, as the seaman came running aft,
Tve done it, and I'll sure be fired now."

Then he told the story of how Miss Mary s&id she could do
without his services.

Morning found the schooner in a serious, though not dan-
gerous position. The tide had receded, leaving the stem
sunk in the sand and but a few inches of water beneath the
bows. A bright sun cleared the fog away, and there was
little wind or swell. Mary went about the deck in silence, and
beyond asking if the Rocket was leaking, appeared to take
no interest in what had occurred.

Toppin himself had little to say. He sounded the well
continually, and looked anxiously for signs of the returning
tide.

32 Part Owners

"She's resting easy in the mud and she ain't leaked a drop,"
he remarked to Mac. "We'll float her when the tide rises, if
we have luck."

Time moved slowly, and more than once the sailing-master
went over the side to examine the position of the vessel.
Forward the men were talking about Toppin's discharge.

"I'd hate to see him go," said Tommy. "There ain't many
like him."

"He won't go," replied Mac, in confident tones. "You see
that out there?"'

All hands looked over the rail at a pltime of black smoke.

"That's a tugboat," he continued, "coming to tow us pflE.
You can bet there's a hard crowd aboard that boat, and if
they get a line on this craft they'll put in a big claim for
salvage, whether we're ptdled off or not. Toppin, he knows
that, and he won't allow no tugboat captain to get nearthe
Rocket. Now we've got to say that we want the schooner
towed off. Miss Mary, she'll kick and go to Toppin, and
Toppin he'll come to us. You follow me, boys."

Snyder and Tommy nodded their heads. They had faith
in Mac, because he was Toppin's right-hand man.

"When Toppin comes to us we'll go to Miss Mary," pur-
sued Mac, "and we'll say that tmless she takes Toppin back
^ell take a line from that boat. Ain't that right?"

"That's a good bluff," chuckled Snyder. "I guess it
oughter work."

In the afternoon as the sun moved into the west, the tide
began to lap against the sides of the Rocket, gaining a little
more energy with each minute. Twice a dingey had come
from the tugboat with offers of assistance, but the sailing-
master turned it back without comment. The third time the
boat brought a hawser, which was paid out from the steamer.
Toppin stood at the rail with something shining in his hand.

"I'll shoot the first man that boards this schooner," he
said quietly, pointing the revolver at the boat.

The dingey stood off for further parley.

"Mr. Toppin," said Mac's voice, "you'd better take that
line. If you don't we will."

"Who's in charge of this ship?" asked Toppin, hotly.

"You are, but—"

"There ain't no 'huts' about it. Call Miss Mary and call
Snyder and Tommy. We'll settle this right now."

Part Owners 33

It was the first time the crew had ever made trouble, and

the sailing-master took the mutiny as a personal rebuk^,
because he knew his time of service was short.

34 P(^^ Owners

Mary came forward and stood beside Toppin.

**We want that schooner to tow us off," began Mac,
"and—"

Toppin interrupted him.

"Am I in charge still?" he asked Mary.

"Yes, tmtil the end of your month," she replied.

"Then you men go forward and obey orders. Are you
going?"

Toppin raised his pistol hand.

There was a rustle of skirts and Mary was standing with
the muzzle pointed at her head.

"Don't!" she cried.

The revolver came down slowly and went into Toppin 's
pocket. The sailing-master looked rather ashamed of
himself.

"Mac," he said, "I always thought I could trust you."

"So you can," responded the seaman. "We don't want
to make no trouble and well float the Rocket without that
tug if Miss Mary '11 agree to take you back."

Toppin's eyes shone with gratitude, then his voice grew
hard.

"Don't bring Miss Mary into this. I'm working for the
Rocket, not for myself."

Mary felt all her resolutions slipping away. The htmiiliation
of the position hurt her, yet she knew that Toppin had
spoken the truth.

"I'll do it, Mac," she said, and ran directly to the cabin.

In her stateroom Mary buried her face in the pillows of
the little bunk. Overhead she could hear hurrying foot-
steps, and the quiet voice of Toppin giving orders to the men.
There was a splash at the stem — the splash of a boat dropping
into the water, which, as Mary's sea-training told her, was
to carry the light anchor and warp to be used in pulling the
schooner out of the mud.

Later the boat came back, and then she heard the song of
the men as they walked the capstan-bars arotmd. One by
one the links of the chain wound over the windlass-drum,
and the anchor which had been dropped the night before
came slowly out of its muddy bed. As the tide rose to the
flood the Rocket began to move, and both warp and chain
grew shorter.

The hoisting of the jib aroused Mary and, though it took

Part Owners

35

much cotirage, she came on deck. Walking up to Toppin
she put out her hand.

"I hope you will forgive me," she said.

A puff of wind filled the jib and the Rocket at last slipped
off the sand-bank into deep water.

Toppin left the wheel and drew the girl to him. Mary's
resistance had ended. As she lifted her face the sailing-
master bent over and kissed her.

"There's nothing to forgive," were his words.

From the capstan-head came the cheers of three lusty
sailors.

ROKEN Glass: The Story
of a Misunderstandings by C* F*
Marsh*

THE March winds had dried up the mud in the village
street, and the ground beneath Mrs. Skeemer's bow-
window was smooth and hard. Small boys, in groups, were
spinning tops. A ring had been drawn on the level surface,
and the boys were pegging at one another's tops, the object
being to fling one top with such force on to another that the
rival plaything was either split, or dented, or at least knocked
out of the circle. Some tops had gained a notoriety for either
splitting or resisting powers; others, bright and new, had yet
a reputation to make.

Mrs. Skeemer lived in the house that looked straight down
the village street. Of its kind the house was a large one,
two-storied, with attics above, a door on one side, and a big
bow-window on the other. Probably it had been a shop,
which would account for the largeness of the window, but not
in Mrs. Skeemer's time, for in this house she had spent fifteen
years of married life and twenty years of widowhood. Her
husband had been a cattle-dealer, wealthy by repute; indeed,
he might have saved money had he been able to close or start
a bargain with, say, three out of the six glasses of whiskey
which, he assured his wife, were indispensable to bring a
negotiation to a successful conclusion. Still, as he frequently
added with pride, no one could say he had ever seen him
dnmk, only a little market-fresh, and that in the cause of
duty. One Saturday night, after an unusually busy day,
the call came to Skeemer to abandon business and carouse.
Then it was discovered that his savings were nil; his posses-
sions consisted merely of three or four meadows, a few acres
of arable land — all heavily mortgaged — and the house. By

*Prom Longman's Magazine.

Broken Glass 37

judicious management and tireless economy Mrs. Skeemer
had been able to stop on in the house and there bring up her
one daughter, Matilda.

'Tilda had been bom in the first year of her parents' married
life. As a baby she had had no beauty to commend her; she
was one of those children who have the misfortune to be bom
old. Her face was pinched and wizened, her limbs large and
loose-set; **she had a rare frame," said her father, with an eye
always on the look-out for bone in a bullock. Indeed, 'Tilda,
with her red hair, gaunt frame, and awkward movements,
unconsciously called to mind a cross between a Polled Devon
and an Irish home-bred. She had given the lie to the popular
notion that an ugly baby makes a good-looking woman, for
she had grown up with the face nature had given her at her
birth; and if ever she had had the good fortune to possess an
admirer, it could not have been beauty of form or visage that
had attracted him. But no admirer had ever come her way.
From twenty to twenty-five the dreams common to all
healthy-minded girls had been hers; till thirty they lingered
as a hope against hope; now, at thirty-five, they were being
heroically consigned to the limbo of the might-have-beens.
Yet even now the woman longed for a swain, were it only
someone to walk out with on Sunday afternoons, to relieve
the monotony of existence in her mother's cottage, and to
show the womanfolk of the village that she was not set apart
from them by an inability to excite interest, if not admira-
tion.

Matilda had been early apprenticed to **the dressmaking,"
and as soon as she had thoroughly learnt her trade she had
returned home to set up on her own account, and her earnings
to no small extent augmented the annuity which Mrs. Skeemer
had procured from the wreck of her husband's business. In
the bow-window she sat and sewed all day, as she had sat and
sewed for the last fifteen years. Painted on the three front
panes of glass was her name, with ** Dressmaker" beneath in
Roman letters, and, under all, the words ** Ladies' own ma-
terials made up."

The last six months the village had been unusually full of
life, for the church was undergoing a much-needed restoration ;
a Norwich firm of builders were doing the work, and most of
the workmen were lodging in cottages or in any house in the
village where they could find accommodation. Mrs. Skeemer

38 Broken Glass

had tried, but failed, to let her empty upstair room; gossip
said the would-be lodgers fought shy of Matilda.

The church was nearly finished, and the scaffolding was
gradually being pulled down; soon the village wotild return
to its state of settled calm.

But, judging by the four dresses hanging from the walls of
Matilda's workroom, it was evident that the girls of the place
had not lost their opportunity. The dresses were wedding
garments, and on this windy March afternoon 'Tilda was busy
putting the finishing touches to a fifth.

** Seems ter me this here church ha* brought a proper lot o'
trade ter th' willage," said Mrs. Skeemer, who, owing to stress
of business, was helping her daughter by basting a lining into
a skirt. **Sich times never wor, nor never will be agin, I
reckon. Fancy five wedden* dresses all made at once; that's
afore th' time o' Palmer's, or Caley's o' Norwich!"

"Yes," said 'Tilda, with a sigh, **it ha' brought about plenty
o' courten* and given' in marriage."

"And a lot o' troUoping mawthers they be tew," said Mrs.
Skeemer, breaking her cotton in an effort to give emphasis to
her words. "Hussies, I call 'em. Look at that there Char-
lotte Knights — catched another, afore her husband, who wor
only took last November, be cold in th' ground. Tain't
decent," she added. "Pare ter me all th' gals in th' willage
be clean gone off their heads."

"Yes, they ha' been in a flutter, mother, ever since th'
workmen come."

"Flutter and tutter tew," snorted Mrs. Skeemer. "As I
told Mrs. Grapes t'other night when her tew gals comed ter
be tried on, I wouldn't ha' my gal exhibiting herself in th'
street as some folks ha' let theirs dew, guyed out in all their
finely and Simday clothes o' weekdays, so as ter pick up a
husband, be he stone-mason, carpenter, plumber, or even one
o* them architeck's clerks. Still, 'Tilda," her mother went
on, and there was an aggrieved note in her voice, " I did think
when there wor all this here marryen' going on yer might ha'
'tracted a mate. It be time yer begins ter think about it, if
yer ever going tew."

"Me, Mother I Oh, I never give such things a thought. I
be past th' time o' day, I be. Besides, I ain't 'tractive
enow," said the girl, with some bitterness.

"Oh, well," answered Mrs. Skeemer, "if all these here men

Broken (ilass ^9

be only looken' out for a pretty face, they be a set o* blessed
fides, and desarves all they gets, and yer be well out o* th*
muck."

Matilda did not answer, but turned her face to the window
and watched the boys playing with their peg-tops. Suddenly
there was a cry of ** Splits" and a crash of broken glass, as a
top bounced through the window and fell with a bang on the
floor; then a scamper of feet, and before mother and daughter
could get to the door every boy was out of sight.

'*Yotmg warmens!" screamed Mrs. Skeemer, **I ha* com-
plained ter th' p'liceman afore about them boys playen' under
otu- winder, but that there p'liceman ain't worth narthen.
There be a whole pane o' glass gone. I'll skin th* yoxmg
warmen whole when I catches on him. Who was it, 'Tilda?"

Shrill yells proceeded from the little lane which ran by the
side of Mrs. Skeemer's house, and a big black-bearded man
came into view, dragging a small boy by the ear.

"It wom't me — it wom't me, I tells yer," howled the boy;
*4t wor young Armine Skipper. He did it; he pegged mine
with his great owd boxer, and that split my top and flew
through th' winder. It wom't me,'Tilda Skeemer," he began
again, for by this time the man had dragged him to where
Mrs. Skeemer purple with rage, was standing. '*It wor
Armine, and he ha* split my fiver, he ha'," he added, in a
whimper.

** I don't care who't be. Dew yer hold him, my gude man;
I'll pay him," and Mrs. Skeemer dived back into the room and
returned with a cane yard-meastu-e, which she flourished
viciously.

"Oh, don't hit him, mimi,'* said the man. "He be fairly
frightened. I be a glazier, and I'll put th* winder right for
yer in no time." Saying this he let the boy wriggle out of his
grasp, and smiled as he watched him fly howling down the
street.

"Yer ortn't ter ha' let him go; he should ha* been made a
'xample of," grumbled Mrs. Skeemer. "Plague take the
brats; housen ain't safe ter live in nowadays."

"I'll stme mend it for yer. I ha*, got a few bits o* spare
glass over from th' church winders. I'll put that in for yer
arter tea."

"Yer wery kind," said Matilda. "Me and mother'U be
much obliged if yer will ; and if yer '11 tell us what it costs "

4o Broken GJass

'* Oh, 1*11 dew it for love," broke in the man, laughing, as he
turned to go.

For the first time in her life Matilda blushed. She pxished
her mother in at the door, which she shut, then turned to the
window and watched the man till he passed out of sight.

**Wunnerftil nice talken* kind o' chap that there man be.
Wery obliging I must say. What be his name, 'Tilda ?"
asked Mrs. Skeemer.

"William Winter, I believe," 'Tilda answered. ''Most on
'em be wery respectable men what ha* been employed at th*
restoration."

" Yer see, these here workmen bain't like others," went on
Mrs. Skeemer. "They dew narthen but go from church ter
church, and that makes 'em kind o' religious-like. Why, they
spends half their time in chtu-ch, and that kejep *em quiet and
steady, I s'pose. But, 'Tilda, did yer hear what he said?
How as he ud mend th' winder for love. Shoiddn't wonder
if he wom't struck in th' gizzard with yer all at once."

"Mother, don't carry on so. What next, I should like ter
know.?" said Matilda, angrily.

"Why, I shall be losing my 'Tilda if I don't mind."

"Don't talk sich nonsense, don't. Oh, mother, how can
yer put sich thoughts inter my head.?"

"Those thoughts were there afore I spoke," said Mrs.
Skeemer knowingly. "Never mind, 'Tilda, marriages are
made in heaven, and glassen winders are smashed on earth;
and when a man say he be going ter dew th' job for love —
well, there, if yer can't put tew and tew tergether I can.
But yer alius wor so highly strimg and nervous that I'll ha*
ter lend yer a hand ; still, that's better than being tew forward,
'specially with th' men-folk. I'll go and put my bonnet on,
and go down ter th' butcher's and see if I can't get tew or
three chops, or a little porks ter bakes, and we'll ask that
there Mr. Winter ter supper. If he mend our winder, yer
must try and mend his heart; I see that want a patch on it."

"Oh, mother," pleaded Matilda, "don't be in sich a hurry
with things."

"Dew yer go on with yar sewing and leave things ter me."
And saying this Mrs. Skeemer put on her bonnet and bustled
out into the street.

Matilda stood by and watched the glazier as he cut the old
putty out of the window. She saw that he was strong.

Broken Glass 41

healthy, and good-looking, moreover he was middle-aged;
he had reached the time of life when a man should settle and
make a home for himself. By judicious questioning she
learnt that he was still unblessed with a life companion, and
by the time he had placed in position the new sheet of glass,
and was rolling the soft putty in his hands, fancy had built
him a house and given it a fitting mistress. She was awakened
from her dreams by a sharp tap on the glass, and as Winter
ran the knife up and down the sides he remarked, **Well,
there, that be done. Did yer find out which boy broke it.'*"

"No, ai;d don't s'pose we shall.*'

"Oh, well, least said, soonest mended,** he laughingly re-
plied, as he gathered up his tools. "That didn't take long
ter right-side."

"No, yer seem a masterhand at yar trade," replied 'Tilda,
with a look of admiration. "Gude workmen like yer be
scarce about here, anyways."

"Be that so?" said Winter eagerly. "Hain't yer got a
glazier in th* village.?"

" No, there ain't none nigher nor Stalham, six miles off, and
he be wery dear," the woman answered.

"Be that so.?" said Winter meditatively. "Well," he
went on, after a moment's silence, "my job at th* church be
finished this week, and I be getten' tired o' journeying about
from place ter place. I say ter myself t'other night as I wor
getten' ter bed : * * Winter, that be time as yer give over jobben*
about for contractors, and got married and set up for yarself
in some willage like this here." My mind ha' run on that
notion a deal since then. Don't yer think there be sense in
what I say?" and he gazed fixedly at Matilda.

"'Deed I dew," put in Mrs. Skeemer from the doorway.
"At yar time o* life that be only fit and proper as yer should
marry a quiet, respectable gal, one as could earn a little herself
tew." Unconsciously she inclined her head towards her
daughter.

"Well, afore I thinks about marryen' I ha* got ter be sure
there be a liven' ter be got round these parts," said the man.

" Yer could get a liven' right enow," answered Mrs. Skeemer.
"Th* place be wunnerful gain for that, bain*t it, *Tilda?"

"1 should think so," said .the girl.

"Think so, indeed! I be wholly sarten about it. Why, if
where be a winder broke we ha* ter wait till a travellen* glazier

42 Broken Glass

pass through th' willage, or send arter th* Stalham chap, and
he 'on't come *less there be several jobs and he can make a
day on it. Half th' owd women ha* ter stuff up th* holes with
rags, or paste a bit o' brown paper over ter keep out th'
draught. Yer wouldn't be hard up for a job! Only yer'd
want to get married sune; yer'd be kind o' dull in th' willage
when all yer mates wor gone."

"Oh! as ter that I sha'n't be long about courten*," Winter
made answer. **I ha* got a matter o* twenty pound put by,
and with another five pound or so I could get enow furniture
ter start with."

"Course yer could," said the delighted Mrs. Skeemer, and
she gently inclined her elbow in the direction of her daughter's
ribs. " P'r'aps yer might pick up one as had five or ten pounds
put by." 'Tilda was conscious that Mrs. Skeemer was vigor-
ously jerking her head at her, and trusted the movement
might pass unperceived by Winter. ' ' Come yer inter kitchen ,
Mr. Winter — I ha' got some chops in th' pan — and ha' a bit
o' supper and a glass o* stout along o* us. If yer ha' put th'
winder in for love, yer can stop and ha* a bit o* wittles along
o' me and my gal. There be a million* pie, tew, *Tilda made
last Tuesday. I should like yer ter taste on it, just ter see
what a gude cook she be.**

For the greater part of that night Matilda's red head turned
and tossed on its pillow. Could there be truth in her mother*s
suggestions? Had she, indeed, excited interest in this big,
black-bearded man? What if he should want to make her
his wife? Wife — she thrilled at the word, she, who in all her
thirty-five years had never once felt love nor hoped to arouse it 1

In the morning her mother greeted her as "Mrs. Winter."
To Matilda's blushing exclamation, "Oh, don't, mother!"
Mrs. Skeemer replied, "Well, ain't his name Winter? I ha'
wintered and summered him, as th* sayen' go, and I seed in
his eyes last night as he meant haven' of yer, 'Tilda, so there
'tis!"

"But there be th' trade, mother; he seemed ter want ter
make sure o' that afore anything."

"Course he dew; he be a long-headed chap, or else he
wouldn't cast his eyes on yer, 'Tilda. He'll get trade. LU V
sune overcomes all difficulties, don't you make no mistake on
it, my gal."

♦Pumpkin

Broken Glass 43

Matilda always helped with the housework before she sat
down to her dressmaking, and this morning, as she swept out
her bed-room, she noticed a spider's web high up on a top
pane of glass. She lifted her broom to sweep it down, and
indavertently hit the pane. The sound sent a whole succes-
sion of thoughts racing through her brain; she paused to
consider, then yielded to temptation, and the sharp end of
the broom went crashing through the glass.

"Mother," she shouted down the stairs, "misfortunes never
dew come single-like. I ha' just broke another winder."

"Lor' bless th' gal! ha' yer? Well, that dew be a coin-
cident, ter be sure. I ha' just cracked one o* the panes in th*
backus ; set th* owd pail tew close ter it when I went ter pump
th' water at th* sink. Fare ter me we be makin' a trade
already."

The next morning a note was sent to William Winter, in
which it was stated that if he thought of starting a business
Mrs..Skeemer would be pleased to be allowed to become his
first customer.

Accordingly Winter put in an appearance that evening, and
again Matilda stood by and watched him as he worked. He
told her he had thought over her mother's suggestions, and
was determined to carry them out, and that as soon as he saw
a chance of making a living in the village, and had put by
another five potmds, he should get married. The girl turned
away to hide her confusion, a wild tide of hope surging at her
heart. And yet when he was gone, and she had time to recall
the incident, she remembered that though he had spoken of
matrimony he had said nothing to lead her to imagine she was
the woman of his choice. When her mother next alluded to
the subject she called her attention to the fact.

. " Lawks a mussy me, gal, proper thinken' men don't go at it
like roaren' bulls," was Mrs. Skeemer's answer. "They kind
o' dance roxmd it for a bit. Don't tell me as how he'd ha*
talked over all these plans, which his gude head seemed stuflFed
full on, if yer wom't th* gal he had set his heart on. I fare
ter think he be a kind o' narvous man, and them sorts never
likes ter show theirselves tew eager. But just look at his
eyes; they keep searchin' after yer like a hen's arter barley."
Matilda agreed with her mother that his eyes were very fine,
and perhaps they did speak the words his tongue refused to
utter.

44 Broken Glass

"In course, they dew," said the sanguine Mrs. Skeemer.
"Why, I remember in days gone by how yar poor father, when
he comed home from market and called up ter see me, couldn't
sometimes utter a word, but did all his courten' with his eyes,
poor man."

'* But William Winter be a glazier, and don't tend no mar-
kets," said 'Tilda, dubiously.

"Still I ha* known yar poor father nonplussed and speech-
less on the days when there wom't no market. Men be like
some children what sits staren* hard at a cake and never tells
yer they wants a bite on it, and yet at last yer obliged ter go
and cut 'em a slice. But there, my 'Tilda, don't yer fash
yarself ; if he 'on't cut th' cake, maybe I'll lend him a hand."

A week passed by, and, much to 'Tilda's and her mother's
mortification. Winter did not make it his business to call
again. Matilda only saw him as he passed the bow-window
on his return from work, and she had to content herself with
a smile and friendly nod. The second Sunday of their ac-
quaintance was a day of great humiliation ; for the girl, well
versed in the etiquette of courtship, had expected him to
arrive and take her for a walk. All day long she sat in her
out-of-door garments, waiting, and waiting in vain, for Winter
failed to put in an appearance.

"I can't make no sense o' th' man," said Mrs. Skeemer,
when hope had been given up. "I'll break another winder
ter-morrow, see if I don't."

" 'Tain't no use," said Matilda, despair in her voice. " Be-
sides, we can't alius be payen' out hard-eamt money for new
glass."

"Ah, that's where yer makes a mistake," said her un-
daunted parent. "Th' salt cost money afore yer can ha' it
ter put on th* bird's tail. I ha' made up my mind ter catch
him for yer, and I'll dew it yet."

So on the morrow there was another pane of glass to mend,
and yet another before the week was out, and with each visit
Winter paid Matilda's passion grew more and more intense.
She had almost brought herself to believe that her affection
was returned, and the man's answer to a timid question as to
the state of trade made her desperate. So slack was work.
Winter declared, he had almost made up his mind to leave
the village. That night the girl resolved to put into action a
plan she had long conceived. She rose from her bed, dressed

Broken Glass 45

herself in the dark, crept downstairs, and noiselessly opened
the back door, buoyed up for her venttxre by the phantom^of
Winter fleeing from a village of unbroken window-panes.
She made her way to the coal-house and picked up a hammer,
which she hid in her cloak; then she looked out of the gate at
the deserted street stretching away on either hand*

The moon was at the full, and one side of the street was
brightly illuminated, while the other lay in deep shadow.
Matilda moved on tiptoe down the dark side, hardly daring
to breathe, terrified at her own temerity. At the end of the
village she paused, her scheme yet unaccomplished, trembling
from head to foot in the fear of detection. Drawing her long
cloak tighter rotmd her, she withdrew into the shadow of a
gable-ended cottage, and gazed earnestly at the opposite
house. The windows shone green in the moonlight; a con-
viction came over her that she was being watched — surely the
blind in the little dormer window was being pulled cautiously
aside. With a great effort at self-command she stayed mo-
tionless in her hiding-place, her eyes fixed on the window —
after all it was but a crease in the blind. She resisted the
longing to rush home ; the thought of William Winter steadied
her.

*' S*pose he leave because o' th' trade. This be my first and
only chance," she muttered to herself. **0h, Gawd, I dew
want ter be like other folk, ter ha* a husband o* my wery own.
I will be a gude and loven* wife. If men only knew what
women would dew for love ! ' * William Winter must not know
now; but some day, when she was married, she would tell
him of the agony she had suffered for his sake, and he would
kiss away the tears from her ugly face and stroke her coarse
red hair. ** Now or never,*' she gasped, and, tightly grasping
the long handle of the coal-hammer, drew it from beneath her
cloak. Going up to the window of the house whose shadow
was sheltering her, she raised her arm and with all her force
drove the pointed pick-end through the pane. She was pre-
pared for a crash and a shower of glass, but to her surprise
she found the sharp instnmient had made but a small hole;
there was a bang, and a little tinkle of falling pieces as she
drew the hammer out again, that was all.

"That's enow for this one,*' she murmtxred, as she passed
on to the next house. The glass fell with a crash, and she
fled up the street, leaving the next few cottages tmtouched.

46 Broken Glass

Then she paused to listen, not a sound was to be heard but
the beating of her own heart; she broke out into a cold sweat,
but again summoning up courage she ran quickly to the next
window, which she treated in the same way, breaking one at
intervals all the way home. Flinging the hanmier into the
shed, with boots in hand she crept upstairs, passing the door
whence issued Mrs. Skeemer's loud snores, and threw herself
sobbing on her bed. Presently she crept to the window and
lifted the blind; the street lay silent, bathed in moonlight.
No one was about, no one seemed to have heard the breaking
glass ; she might conclude her action wotdd pass undiscovered.

Mrs. Skeemer had occasion to visit the village shop before
breakfast, and she came back all aglow with excitement.

*' Yar sweetheart ha' got a deal o' trade on his hands ter-day,
'Tilda," she cried. **I seed him goin' down tb' street with
half a crake o' glass on a frame tmder his arm. Then I met
that there lazy warmen o' a pliceman, and he come up ter
me and say, '* I tmderstand, Mrs. Skeemer, as how yer ha' had
a lot o* winders broke lately, hain't her?" I say, 'Yes, tew
or tree;' and then he had th' imperence ter say as how that
seemed a wunnerf td coincident, that did ; for so sune as that
there Winter set up in th* glaziering for hisself everyone's
winders got broke, and he wor going to make a deal o' inquira-
tion about it. Lor', gal, yer *on't believe me when I tells yer
half th' winders down our side o' th' street be fotmd broke
t' momen'. He say some people did ha' their suspicions,
they did."

Matilda ttimed away at this remark, but Mrs. Skeemer was
far too interested in her story to notice the hot rush of blood
to her daughter's cheeks.

" I up and say, * Ah! yer be a deal o' use for a p'liceman,
yer be,'" went on the woman. ***If yer only did yar duty
o' seeing arter th' parish, instead o* sitten' in public-housen,
yer wouldn't be patchen' things as yer didn't ought onter
gude honest folk like William Winter.'"

** He say, * What dew yer mean ? ' and began ter get tetchy-
like. So I tells him that wor them young warmen o' boys,
as th' street be inwested with, as broke them winders. I tell
him only a week or tew back one o' their tops came spinnen'
through one o' mine, and I say, * If yer'd only use th' eyes th'
Almighty gived yer, but which yer mostly keeps for looken'
inter th' bottom o' quart pots, yer'd see their tops.' He say,

Broken Glass 47

* Tops be out.' ' Yes,' I say, * tops be out, but tip-cats be in ; *
and I pointed ter half o* score o' them young warmens, with
sticks and tip-cats, playen* in th' street. 'That's how we
poor folk have ter keep menden' o* our winders.* I say, 'and
if I'd anything ter dew with th' law I'd make th* p'liceman
pay for 'em.' He looked kind o' comical-like and sheeped, I
can tell yer; he never said narthen, but went off double quick,
and I seed him when he though I wom't looken', go and cuff
th' boys as wor playen. and take away their tip-cats. Tryen'
ter make out yar sweetheart a kind o' ramscallien o' a thief!"

All that day Matilda suffered great agitation of mind. She
started at each approaching footstep, and as the policeman
walked up the street the conviction seized her that he was
making straight for the cottage, and she felt compelled to go
outside and lock herself into the coal-house. Mrs. Skeemer
could not refrain from commenting on her behavior.

** Lor*, 'Tilda, I can't think what kind o* ail yer. Yer keep
jiffiin about, and seem ter be startin' out o' yar shoon every
moment. But there, I reckon I know what 'tis. The love-
fever ha' got hold on yer, and yar man don't get no for'arder,
that's what 'tis."

Matilda bowed her head over her work, and remarked as
how she did feel all over alike.

*' Ah ! " replied her mother, *' I knew yer did. I seed Winter
arter dinner-time, and told him to come over and put some
glass in that there old cowcumber frame. I ha' a mind ter
grow a cowcumber t' year. Lor' ! his face lit up proper, and
he say, ** 'I'll come, Mrs. Skeemer. Th* trade becomen' on
proper now.' " I say, 'That's right, and yer'll stme ha' ter get
married. 'He laugh and say, " * That's so, Mrs. Skeemer.' *' So
don't be down-hearted; he'll pop th' question afore long,
mark my words on it."

" Yer be right kind, mother," the girl answered, a tear falling
on to her work. 'Tain't everyone ha' got a mother like yer
be." But for all her brave words, Matilda was very sad at
heart.

In the following week a knock came at the door, and Mrs.
Skeemer poked her head round the bow-window and ex-
claimed:

"It be that there gal, Julia Hitchcock."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Matilda, "she ha* come arter thiit
there dove-gray dress o' hers, and I ha' only got it cut out.

48 Broken Class

I ha* been so busy alongo' these fandanglen' wedden* dresses
I hain't had time ter think o' hers.

Julia Hitchcock, rosy-cheeked and smiling, came into the
room, and Matilda explained the situation.

'* 'Tain't no matters, 'Tilda; 'deed, I be rather glad, 'cos I
wants a bit o' alteration," she answered, simpering. She took
the string from a parcel. ** Look yer here, I wants yer ter put
a bit o' this^white chiffongy stuff round th' neck, and a bit o'
lace round th' cuffs, and dab a^bow or tew o' lace and chiffong
anywheres yer thinks it would look nice and proper-like."

Mrs. Skeemer was immensely interested. **Be yer agoing
ter a ball? Maybe yer going ter be a bridesmaid at one of
these wedden's?"

' ' Well, it be like this, ' ' laughed the girl. * ' When I ordered
this here dress th' chap as I ha' been walken' out with — ^he be
a mod'rate careful kind o' feller, he be — didn't think as how
he could afford ter marry me yet awhiles. But he ha' done
wunnerful wel^ o' late, and we be goin* ter get wed — ^leastways,
he be plaguing th' life out o' me ter get wed at once, so I s'pose
I must as sune as the banns be out-arst. They be up for next
Stmday; yer must come and hear 'em, 'Tilda," she simpered.
*'I thought if yer fussed that there dove-gray up with them
bits o' white stuff, that *ud dew for me ter be married in. I
see in th' papers that be all th' fashion ter be married in a
walken' dress, so dew yer have it done by this day tree weeks."

Matilda's eyes were fixed on the chiffon that lay in her
hands. Very slowly she asked the question: **And who be
yer going ter marry.?"

"Why, don't yer know.?" cried Julia, surprised that a fact
of such supreme importance to herself had not reached the
ears of the village dressmaker. "Why, I be going ter marry
Mr. William Winter, th' glazier. He and I ha' walked out th*
last six weeks. He tell me yer and yar mother ha' been wery
gude customers ter him. I'll drop in and tell yer all about it
one aftemune; I be busy ter-day. Gude-day."

The finery she held dropped from Matilda's nerveless fingers ;
she clutched at a chair for support.

Mrs. Skeemer stood with open mouth, watching the yotmg
girl's retreating figure, her face purple, as if a fit were immi-
nent.

"There, there, there, ter think on it," she burst out at
ength " I never had anything give me sich a tarn in all my

Broken Glass 49

life. My heart's in my mouth, and my liver's where my heart
ought ter be. Ter think as that great, ugly, black-bearded
blackguard shotdd ha' sarved us like this. Here ha' we been
acosseten' on him up, agetten' on him trade, and I afryen' o'
th' best pork chops ter put inter his great, ugly stiimmick, and
he ha' been maken' love ter yer; and now "

** But he never did make love ter me," interrupted Matilda,
dry-eyed, but with a strange choking feeling in her throat.
Mentally she had projected her vision down the long vista of
time, and saw herself sitting in that window, making gay
dresses for the happy and dark ones for the mourners, as she
had sat and toiled for the last fifteen years.

"Now don't make matters wus by adden' lies ter th' job,"
snapped Mrs. Skeemer. " Yer said as how he did it with his
eyes, and I seed him, tew, th' mean scotmdrel. Gude cus-
tomers, I should think we ha' been, that be th' worst cut of
all!" She went to a drawer and took out a paper. '**For
repairing cowcimiber frame and warious winders, glass and
time, thirteen and nine-pence,'" she read. She banged the
bill down on the table. "Dang him, 'Tilda, he shall wait for
his money, I can tell yer. And look yer here, my gal, if ever
yer goes sweethearten' agen, don't yer go in for a glazier, for
that come tew expensive, that dew, a-repairing o' th'
broken glass."

-^Mi'f^fm

|HE Fur Coat: The Story
of a Matrimonial Difference^
by Ludwig Fulda* Translated
from the German by Mrs*
)• M* Lancaster*

Professor Max Wiegand to Doctor Gustav Strauch.

Berlin, November 20.

DEAR GUSTAV:— I have some news to tell you to-day
which will certainly surprise you. I have separated
from^my wife, or rather we have separated from each other.
We have come to an amicable agreement henceforth to live
entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone to
her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain. I
am for the present in our old house; perhaps in the Spring
I may look for a smaller house. . . .perhaps not, for I can
hardly hope to find so quiet a workroom as I now have, and
the idea of moving appals me, especially when I think of my
large library. You will, of course, want to know what has
happened, though, to tell the truth, nothing has happened.
The world will seek for all possible and impossible reasons
why two people who married for love and who have for
eleven years lived what is called happily together shotdd now
have decided to part. Yes, this world which thinks itself so
wise, but whose judgments are nevertheless so petty, so
superficial, will doubtless be of the opinion that there is
something hidden .... will include this case too in one of
the two great categories prepared for such affairs, because it
cannot conceive of the fact that life in its inexhaustible
variety never repeats itself and that the same circumstances
♦Translated for Short Stories.

The Fur Coat 51

may assuitie different aspects according to the character and
disposition of those interested. I need not tell you this, my
dear Gustav. You will tmderstand how two finely organized
natures shotild rebel against a tie which binds them together
after they have once become fully convinced that in all mat-
ters of real importance a mutual tmderstanding is possible.
My wife and I are too tmlike. Between her views of life
and mine there yawns an impassable gulf. The first few years
I hoped to influence her, to win her to my ways of thinking —
she seemed so docile, so yielding, took so warm an interest
in my work, so willingly allowed herself to be taught by me.
Not till after our children's death did she begin to change.
Her grief at this loss — a grief which neither of us has ever
been able to live down — matured her .... made her
independent of me. A tendency to morbid introspection
took possession of her and gave increased tenacity to those
ideas and convictions which my influence had hitherto held
in check, though not wholly eradicated. She pltmged deeper
and deeper into those mists of sentimentally fantastic imagin-
ings, passionately demanding my concturence in her views.
She lost all interest in my professional work, evidently
regarding the results of my researches in natural science as
troops from an enemy's camp. At last there was hardly a
subject in the wide realm of nature and human existence on
which we agreed. To be sure we never came to an open
quarrel, but the breach between us was constantly widening.
Every day we saw more and more plainly that though we
lived side by side, we no longer belonged to each other. This
discovery irritated and distressed us, and at last forced all
other feelings into the backgroimd. ' If we had not once
loved each other so dearly, or even if we had now ceasfid to
feel a mutual respect this state of affairs might perhaps have
lasted for years, but our ideas of the true meaning of marriage
were too lofty, our sense of our own dignity as human beings
too profoimd to permit us to be content with so incomplete
a realization of our ideals. I hardly know who spoke first,
but our resolution was at once taken and the decisive words
uttered as calmly and naturally as the overripe fruit falls
from the tree. For the first time in many years we were able
with perfect unanimity of sentiment to discuss a subject of
the greatest importance to iis both, and this fact alone
soothed our overwrought nerves. We parted yesterday with

52 The Fur Coat

the utmost deconim, without a word of reproach, a note of
discord. Memories of our early married life, of the long years
we had lived together made it difficult to refrain from some
manifestation of tenderness, and I assure you that I never
felt greater respect for my wife than at the moment when, all
petty considerations cast aside, the true magnanimity of her
nature asserted itself. Her manner, what she said, and also
what she did not say robbed the situation of all trace of the
commonplace and gave it dignity. Deeply moved, almost
in tears, we clasped hands in farewell, so we may look back
upon the closing scene of our wedded life with tmalloyed
satisfaction.

I had already, with her consent, referred all business
details to our lawyers for we were not even to communicate
with each other by letter.

Life must begin again for both of us and already I breathe
more freely. The Rubicon is passed. I believe that you
will congratulate me.

♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦*♦«

Professor Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch.

Berlin, December i2th«

Dear Gustav: — Pardon me that I have so long delayed
thanking you for your answer of friendly sympathy to my
last letter.

I have been in no condition to write, and even now find it
difficult. You congratulate me without reserve on a step
which you regard as essential to my welfare and to my
intellectual development, but you do not take into considera-
tion what it means to separate from one who has for eleven
years been one's constant companion, day and night. Indeed,
it is only during these last dreary weeks that I, myself, have
realized what the change signifies to me. Habit is all power-
ful, especially with men who, like you and me, live in the
intellectual world and so require a solid substructure.

How are we to take observations from the tower battle-
ments when its foundations are not firmly established? Of
course, I am as certain as ever I was that our decision is
for the best interests of us both, but in this queer world of
ours we can take no step without unlooked for results.

I am bothered from mom till night with trifles to which I
have never given a thought since my bachelor days ....

The Fur Coat S3

things which I will not mention, so absurdly insignificant are
they .... and yet they rob me of my time and destroy my
peace. I am at a loss what steps to take to rid myself of the
thousand petty cares and annoyances which my wife has
hitherto borne for me. These servants ! Now that the cat is
away they think that they can do just as they please, and you
have no idea of the silly obstacles over which I am continually
stumbling, of the wretched pitfalls which beset my path.
Here is one instance out of many .... For several days it
has been very cold, and I cannot find my fur coat. With the
chambermaid's assistance I have turned the whole house
upside down, tmtil she finally remembered that my wife, last
spring, sent it to a furrier's to be kept from the moth. But to
which furrier? I have been to a dozen and cannot find it.

If I had only not agreed with my wife that we were, under
no circumstances, to write to each other, I should simply ask
her .... but it is best so. No strain of the commonplace
must mingle with the sad echoes of our farewell. No. . . .
a farce never follows a drama. Perhaps she might even
imagine that I seize the first pretext to renew relations wftb
her. Never! ....

To-dajj it is six below zero. . . .

♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦«
Professor Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand.

Berlin, December 14.

Dear Emma: — You will be greatly surprised at receiving a
letter from me in spite of our mutual agreement, but do not
fear that I have any intention of opening a correspondence
with you. Our relations terminated with all possible dignity,
and the sealed door shall never be re-opened. I have but to
ask a simple question which you alone can answer. What is
the name of the man to whom you sent my fur coat last
spring? Lina has forgotten the address. Hoping soon to
receive an answer, for which I thank you in advance.

Max.

♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦«♦♦

Frau Emma Wiegand to Prof. Max Wiegand.

Freiburg, December 15.
Dear Max : — His name is Palaschke and he is on Zimmer
street. I cannot understand Lina's forgetfulness, as she took
the coat there herself. Emma.

54 The Fur Coat

Prop. Max Wibgand to Frau Emma Wiegand.

Berlin, December 17.

Dear Emma: — I must trouble you once more .... for
the last time. Herr Palaschke refuses to let the coat go with-
out the ticket, as he has had several disagreeable experiences
which have made it necessary to be very strict. But where is
the ticket? I spent the whole morning looking for it and, of
course, Lina has not the slightest idea where it is. She flew
into a rage when I found a little fault with her, and she leaves
the house to-morrow. I prefer paying her till the end of her
engagement, and shall also give her a moderate Christmas
gift, for I cannot stand such an impertinent person about me.

Well .... be so kind as to write me a line telling me
where to find the ticket. I have already taken a severe cold
for want of the fur coat.

Hoping that you are well and quite comfortable with your
family.

Max.

Frau Emma Wiegand to Prop. Max Wiegand.

Freiburg, Decembci^iQ.

Dear Max: — ^The ticket is either in the second or third
upper drawer of the little wardrobe in the dressing-room or in
my desk, in the right or left pigeon-hole. I could find it in a
minute if I were there. Lina has great faults, but she is
very respectable. I doubt whether you can do better, and
now, just before Christmas, you will not be able to replace
her. You should have put up with her at least a fortnight
longer, but it is none of my business I hope your cold is
better. I am quite well.

Emma.

Prop. Max Wiegand to Frau Emma Wiegand.

Berlin, December 21.

Dear Emma: — ^The ticket is not to be found either in the
wardrobe or in the desk. Perhaps it slipped out when you
were packing and was thrown away. I can -think of no
other explanation.

To-morrow or next day I will again go to Herr Palaschke,

The Fur Coat 55

and try to wheedle him out of my property by all possible
blandishments and asstirances, but to-day I am confined to my
room, for my cold has restdted in a severe attack of neuralgia.

I had a dreadful scene with the cook yesterday. On the
day of your departure she gave me notice, and when I tried to
persuade her to remain she turned on me and told me in a
very insolent manner that I knew nothing about housekeeping,
and that it was only out of sympathy for you, dear Emma,
that she had so long remained with us at such low wages, and
that she should leave immediately. I answered calmly, but
firmly, that she must stay till the end of her engagement.
Then she began to cry and storm and at last was so out-
rageously impertinent as to declare that even you could not
manage to live with me. I lost my temper and must, I
suppose, have called her an "impudent woman," though I
cannot remember saying it. Unfortunately for me I have
had no experience in dealing with viragos.

Two hours later, after supper, I rang and discovered that
she was already gone, bag and baggage, leaving in the kitchen
a badly spelled billet doux in which she threatened me with
a lawsuit for calling her an "impudent woman," in [case T
should refuse to give her a certificate of character.

I am now entirely without servants. The porter's wife
blacks my shoes for a handsome consideration and brings
me from the caf ^ meals which ought to be condemned by the
health inspector. As you have truly remarked, it will be
impossible to replace these women before the New Year,
but I have already written to a dozen employment bureaus
and will go myself as soon as I am able to leave the house.
This has grown into a long letter, my dear Emma, but when
the heart is full the pen runs rapidly.

I also suspect that abominable cook of taking my gold
sleeve buttons .... those left me by Uncle Friedrich
.... though I have, of course, no proof. Have you any
idea where they are? ^f so please drop me a line. Good-bye,
my dear Emma, and I trust you are more comfortable than I
am. Your Max.

♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Frau Emma Wiegand to Prop. Max Wiegand.

Freiburg, December 23d.
Dear Max: — I have read with much sympathy your
account of your little mishaps and annoyances. The cook

56 The Fur Coat

often spoke to me very much as she did to you, but I put up
with it because she is a good cook and only cooks who know
nothing are polite. Now you see what I have had to stand
for years and that there are problems in that department
also which cannot be solved by natural science.

I cannot, at this distance, advise you what to do, and
shotdd not consider myself justified in doing so now that our
intimate relations have been terminated in so dignified a
manner, as you so truly remark in your first letter. As for
the furrier's ticket and the sleeve buttons, I will wager that
I cotdd find them both in five minutes. You must remember
how often you have htmted in vain for a thing which I have
found at the first attempt. Men occasionally discover a new
truth but never an old button.

Since a correspondence has been begun by you I have a
little request to make. I forgot before I left to ask you for
the letters which you wrote me "during our engagement and
which at my request you put in your safe. They are my
property and I should like to have • them as a reminder of
happier days. Will you be so kind as to send them to me?
Wishing you a Merry Christmas,

Emma.
Berlin, December 2Sth.
♦ ♦♦♦♦♦«♦♦♦♦

My Dear Emma: — ^Your kind wish that I might have a
Merry Christmas has not been fulfilled. I never spent so
melancholy a Christmas Eve. You will not wonder that I
could not bear to accept the invitations of friends .... to
be a looker-on at family rejoicings . . . . so I stayed at home,
entirely alone. I found it utterly impossible to get a servant
before New Year and yesterday was even without a helper
from outside. The porter's wife put a cold supper on the
table for me early in the afternoon, for she was too^busy
later with Christmas preparations for her children. A
smoky oil lamp took the place of the Christmas tree which
you always adorned so charmingly and with such exquisite
taste every year, and there were none of those pretty sttr-
prises by which you supplied my wants and wishes almost
before I was conscious of them. There was nothing on the
Christmas table but my old fur coat, which Herr Palaschke —
softened by my entreaties and assurances and perhaps also
by the spirit of Christmastide — ^had aUowed me to take the

The Fur Coal 57

preceding day. It was as -cold as charity in the room, for
the fire had gone out and it was beyond my skill to rekindle
it, so I put on the fur coat, sat down by the smoky lamp, and
read over the letters which I wrote you during the time of
our engagement and which I had taken from their eleven
years' resting place to send to you to-day.

Dear Emma, I cannot tell you how they have moved me.
I cried like a child, not over the tragic ending of our marriage
alone, but at the change in myself which I recognize. They
are very immature and in niany ways not in accordance with
my present way of thinking, but what a fresh, frank, warm-
blooded fellow I was then, and how I loved you! How happy
I was! How artlessly and unreservedly did I give myself up
to my happiness! Till now I have thought that there has
been a gradual, slow change in you alone, but now I see
that I also have altered, and God knows, when I compare the
Max of those days with the Max of to-day, I do not know to
which to give the preference. In the sleepless nights which
I have lately spent, I have thought over the possibility of
transforming myself into the Max I then was, and^grave
doubts have suggested themselves whether the differences
in our views of matters and things were really as great as
they seemed to us, whether there is not outside of them
something eternally htmian, some neutral ground where we
might continue to have interests in common.

Try and see, dear Enmia, whether such a voice does not
speak also to your sotil. We cannot undo the past, but
nothing cotild give me greater consolation in my present
unhappy condition than to know that you could say yes
to this question, for your departure has left a void in my
house and in my life that I can never, never fill.

Thy most tmhappy Max.

Frau Emma Wiegand to Prop. Max Wiegand.

Freiburg, December 27th.

Dear Max: — I very willingly gave you information as
long as it related only to tickets and sleeve buttons, but I
must decline answering the question contained in your last
letter. Did you really believe, you old Pedant, that I left
your home — which was also mine — ^because we disagreed in
our views of matters and things in general? Then you are

$8 The Fur Coat

mightily mistaken. I left you because I saw more plainly
every day that you no longer loved me. Yes, I had become
a burden to you .... you wanted to get rid of me. If in
that dignified parting scene you had said one single tender
word to me, I should probably have stayed, but, as usual,
you were on your high horse, from which you have now had
so lamentable a tumble just because your servants have left
you. / too have served you faithfully, though you do not
seem to have recognized that fact. / never let the fire go
out on your hearth. It was not my fatilt when it grew cold.
Who knows whether you would have noticed the void left
by my going if your fur coat had not also been missing?
This gave you an opportunity of opening a correspondence
with me, and it seems to be only fitting that it should now
close, since you have once more regained possession of your
property. I, at least, have nothing more to say.

Goodbye forever,

Emma.
Prof. Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch.

Berlin, January 8th.

Dear Gustav: — I have a great piece of news to tell you.
My wife returned to me yesterday, and at my earnest solicita-
tion. I thought I cotild no longer live with her, but I find it
equally impossible to live without her. I have jtist discovered
that she too was very unhappy during the time of our separa-
tion, but she wotild never have acknowledged it, for her*s is the
stronger character of the two. I do not know how to explain
the miracle, but we love each other more dearly than ever.
We are celebrating a new honeymoon. The great questions of
life drove us apart, but is it only the little ones which have
reimited us? Would you suppose that one could find a
half-desiccated heart in the pocket of an old i\xc coat? The
stately edifice of my worldly knowledge totters on its fotmda-
tion, dear Gustav. I. have a great deal to unlearn.

Max.

OHN CROFT^S For-
tune : An African Miner's
Story, by Edmund Mitchell*

I.

r]*IVE htindred pounds now, and another five hundred when
your report is in the hands of my directors. Will that
meet you, Mr. Croft.?"

The speaker was a Frenchman, although his English was
irreproachable and his foreign accent of the slightest; and he
looked the true Parisian of the Botilevards, even here on the
hotel veranda in the British West African town of Sekondi,
where Frenchmen among the whites are as rare as albinoes
among the negroes. Those dark alert eyes, the carefully
waxed mustache, the pointed beard, the little tricks of ex-
pression and gesture — ^the uplifting of eyebrows now, the
shrug of shoulders a moment later — all betrayed his national-
ity despite the disguise of a brick-red complexion, a big pith
helmet, and white drill clothing that was frayed at the wrists,
patched on the knees, and more or less mud-stained every-
where.

His companion wore clothes of pretty much the same style,
the work-a-day costume of the European on the Gold Coast;
but broad shoulders and massive limbs, the strong square jaw
under a beard that was rough and imkempt, and blue eyes,
softly meditative but wondrotisly ftdl of dogged determina-
tion, bespoke the man of Anglo-Saxon race just as tmmistak-
ably as did the name by which he had been addressed.

Croft had been slowly pacing the veranda, but at the point
blank question he stopped in front of the canvas chair occu
pied by the Frenchman.

"Just let me have a look at the drawings you spoke about,

♦From Temple Bar.

6o yohn Croft's Fortune

Monsieur Jollivet/' he demanded abruptly, and with hand
extended.

Jollivet's fingers moved to the breast pocket of his jacket,
but there they hesitated.

"In confidence, then," he cautiously stiptdated.

**0f course, in confidence," was the impatient rejoinder.
"When you are dealing with John Croft, sir, there is no need
for that proviso, as every man on the Gold Coast will tell you."

No further demur was made, and Croft, seating himself at a
small bamboo table, proceeded to smooth out the drawings.
They were two in niunber — ^pen-and-ink tracings on glazed
transparent linen, obviously facsimile reproductions of
original sketches on more perishable material. The first was
a route map through a particular district of the Senegal
coimtry, with natural features indicated, but very few names
filled in; the second was a mining plan, showing a line of reef,
shallow stirface workings, and assay restilts noted here and
there in tiny figures. Croft examined both doctmients with
close and critical care, but swift professional imderstanding.

"Who drew these?" he asked, glancing across at JoUivet.

"A countryman of yours — William Millar, by name. He
died, poor fellow, the day after he got back to Dakar."

"Oh, Billy Millar," exclaimed Croft, now in the act of
refolding the tracings. "I knew him well; we were together
on the Rand. He was a good man at his work, and thor-
oughly to be trusted when the whisky bottle wasn't too close
to his elbow. But I don't suppose that failing troubled him in
the back-of-beyond country he had got to here," he mur-
mured with a stem, sad smile, as he handed back the papers.

"My syndicate put up a hundred thousand francs the very
day I took the proposition home to Paris," resixmed Jollivet
eagerly. "Then, as I have told you, I returned to Senegal with
a couple of assistants. But although we have made three tries
now to get up the river, the trouble we have had with our
black boys, not to speak of the accursed malaria, has each
time proved too much for us. Yet you could help us through,
Mr. Croft, I am certain. You Englishmen seem to have the
knack of managing the Kroo boys," he added, in reluctant
and doleful admission of an tmpleasant truth that had to be
recognized.

"Well, Monsieur Jollivet," replied Croft, after a few mo-
ments reflection, "you are aware that I have taken my

John Crop's Fortune 6i

passage for England on to-morrow's boat. But now I know
that it was my old friend Millar who located this show, I'm
inclined to close with your offer. Who are your comrades on
the river?"

**0h, both trained engineers, like yourself. I don't profess
to be that, you tmderstand; I am merely in charge of the
finances. But Delorme and RoUand hold their diplomas
from the fecole Polytechnique."

"Have they had practical experience of mining?"

"Not of gold-mining. This is their first trip out."

Croft smiled somewhat contemptuously, but his mind wan
now made up. He rose again to his feet.

"Well, count the matter as settled," he said decisively.
" Go along to the bank, and bring me back a draft on London
for five hundred pounds. I shall want to take my own head-
boy with me, and my Ashanti servant as well. Luckily both
are in Sekondi — ^they came down from Teberibie to see me off.
You'll engage them for the trip at current rate of wages. The
boat due to-morrow calls at Dakar, so we can all go by it.
Have your agreement ready with the draft, and we shall sign.
I suppose you can be here again in an hour's time?"

The Frenchman sprang up with alacrity.

" I'am delighted! " he cried. " I cotildn't have got a better
man on the whole coast."

"I don't suppose you could," laughed Croft dryly, as he
took the proffered hand and gave the grip that closed the
bargain.

When Jollivet had departed, the Englishman went straight
to his bedroom. From one of his steel trunks he produced
a brooch in the shape of a butterfly, a dagger-shaped orna-
ment for the hair, and a ring engraved with the signs of the
zodiac, all in pure gold, and of rough, but exquisite, native
workmanship. With a little sigh, he proceeded to wrap the
trinkets in tissue paper [and [pack them* carefully into a card-
board box. This last he sealed, using a big iron seal, which
he had made with his own hands at Teberibie, four years
before, when he had first come out to West Africa and dis-
covered that gimimed envelopes were useless in that atmos-
phere of humid heat. Yes, it all came back to him as he
looked at the clumsy die — a horseshoe pattern, for luck —
and dropping into a chair, he let memory ramble.

Fotu" years on the Gold Coast, the land that has earned the

62 John Croft's Fortune

grim name of "The White Man's Grave," and he had stood it
without a single day of serious illness. Malaria had been all
around him, but he had defied its insidious attacks. Of
three-and-twenty young Englishmen who had come out with
him on the voyage, more than a dozen, to his knowledge,
were dead, and the others had long since returned, health
shattered, with the miasma poison in their blood for the rest
of their days. He alone was making his escape unscathed.
And yet, while he stood at the very gate beyond which
safety and happiness lay, a fatal fascination seemed to be
luring him back, as if at the beckoning of some mysterious,
insatiable fiend — ^the ghoul that loved to sit upon the Icmely
sepulchres of the white men whose very souls he had devoured.

John Croft had followed his profession of mining expert in
many dangerous parts of the world — ^in ice-boimd Klondike,
in Coolgardie, typhoid-smitten in its early days, in rough
American camps where the bowie-knife often flashed and the
revolver came ready to men's hands. But he had never seen
the gatmt specter of death mow down his heavy harvest as in
this terrible land. Not once in the whole course of his
career had he flinched from the risks of his calling. Nor did
he flinch from peril now. He was only thinking of the young
wife at home, whom he had left four long years ago, and who
would be well-nigh broken-hearted by this further spell of
separation, this drawing out of weary, anxious, fearful wait-
ing. And she was preparing even now for his home-coming,
as her last joyous letters told.

Poor little Etta! And the baby — he would shed tears of
bitter disappointment, too — ^the little toddling boy who, as
Etta wrote, called loudly every day for '* fader darling" far
away, and prayed nightly for his safe return to those who
loved him.

Yes, rough man as he looked, hard and stem as he was
reckoned among his fellows, John Croft had those who loved
him tenderly and dearly; for well did they know that it was
for their sakes he had endured parting and faced danger —
that it was for them he had accepted the big pay, with the
big hardships and the big risks of the Gold Coast.

Yet, when the family nest-egg had been fairly earned, he
was going to seek for further store. It was not avarice that
drew him oh. No, it was pure love for his dear ones. A
few more months of seU-denial, and the provision for their

John Croft's Fortune 63

future would be surer still. Yes, yes, he was doing the right
thing. And reverie was thrust away.

He reached for his letter case, and wrote his wife words of
cheerful, courageous consolation. Just a little longer, then
he would be back to her, with this extra windfall of a thousand
pounds in his possession. Meanwhile, there were the trinkets
as testimony of his love, made of gold washed by his own
hands from the potmded quartz, fashioned by a native work-
man under his own eye.

Thus John Croft followed his fortune.

n.

They were four weeks up the Senegal river — ^the three
Frenchmen, JoUivet, Delorme, and RoUand; the Englishman,
John Croft; his head-boy, Moses Acquah; his Ashanti serv-
ant, Bruku; and some thirty Kroo "boys" to row the five big
canoes that carried the store of tinned provisions, and the
** trade" of cotton cloths, beads, and cheap trinkets. JoUivet
was in command, as the organizer of the expedition and the
holder of the Paris syndicate's purse. But the leader's
enthusiasm had long since oozed out at his finger tips; he
had become an open scoffer, denouncing the dead prospector
Millar as a fraud, and himself as a fool, for having ever placed
the slightest credence in the papers that had come into his
possession, as he cynically admitted, at the price of a coffin,
and a bottle of rum for the men who had dug the grave.

It had, indeed, been a terrible time — ^bad enough to have
datmted the courage of one of sterner stuff than JoUivet.
Almost from the start the natives on the banks had been
imfriendly, and had withheld supplies of fresh provender;
latterly, they had become openly hostUe, and there had been
incessant attacks, in which blood on both sides had been spUt.
Then both of the yoimg French engineers, new to the life of
hardship, and unseasoned to the climate, had faUen Ul of
malarial fever, imtil their hatchet faces and ague-shaken
frames had fairly scared their compatriot out of his wits, and
made him only anxious to get back to the coast. Moreover,
the black feUows in the boats were now in a state of sullen
discontent, bordering on mutiny. Not only had they btuied
their dead after several affrays, but they were brow-beaten
and back-beaten until all willing service had gone out of their

64 John Croft's Fortune

hearts. For JoUivet had a sharp tongue and a heavy hand,
and he used both unmerciftilly when things went wrong.

On this subject of flogging, remonstrances on the part of
Croft had proved of no avail. Not that he failed to realiase
that the law of the stick is the final law when dealing with
untutored negroes on their own soil. It is the only logic they
can understand. The fear of retribution must be not merely
under their eyes, but on occasion the sting of it must be on
their skins as proof of its genuine reality. Knowing this well,
Croft had thrashed on occasion, and would thrash again. But
what he objected to was the use of the rod for trivial offenses,
whereby its usefulness in graver emergencies was destroyed.

JoUivet, however, who had been a trader on the coast off
and on for a good many years, had acquired a profound belief
in the efficacy of the bamboo. Constant and indiscriminate
whacking was his only idea of compelling obedience, and he
insisted upon having his way — for, with three Frenchmen in
a bimch, there was no talk now of British savoir faire. So
Croft, in a minority of one, had perforce to )rield the argu-
ment and submit to the leader's ordering of things, as any
breach of discipline on his part would have been the signal
for a revolt among the blacks, in which, as like as not, all four
Europeans would have lost their lives. Yet sometimes it
had been only by the sternest self -repression that he had stayed
his strong right arm from snatching the stick out of the white
man's hands and laying it across his cowardly shoulders.
JoUivet had read the grave looks of disapproval, and had met
them by somber scowls.

With all these elements of failtire present, and all these
factors for failure at work, it was only the indomitable will
of John Croft that held the expedition together. He would
not give up the quest for Millar's reef when once it had been
begun. Nor would he turn back at Jollivet's bidding, be-
cause there was a better chance of saving the sick men's lives
by pushing onward and out of the fever-belt, than by expos-
ing them to the risks of the long down-river journey through
deadly swamps. For Croft cotmted now that they were but
a score of miles at most from the point where they would
leave the boats, and strike overland for the hill country where
lay both health and gold.

Four weeks up the river; but only two days more, and th^
worst of the journey would be over!

yohn Croft's Fortune 6$

It was the noontide hour, and, according to invariable
custom, the party was encamped tmder the shade of a grove
of palms. The invalids had been swung in hammocks, and
Croft had gazed pit3ringly on their fever-flushed cheeks, hag-
gard eyes, and parched lips. Ah, if only he could get them
some fresh food — a chicken or two for soup!

At the thought. Croft laid hold of a Winchester rifle,
slipped a few handfuls of beads into his pocket, and called on
Bruku, the bravest lad among all their native following, to
accompany him. He nodded to Jollivet, merely remarking
that he would not be very long gone. Then he set forth
through the forest. There must be some village near, and a
bargain might be made, for the Ashanti boy had a smattering
of aJmost every dialect spoken in West Africa.

When, a few hours later. Croft returned, with Bruku carry-
ing half a dozen chickens sltmg across his shoulder, the boats
were gone! He read everything in a flash. He had been
deserted. Since he wotild not yield to the cotmsels for return,
he had been betrayed.

Bruku had also instantly understood, and was shaking an
angry black fist down the river.

But where was Moses Acquah, the head-boy, of '^hose
fidelity Croft felt assured.? A Fanti by race, an intelligent
and well-educated youth, Acquah had ever been honest and
true to the white master who had treated him firmly, but
always justly and kindly as well. Where was he now? As
Croft again asked himself the question his eye swept the
littered and deserted camp. He caught sight of a sheet of
paper pinned by an old pocket knife to the bole of a palm
tree.

Acquah had been to a missionary school, and he wrote very
fine English, in the most correct commercial style, but with
just a flavor of Scripture now and then. His penciled message
read thus :

*'MosT HoNORBD MASTER : — By letter of this date I beg to inform you
that the French bosses have betaken themselves home. Peradven-
ture I might have remained behind with you, but by God gracious
do your sincerely and respectfully service otnerwise. I shall come
back to-night, or the night after mayhap, and bring the boats, for the
Kroo boys will discharge service to the lion, but not to the vultures.
I know how to operate on their feelings and impectmiosities when
we are alone from above-mentioned vultures. The winds 'and
the waves beat, but the tree stands. My dear Manager, you will fincj

66 John Croft's Fortune

tMig of canned goods per invoice hidden in bushes on edge of river. I
shall leave for the French bosses respectful compliments r# the im-
pudence with which they have taken to insult you.

"I am, sir, yours very faithfully,

"C. MOSBS ACQUAH."

Croft, even in his sorry predicament, could not but laugh
over this delightful letter — delightftd both in its phrasing
and in the comforting assurance it conveyed. Well did he
remember that fine sentence about the tree and the waves
and winds. It had evidently been learned from some school
copy-book, and had specially appealed to poor Acquah's
boyish fancy; for when he had first started his work as clerk
on the Teberibie Mine, by hook or by crook it had been
dragged into every letter that had come from imder his hand.
Indeed the admirable, if somewhat high-flown sentiment had
been eliminated finally from dry business correspondence only
when sixpenny fines had been exacted on every occasion of
its reappearance. But the tree still stood! Whether the
metaphor in its present application was intended to attest
Acquah's firm fidelity or to predict his master's tdtimate
safety mattered little. Croft was well content to take the
meaning both ways.

When the missive was explained to Bruku, the boy from
Kumassi chuckled low and gleefully.

"Moses Acquah him savvy plenty much, mourra (master).
Softly, softly, catch a monkey. French bosses live for die,
sartin sure. Me make chop."

And with this Bruku, after foraging the tinned stores from
the sedges, proceeded calmly to cook the fowls.

It was a lonely, weird night in the forest, with strange
noises all around — ^the snorting of • hippopotamuses in the
liver, the hoarse, eerie cry of sloths among the trees, the
almost human cough of large apes, the caterwauling of wild-
cats, and once the short barking growl of a leopa^ not a
hundred yards from the camp-fire. Croft kept watch from
simset to dawn, his rifle across his knees.

But the day had not far advanced when there came from
down the water the rh3rthmic splash of paddles and the sing-
song of Kroo boys bending to the blades. Gradually the
welcome sounds grew nearer, and, perched on the foremost
prow that appeared around the bend, was Moses Acqi^ah,
keeping the time and leading th^jchorus.
The Panti lad had been true to his word. He had brought

John Croft's Fortune 67

back fotir of the boats. With mercy that reflected credit on
his missionary teaching, he had left one canoe, a share of the
provisions, and half a dozen of the least desirable natives to
help the "French bosses" on their homeward way. But he
had with him nearly the whole of the merchandise'for barter,
and, better still, the iron box wherein lay William Millar's'
route map and mining plan.

With a light heart and an easy conscience John Croft
resumed his journey up-stream.

III.

Six months later Croft stood in the vestibule of a handsome
suite of offices in the Boulevard Haussmann, Paris. His
name had been sent in to the chief director of the "Com-
pagnie de Mines d'Or de Simpahtaiba, S6i6gal." While he
waited, he was studying with amused interest a large map
that hung upon the wall.

Yes, here was Billy Millar's land of promise all beautiftdly
charted in detail, motmtains and streams named now with
fine aboriginal polysyllables, the reef defined by a bold line
of crimson, the mine itself by a glorious patch of golden
yellow. John Croft almost laughed right out, for he had been
the only white man who had ever seen that country since its
first prospector died, and he knew at a glance that the map
on the wall was a mere fiction of the imagination. The very
name Simpahtaiba was one that assuredly had never been
heard in that remote region of Equatorial Africa.

But his reflections were cut short by an invitation to enter
the financial sanctum. Croft knew enough French to under-
stand and to make himself understood.

He confronted a stout, pompous-looking, and over-dressed
individual with a gold chain like a dog collar across his waist-
coat, presumably from the fabulous mine in Upper Senegal.

His card was held between fingers that trembled with
indignant incredulity.

"But you are dead, Monsietir Croft!"

"Excuse me, sir, I am very much alive."

"You are dead, I tell you — ^you were in our prospectus
as dead — ^both you and poor Delorme."

"And who reported my decease, may I ask?"

''Monsieur JoUivet, naturally. Delorme died of fever on

^6 ^ohn Croft's Fortune

granting monarch is a myth, your trusted agent a humbug,
and your mine a fraud."

Turning on his heel he left the Frenchman in sputtering
impotence to make coherent reply. At the door of the room
he encountered a small and meager man of secretarial appear-
ance, who had apparently been a silent witness of the entire
scene. This official gave the visitor his final congi.

'*It is just like English impertinence to come here and
attempt to decry the work of our splendid French engineers
and explorers — ^men like Monsieur Jollivet, a Marchand, a
Lesseps, and a Napoleon of finance rolled into one."

The little fellow was fairly trembling with suppressed
indignation; and now at last John Croft laughed aloud.

"Certainly, monsieur," he replied, when he had again com-
posed his features, **our friend Jollivet is a very clever fellow
indeed. Marchand, Lesseps, and Napoleon, as you say, all
under one skin. But don't you forget that alternative spell-
ings in the native dialects for Simpahtaiba are Fashoda,
Panama, and Waterloo."

With this enigmatic utterance. Croft went his way on to
the Botdevards.

"My directors in London will see me through," was his
calm reflection, as he strolled along toward a tourist agency
to ascertain the hour of the first train for Calais.

And his London directors saw him through. Croft planked
down his two years' savings, to help to back with working
capital his map, his plans, his report, his panning tests, and
his samples of the ore. Every man in the board-room
followed his example, and to still more substantial amounts.
As sole vendor of the property that had been, so to speak,
thrust into his hands. Croft took half of the no-liability
shares in payment of the concession he had secured from the
native chiefs.

The new company is nominally French, for it operates in
French territory. But — ah, perfide Albion! — its owners are
British — almost to a man. There are two notable excep-
tions. A thousand fully paid shares stand in the name of
C. Moses Acquah, and another block of five hundred in the
name of Bruku, the Ashanti boy.

Etta Croft is a happy little woman at last. She had borne
the long months of separation and tmavoidable silence with
courageous patience, for strong was her faith in John Croft's

yohn Croffs Fortune

71

resolute character and in his good fortune as well. Luckily
the Simpahtaiba prospectus had never come her way, to
change tiie young wife's natural anxiety into harrowing and
needless sorrow. Had anything of the kind happened, it is
certain that Monsieur JoUivet wotdd long since have felt keen
regret that a lion had not indeed eaten up the man whom he
so basely abandoned among the swamps of the Upper Senegal.
And John Croft, Jimior, is a happy little boy. For "fader
darling'* will never leave home again. But the child love
to listen to fireside stories about the barking panther which
prowled around the camp-fire that night among the palms,
about the black boy Bruku, who slept while father watched,
and about Moses Acquah, the faithful negro lad who wrote
the "bootifu' letter all by hisself," and kept the time for the
merry Kroo boys paddling up-stream in the breaking dawn

I^APSE in Doctrine:

A Chaperon^s Love-Story, by
Florence E* Stryfcer*

SHE laid the letter down on the table with a smile, and
looked kindly across at the eager face opposite.

"I am afraid you will not like my advice, and I know you
won't follow it. It depends whether you want in life the
romantically tender, or the practically worth while. I am a
cold-bloded creature, Grace, and must acknowledge a good
income [always had more attractions for me than love in a
flat, minus cooks and front seats at the opera.**

The other girl colored hotly and then, with a gesture half
tender, half resentful, picked up the letters {Tom4,he table.

**He*s awfully in earnest. He's ambitious, too. He will
get on. Everyone says so '*

"No doubt, but, meanwhile, what will you do?'* continued
the other voice, gentle, but half -mocking.

**0h — cook, I suppose; you just suggested it."

"Poor little lady. Well — what's the use of asking advice,
dear, you have already decided."

The girl hesitated a moment, then swept across the room
and hid her face on the older woman's shoulder.

"Don't think me a fool, Agnes. I cannot help it. You
never seem to have been in love, to understand."

* * I have never lost my head , if that 's what you mean. How-
ever, perhaps you have chosen the better part. They say so
in the poetry books."

"Did you never meet a man who made you forget his
income? suddenly demanded the blushing little Grace.

The other laughed softly.

"There was a man once who tempted me, he — well, he

♦Written for Short Stories.

A Lapse in Doctrine 73

hated evening dress and he considered George Meredith
inferior to Thackeray, and he had other defects. He was
frightfully poor, so I recovered my senses soon. No, I
prefer my comfortable spinsterhood — that reminds me, I am
going to chaperon to-night. The Clary girls. Do you realize
I am old enough to chaperon? It is a dubious pleasure at
times, but this evening the play is good and they have prom-
ised that the dinner be excellent."

The younger turned toward the door. *' Good-bye, I am
going to answer his letter. You need not sigh. Do you
know I am a wee bit sorry for you, Agnes.*'

**For me!" Really there must be some truth in the idea
that first love is a mental disease. Go — commit the fatal act,
child, but listen — I'm sorry for myself sometimes; there, I
wish you joy, dear, lots of it."

However, no memories trouble Agnes Graham's cheerful
complacency as she followed the Clary girls and their youthftil
hosts into the dining-room of the Livingstone.

The gay radiance of the room, the pretty gowns, and merry
music, the brilliant flowers; the excellent and well-served
menu, and the happy laughter of her companions roused her
usually calm nature into a gentle state of exaltation. She
watched with appreciative eyes the young things play at love,
and talked on idly and pleasantly as the dinner wound its way
through many courses.

Once during a pause, the man next her, an employee at the
State Department, with aspirations toward a diplomatic
career, began a story which she half heard. "I call him a
plucky fellow. He's over at that table in the comer. He
deserves a better fate than death in some hole of a fever hos-
pital."

These phrases vaguely reached her, and her eyes wandered
to the table in the comer. Her color suddenly heightened,
and she turned to the speaker. 'The man in the comer,
what did you say was his name ?"

**Horton, as I was saying "

"Won't you repeat your story. I am sorry I did not hear
it."

**It's not so much, but the men at the office were talking
about him to-day. He's a doctor, and has been professor of
some little one-horse western college. Some friend of his was
awfully hard up and wanted to be married and had a mother to •

74 A Lapse in Doctrine

support and all that. Well, this Horton resigns and works
this friend into his vacant place, and then to make them
believe he does not regret it, gets a place down in South
America with some mining company, they say it's a regular
fever hole, some of the boys in the office knew the friend and
told me. He sails Saturday, I believe."

"I think he was rather foolish, don't you?" said Miss
Graham, quietly.

"Why, yes, I suppose so," assented the yoimg diplomat.
He had secretly regarded it as a rather fine thing, possessing
certain romantic tendencies himself.

The party in the comer broke up, the men passing out near
her table. She heard one of them ask Horton some question
and his answer was audible: "Sorry, but I leave here on the
nine-thirty."

Miss Graham resumed her usual smile and gave her atten-
tion to the last course. She was especially gay as they drove
to the theater, and the Clary girls had occasional inward
qualms as to their wisdom in the choice of a chaperon.

Still Miss Graham was such a social power they smothered
their jealousy in the honor of being in her party and tried
to overlook the growing devotion manifested toward hei by
their own escorts.

Toward the end of the first act. Miss Graham suddenly
asked her escort the time.

"Quarter of nine. Capital plot, isn't it?"

"Yes, very."

Instead of the stage scene there stretched before her the
long, dull sandy reaches of a western inland county. She
heard a man's voice pleading, tenderly, passionately, almost
roughly, as he guided their little buggy beneath the yellow
stone walls of the State college.

He hiad said nine-thirty.

She sat silent and watched the curtain fall on the act with
ips drawn and white.

It must be nine.

The orchestra began with a flare of [drums a two-step
extravaganza.

There Miss Graham told the lie of hei life. "I do not feel
very well. I am going out into the fresh air for a few mo-
ments. No, I will not allow anyone to come with me, not
one of you. *

A Lapse in Doctrine 75

Sweeping aside their protests she hurried into the vestibtde
and out to a carriage.

Which station shotdd she order? She looked despairingly
up and down the vast dimly lighted avenue. Suppose she
made a mistake. At last with an unspoken prayer she named
one to the driver.

The carriage dashed up the great street and she shrank
back in the comer and tried to collect her confused thoughts.
Once Grace's girlish little face with its happy smile flashed
before her. **And I called her a fool,** she whispered.
" What if she saw me now? ** Then a host of clamorous fears
beset her. Suppose it were too late.

The carriage stopped. They had arrived. She looked up
as she stepped out at the vague, majestic outline of the
Capitol which loomed above her, and then beyond to where
shone the soft brilliant stars of a southern winter night.
Then she entered the great building with a steady heart and
walked anxiously up and down the aisles. He was not there,
but it was only nine-fifteen.

She watched the door with feverish eyes. How the men
and women poured in! She heard a train called. Still he
was not there. More people; always more people, but he
did not come.

She strained painfully her anxious vision to catch a glimpse
of the familiar figure. The minutes slowly passed. He must
have gone to the other station. It was the just retribution
of the even-handed gods.

Then her heart stood still. He came through the doors
hastily, with the same old awkward gait, peering nearsightedly
at the station clock.

She advanced with swift grace. ** Good evening. You are
a traitor to your old friends. Here in Washington and no
word to me. I have been forced to waylay you at the[railroad
station."

His intent surprise was evident. "Agnes, Agnes Graham,

you here ! How did you know " He stared at her evening

gown and drooping roses She answered gayly:

"The newspapers are strong on distinguished visitors. Of
course they mentioned you."

He flushed and shook his head impatiently. "You still
speak falsely if occasionj^demand it, I see; however it is
delightful to meet you again. You look very well."

76 A Lapse in Doctrine

**So you are going away from your college life. Going to
South America. You ought not to do it. Why should you?
It is not worth while."

*' You did not think Sandy City worth while if I remember."
He spoke sharply, with the same, old tactless, naked em-
phasis.

Then the gatekeeper's voice roared over them: ** Nine-
thirty express for New York."

He started involuntarily and moved from her toward the
exit. He began to mutter something about his pleasure
at the unexpected meeting and his regret that he must say
good-bye. She felt he was striving to utter the proper
sentiment, to do the proper thing, and her heart grew sick
at the thought that her wild little attempt was about to fail.
One moment more and she would be alone with a bitter
memory for daily company, the secret knowledge of a terrible
mistake. They stood at the gate now. He touched her
hand and in her confusion her program slipped to his feet.
He picked it up, glancing vaguely at it, then his face changed
swiftly and he looked from it straight into her eyes. Then
he took her gently by the arm and led her away.

'*Let us find a quiet place and talk."

'*But the train!"

"There are other trains."

"You must not stay just to gossip with me," she protested
feebly, but he made no response, only led her into a secluded
comer and spread the program out upon his knee.

He read slowly:

"'The Lafayette Theatre, March loth,* that is to-night.
You have been there and you came away. You came to the
station here. Be honest this once in your life and tell me
why you did it."

There was a long silence. He looked at her with list-
compelling eyes. At last with cold and trembling fingers
she unloosened one of her roses and laid it on his hand.

"Perhaps," she said very softly, "you do not want it; it
it growing old and faded and it is not as sweet as it once was."

His fingers closed upon it.

"For me it is the only rose that ever blossomed, but it is
not possible it is mine. You know I am a rough gardener
and I have no pleasant spot in which to put it.' His voice
deepened. He watched her closely. * Listen. I am poorer,

A Lapse in Doctrine

77

I am older, I am less worthy, less likely to amount to any-
thing in the world, farther from your ideal man than I was
five years ago, more uncouth, more of a failure. Are you
sure you want me to keep it? For God's sake don't make
any mistake about it now."

She shook her head and he saw the tears. Then his hand
closed down on hers and they sat silent for a long time.

**What was it that worked the miracle, sweetheart?"
he at last whispered.

She smiled faintly.

'*The nine-thirty express I think you said, the nine-thirty
you know."

He did not understand, but he refrained from a second
question. He was content.

OONLIGHT: An Abb^^s
Story, by Guy de Maupassant*
Translated ' from the French by
Virginia Watson*

^ 1^ 1^ 1^

ABBE MARIGNAN'S martial name suited him weU. He
was a tall, thin priest, fanatic, excitable, yet upright.
All his beliefs were fixed, never oscillating. He believed sin-
cerely that he knew his God, penetrated His plans, desires and
intentions.

When he walked with long strides through the avenue of
his little cotmtry parsonage, he wotdd sometimes ask himself
the question : "Why has God done this ?" And he would dwell
on this with his mind, putting himself in the place of God, and
he almost always found the answer. He would never have
cried out in a frenzy of pious humility: "Thy ways, O Lord,
are past finding out."

He said to himself, "I am God's servant; it is right for
me to know the reason of His deeds, or to guess it if I do
not know it."

Everything in nattire seemed to him to have been created
in accordance with an admirable and absolute logic. The
"whys" and "becauses" always balanced. Dawn was given
to make awakening joyful, the day." to ripen the harvest, the
rains to moisten it, the evenings for preparation for slumber,
and dark nights for sleep.

The four seasons corresponded perfectly Jwith the needs of
agriculture, and no suspicion had ever come to the priest of
the fact that nature has no intentions; that, on the con-
trary, everything which exists must adapt itself to the hard
exactions of epochs, climates and matter.

But he hated woman — ^hated her unconsciously and despised
her by instinct. He often repeated the words of Christ.

^Translated for Short Stories.

Moonlight 79

"Woman, what have I to do with thee?" and hewotdd add:
''It seems as if God Himself were dissatisfied with this work
of His." She was the tempter who had led the first man
astray, and who, since then, had been ever busy with her
work of damnation, the feeble creature, dangerous and for-
ever troubling. And even more than their sinful bodies, he
hated their loving hearts.

He had often felt their tenderness directed toward himself,
and, though he knew that he was invtdnerable, he grew angry
at this need of loving that was always trembling in them.

According to his belief, God had created woman for the sole
purpose of tempting and proving man. One must not ap-
proach her without defensive precautions and fear of pos-
sible snares. She was, indeed, just like a snare, with her lips
open and her arms stretched out to man.

He had no indtdgence except for nuns, Arhom their vows
rendered inoffensive; but he was stem with them all the
same, because he felt that at the bottom of their chained
and humble hearts the everlasting tenderness was burning
brightly — ^that tenderness which was shown even to him, a
priest.

He felt this cursed softness even in their docility, in the
low tones of their voices when speaking to him, in their
lowered eyes, and in their resigned tears when he reproved
them rudely. And he would shake his cassock on leaving the
convent doors, and walk ofE, lengthening his stride as if
flying from danger.

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a little house
near him. He was bent upon making a sister of charity of
her.

She was a pretty, mocking madcap. When the abb^
preached she laughed, and when he was angry with her she
embraced him tightly, drawing him to her heart, while he
sought involuntarily to release himself from this restraint
which, nevertheless, filled him with a sweet pleasure, awaken-
ing in his depths the sensation of paternity which slumbers in
every man.

Often, when walking by her side along the road, between
the fields, he spoke to her of God, of his God. She never
listened to him, but looked about her at the sky, the grass and
flowers, and in her eyes shone the joy of life for every one to
see. At times she would spring forward to catch soma

do Moonlight

flying creature, crying out as she brought it back: "Look,
uncle, how pretty it is. I want to hug it!*' And this desire
to "hug*' flies or lilac blossoms disquieted, irritated and
roused the priest, who saw, even herein, the ineradicable
tenderness that is always germinating in women's hearts.

Then there came a day when the sacristan's wife, who kept
house for Abb^ Marignan, told him with caution, that his
niece had a lover.

Almost suffocated by the fearftd emotion this news roused
in him, he stood there, his face covered with soap, for he was in
the act of shaving.

When he had suflSciently recovered to reflect and speak, he
cried: "It is not true; you lie, M^lanie!"

But the peasant woman put her hand on her heart, saying:
"May our Lord judge me if I lie. Monsieur le Cur^. I tell
you she goes to him every night when your sister has gone to
bed. They meet by the river side ; you have only to go there
and see, between ten o'clock and midnight,"

He ceased scraping his chin, and began to walk up and
down with heavy steps, as he always did in moments of earnest
meditation. When he began shaving again he cut himself
three times from his nose to his ear.

All day long he kept silent, full of anger and indignation-
To his priestly hatred of this invincible love was added the
exasperation of her spiritual father, of her tutor and pastor
deceived and played with by a child, and the selfish emotion
shown by parents when their daughter annotmces that she
has chosen a husband without them and in spite of them.

After his dinner he tried to read a little, but could not,
growing more and more angry. When ten o'clock struck he
took up his cane, a formidable oak stick, which he was wont
to carry in his nocturnal walks when visiting the sick. And
he smiled at the enormous club which he twirled menacingly
in his strong, country fist. Then he raised it suddenly and,
gritting his teeth, brought it down on a chair, the broken back
of which fell over on the floor.

He opened the door to go out, but stopped on the sill, sur-
prised by the splendid moonlight, of such brilliance as is
seldom seen.

And, as he was gifted with an emotional nature, one such
as all the Fathers of the Church should have, those poetic

Moonlight 81

dreamers, he felt suddenly distracted and moved by all the
grand and serene beauty of this pale night.

In his little garden, all bathed in soft light, his fruit trees,
in a row, cast on the ground the shadow of their slender
branches, scarcely clothed with verdure, while the giant
honeysuckle, clinging to the wall of his house, exhaled de-
licious odors, filling the clear, warm air with a kind of sweet-
ened, perfumed soul.

He began to take long breaths, drinking in the air as
drunkards drink wine, and he walked slowly along, enchanted,
marveling, almost forgetting his niece.

As soon as he was outside of the garden, he stopped to gaze
upon the plain all inundated by the caressing light, bathed in
the tender, languishing charm of the serene night. At each
moment was heard the short, metallic note of the toad, and
distant nightingales poured out their music note by note,
their light, vibrating music that sets one dreaming without
thinking, made for kisses, for the seduction of moonlight.

The abb^ walked on again, his heart failing, though he
knew not why. He seemed weakened, suddenly exhausted;
he wanted to sit down, to rest there, to contemplate, to
admire God in His works.

Down yonder, following the undulations of the little river,
a great line of poplars wound in and out. A fine mist, a
white vapor that the moonbeams traversed, silvered and
made shining, hung about and over the mountains, envelop-
ing all the tortuous course of the water like a kind of light and
transparent cotton.

The priest stopped once again, penetrated to the depths of
his soul by a growing and irresistible tenderness.

And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over him;
he was asking one of those questions that he sometimes put
to himself.

**Why did God make this? Since the night is destined for
sleep, unconsciousness, repose, forgetftdness of everything,
why make it more charming than day, softer than dawn or
evening; and why this seductive planet, more poetic than the
sun, that seems destined, so discrete is it, to illuminate things
too delicate and mysterious for the great light, that makes so
transparent the shadows?

**Why does not the greatest of bird-singers sleep liket

89 MoofUighi

others? Why does it potir forth its voice in this mysterious
shade?

"Why this half- veil thrown over the world? Why these
tremblings of the heart, this emotion of the spirit, this lan-
guishing of the body? Why this display of seductions that
men do not see, since they are lying in their beds ? For whom
is destined this sublime spectacle, this abundance of poetry
cast from heaven to earth?"

And the abb^ could not tmderstand.

But see, yonder on the edge of the meadow, under the arch
of trees bathed in a shining mist, two figures walking side by
side.

The man was the taller, and held his arm about his sweet-
heart's neck and kissed her brow every little while. They
imparted hfe to the motionless landscape that enveloped
them as a frame worthy of them. The two seemed but a
single being, the being for whom was destined this calm and
silent night, and they came toward the priest as a living
response, the response his Master sent to his question.

He stood still, his heart beating, all upset, and it seemed to
him that he was beholding some Biblical scene, like the loves
of Ruth and Boaz, the accomplishment of the will of the
Lord, in one of those glorious stories of which the sacred
books tell. The verses of the Song of Songs began to ring in
his ears, the cries of ardor, all the poetry of this poem of love.

And he said tmto himself: '* Perhaps God has made such
nights as these to veil the ideal of the love of men."

He shrank back from this couple with arms intertwined,
that still advanced. Yet it was his niece. But he asked him-
self now if he wotdd not be disobeying God. And does not
God permit love, since He surrounds it with such visible
splendor?

And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he had
penetrated into a temple where he had no right to enter.

LATTER Day Co-
pKettia: A Summer Love
Story^ by Agnes Louise
Provost* Illustrations by

Bessie G)Ilins Pease*

^

^

^

fM

MISS THATCHER slipped through the chattering groups
on the hotel veranda like a modest-plumaged wren
among birds of paradise, only no Jenny-wren ever held her
brown head so independently high as this one. Spirit and
much decision of character spoke in the uplift of Miss Thatch-
er's firmly-rotmded little chin and the airily defiant gold-brown
curls beneath her nurse's cap. It was an immensely becoming
cap» as was the trim blue tmiform of her calling, and it was

^Written lor Short Stories.

84 A Latter Day Cophetua

small wonder that even in this fourth week of her stay here,
the heads still turned for a second look as she passed by.
That the masculine heads should turn was only to be expected ;
that the feminine heads should follow suit was a logical
result of that barefaced masculine interest. It really was
scarcely respectable that old Mrs. Dimmick*s trained nurse
should be so audaciously pretty.

Near the veranda steps a young man perched negligently
on the railing, apparently studying the landscape with listless
eye. This was Mr. Robert Hamilton, a yotmg gentleman of
pre-glacial ancestry and an income so comfortable that the
uncharitable said it bored him to spend it, and the eyes which
had first taken note of Miss Thatcher's appearance now ttimed
swiftly for a surreptitious peep at him. He satisfied their
curiosity, in the most obligingly prompt manner. He was
down from the railing in the fraction of a second, met the
white-capped maiden at the head of the steps with his genially
pleasant bow and started down by her side, apparently as
indifferent to the many inquisitive eyes leveled at his back as
though they had not existed.

" ',In robe and crown the king stepped down,
To meet and greet her on her way.' "

It was the merest murmuring breath, coming from a cruelly
thoughtless group of girls just ascending the steps, but it
reached them both, and Miss Thatcher's cheeks flamed tmder
the saucy white cap. Not a muscle of Hamilton's face qmv-
ered, but there was a glint in his eyes not altogether pleasant,
and as they started down toward the boat house the language
he used in the depths of his sub-consciousness was suflScient
to imperil his immortal sotd.

"It was awfully good of you to give me this afternoon,"
was all he said aloud, bending over the brown head a trifle
more soUcitously than he might have done without the spur of
that whispered quotation. **I feel qtiite conceited whenever
you accept an invitation ; you are such an inaccessible person."

Miss Thatcher tilted her nose and laughed somewhat flip-
pantly, mistress of herself once more.

** Heaven forbid that I should have on my soul the sin of
making any man conceited. Since I have such a baleftd
influence, perhaps it is just as well that I am going away in a
few days."

"Oh, not really!"

A Latter Day Cophetim 85

Hamilton looked astonished and injured. Then he won-
dered swiftly if this could be a swift, impetuous resolve grow-
ing out of the remark she had just overheard.

**0h yes, really. Mrs. Dimmick has decided that this
climate does not agree with her, so we are off to find another."
rl m.

Mr. Hamilton's grunt was enigmatic in all save disapproval
as he helped her into his little bobbing cedar boat, and he
mentally consigned Miss Thatcher's difficult patient to a
climate from which there is no known probability of escape.

For a little way he rowed in silence, paying rather unneces-
sary attention to his oars and giving out considerable good
muscle to get well out of sight of those confounded gaping
idiots on the hotel veranda. He was thinking of the quota-
tion about the king and the beggar maid, resenting it hotly,
yet uncomfortably aware of its application. He had taken
a lively interest in this white-capped professional maid from
the first day she had come here with her querulous, exasper-
ating patient, but not until she had spoken of going had he
realized what a gap her absence would leave in his days.
Facts must be faced; he was desperately, stubbornly, irresist-
ibly in love with Mrs. Dimmick's trained nurse.

He knew how much gossip his attentions to her on her
daily ** constitutionals" had caused, how people had shrugged
their shoulders and said cruel little cutting things, not so
much of him, because he was a Hamilton, and was only
amusing himself as men will, but of her, because she was
nobody at all, and ** should know her place better, my dear,
than to be accepting attentions from a man like Mr. Hamil-
ton, who will of course marry in his own station." He
thought of his stately sisters and statelier mother, and what
they would say to her and the possible horde of queer rela-
tions she might have. Well, there might be a row, but they
must accept the inevitable. He was the one to be suited,
and he would marry as he pleased.

'*Do you know how lonely I shall be when you leave?"
he asked abruptly.

"Lonely?" She looked the picture of unsuspecting sur-
prise. **Why think how many there will be left. This
isn't going to be a general exodus."

**They don't count. They used to, but they don't now."

86 A Latter Day CophOm

"Oh, poor things 1 And what would you like them to do,
to please your lordship?"

Her wilftd evasion of his meaning merely made him the
more determined.

" I can say it plainer, and I will. I mean that your pres-
ence is more to me than anything else in the world. It has
meant more and more to me every day since I first met. I
ask you to marry me. If you refuse me, I shall ask again."

After the first wave of color swept over her face she looked
a little pale, and sat there in the stem with compressed lips
and eyes tmnaturally bright. There was a quiver in her
voice, but there was no mistaking the words she used.

** You are asking a thing quite impossible. Please never,
never speak of it again."

He was half stupefied at her vigor. Perhaps he was no
more conceited than the general run of his kind, but down in
the bottom of his heart he had not really expected a refusal
when he had spoken of it, and certainly not a refusal as
emphatic as this. The world had taught him to know his
value on the matrimonial market, that was all. Besides,
he was hurt in no small degree.

The ride came to a hasty conclusion, and Mr. Robert
Hamilton went glumly back to his own kind and their aniuse-
ments. But he could not know that as soon as she could
get alone. Miss Thatcher went over all the little scene again,
holding her hands to her throat because it ached with tmshed
tears, yet quivering with resentment as she remembered that
wretchedly apt quotation.

"I'll play beggar maid to no man's Cophetual" she de-
clared vehemently, and then, womanlike, she leaned her head
down on her arms and wept the passionate, scalding tears of
outraged pride and utter loneliness.

Mr. Robert Hamilton stood irresolutely in the doorway
of the florist's where he had been ordering violets for Kitty
Harrington and red roses for the stunning brunette who was
visiting the Demarests, and wondered what he should do
next. It was not a decent time of day to be making calls,
and he did not want to make calls anyway. He might
easily hunt up some of the boys and demand amusement? of
them, but he was not so sure that he wanted^the boys either.

A Latter Day Cophetua

87

In fact, Mr. Hamilton was in the lamentable position of not
knowing what he did want.

A trim, well-fitted yotmg person in brown came into his
field of vision, headed his way. Little saucy spirals oi gold-
brown hair crept out from tmder the brown hat and framed
cheeks which the keen January air had kissed into a glorious
flame of color.

Hamilton's drowsing faculties awoke with a jump. He

went suddenly queer inside, as though he was quite hollow,
and then he collected his scattered sensations and faced her
as she came abreast of him. He had not seen her in a year
and a half, nor had the faintest idea of her whereabouts.

"Oh, Mr. Hamilton, surely!"

A friendly little gloved hand came out with imptdsive
cordiality. It was like her to be so warm and genuine, and

88 A Latter Day Copheiua

Hamilton almost forget to let the hand go as he looked at
her and had chaotic recollections of a light cedar boat with a
girl in the stem, and frisky little gleaming curls under a
trained nurse's cap. She had stuck so stubbornly to that
uniform that he had never seen her in any other dress, and it
was no wonder that this apparition took his breath.

** I never was so surprised in all my life! '* he fotmd himself
repeating delightedly. ''Where did you drop from, and what
have you been doing with yourself all this time?"

"Walking up and down in the world, and going to and fro
in it,*' she responded with her accustomed flippancy in the
presence of irresponsible yotmg men. **I continued with
Mrs. Dimmick, you know, so our peregrinations took us over
rather a wide field.**

"Oh, still searching for the kind of a climate that doesn't
come. By the way, how is my dear friend Mrs. Dimmick?*'

"Dead, poor soul.*'

"Allah is merciful!" said Hamilton devoutly, from the
depths of his recollections of the defunct lady's peculiarities,
and a glimmer of a smile flickered for an instant in Miss
Thatcher*s eye.

An inspiration direct from the gods came upon Hamilton
as she turned as though to continue on her way. He fitted
his step to hers, having no intention of being dismissed so
soon.

"May I walk with you? Thanks. By the way, it's just
about lunch time, and I have no end of things to say to you.
Won*t you take lunch with me. Please now, it isn't Christian
to turn me adrift in five stingy little minutes. There's Mar-
tin's just ahead. I wish you would."

An unholy mischief danced in the brown eyes, but to his
gaze the lids were pensively lowered, and when they were
raised, only the most childlike innocence was mirrored there.

"Are you sure it would be quite proper?"

"Proper! Why of course it would. Now don't say no.
If you are only worrying about the proprieties, 1*11 go to the
nearest telephone and scare up some kind of a chaperon.*'

He held his breath and prayed that she would decline this
suggestion, which she did with refreshing promptness.

"Thank you, I don*t care for the 'scared up* variety.
Martin *s let it be, then, and if I am roundly scolded for not
appearing at lunch, I shall tell them it was all your fault,"

A Latter Day Cophetua 89

"Are they disagreeable people that you are with now?**
he asked sympathetically, and the convenient drop curtain
went down again over her eyes.

**No,** she said pensively. **0h, no, I can*t exactly say
that they are. They really are very kind to me.*'

Over lunch, which he could scarcely eat for looking at her,
Hamilton came to three inevitable conclusions. First, that
she was prettier and more delightful than ever. Second,
that if she had been a dozen trained nurses, nay, if she were
a kitchen maid with sleeves rolled up to her pretty elbows,
she would yet be like no other woman in the world, and the
only one for him. Third, the man who says that he has of
his own strong will cured himself of the aberration called
love is a fool among fools and lieth unto himself.

From all of which it will be seen that Mr. Robert Hamilton
was suffering from a very bad case of cardiac affection. He
remembered ruefully the prompt manner in which she had
cancelled his matrimonial claims that day of the lake, how he
had followed her and her patient to their next abode, spurred
by refusal into blind determination, and had made a glitter-
ing ass of himself by proposing twice in one day. On the
evening of that same day he had left in some haste, much
embittered with the world in general and determined from
that hour to stand aloof in remote scorn from the wiles of
the eternal feminine. To-day he had met her again for the
first time since that last proposal, and at the pressure of her
hand in friendly greeting he had subsided into driveling
idiocy with the delight of seeing her again. Verily, phil-
osophized Hamilton scornfully, man's resolves are putty,
his heart of tinder and his brains of dough.

His philosophy was bom of a warm recollection of those
two refusals, and an uneasy consciousness that if he did not
watch himself, he would be incurring the same disaster
again before he knew it. He registered a stem resolve to
be invtdnerable, and on the heels of this came an inspiration
huge with diplomacy and guile. He leaned forward con-
fidentially.

**Do you remember hearing me speak of my chum. Will
Russell? I played best man at his wedding last week.
Happiest fellow you ever saw."

**I should hope so," said Miss Thatcher, with spirit. **He

^o A Latter Day Cophetua

would be an tingrateful wretch not to be happy on his wed-
ding day."

"Oh we are all ungrateful wretches, so far as that goes."
The embryo diplomat was looking thoughtfully down at the
table, so soberly that the angels in heaven might well have
bent sympathetic ears to listen. "We do not deserve one-
tenth of the good fortune we get. If it were not that the
gods in their wisdom so fashioned a woman's eye that it is
blessedly myopic toward our weak points, this world wotdd
be a howling wilderness of bachelors."

"Very prettily said," admitted the lady with a ravishing
smile. "I have never noticed that I have any tendency to
that sort of myopia myself, but I dare say it is quite true.
There is hope for you at least, for the conviction of sin is said
to be the first step to reform."

Mr. Hamilton looked a trifle dubious, and played his next
card with some perturbation of spirit.

" It is to be hoped so. To tell the truth — ^although I sup-
pose you've guessed it already — I am seriously contemplat-
ing it myself."

"Contemplating what? Not reform, surely! Murder?
Arson? Please don't be so mysterious; it is very agitating."

Miss Thatcher's eyes were very wide and bright, and it was
not for the young man opposite her to know that when she
tucked her hands in the shelter of her lap that way she was
holding them tight together in a high nervous tension in
which she would never have permitted a patient to indulge.
He laughed a little, and lifted his eyes from their study of the
table linen to permit himself a delightful inspection of hers.

"Oh, committing matrimony, you know; settling down,
and all that sort of thing. Taking life a bit less as a comic
opera and a little more as a serious proposition."

"Why how interesting!"

Oh man, man, that thou knowest not a danger signal even
when thou fallest over it! Are the unending tomes of history
to be of no avail, that a man can yet live who thinks to apply
any one rule to any two women, to demonstrate by a mathe-
matical formtda, that elusive creation which an inscrutable
Providence made to be the natural complement of his being?

"Yes, really, I have sized the matter up from all points,
and I have decided that when all is said and done, there
isn't a scrap of real romance about the whole thing. Marry-

A Latter bay Cophetua $t

ing has come to be a cold-blooded business proposition on
both sides, and I am going to do the calm, sensible thing,
and abide by the result as I shotdd abide by any other legiti-
mate business transaction."

''This is positively fascinating. Do tell me some more."

She need not have taken it so cooly, Hamilton thought,
resentftdly. It nettled him, and he went a little deeper into
the mire of his doom.

** Why, yes, if you care to listen. It is awfully good of you
to be so interested. You have heard of Powelson, haven't
you? He is that grim old Chicago capitalist who is such a
terror on the 'Change, and he has just bought a place in New
York to see how they would like to live here."

Miss Thatcher's serious attention never wavered for a
second, but there was a glint in her eye which lost not an
expression of his face.

"Oh yes, certainly. Not to have heard of Mr. Powelson
is as bad in these days as not having heard of Noah or Christo-
pher Columbus. You are not going to marry Mr. Powelson,
are you? Methinks the plot thickens."

"Oh, not so much," he protested deprecatingly. "You
see, Mr. Powelson has a niece, a very charming young lady.
I am due at a reception to-night, and I have every reason
to believe that the yotmg lady will be there."

Something in her face, incredulity struggling with mirth,
made him pause uncomfortably. She was laughing at the prig-
gish conceit of it, that was obvious. Ugh I he hated himself I

"Ah, I see, Mr. Hamilton. How stupid I have been. Is
it too early to offer congratulations?"

"Oh, really, you know, I haven't met the lady yet. I'm
just hoping to, to-night."

Her laugh rippled out lightly, and somehow he felt that
he had shrunken at least a foot in five nmiutes. He grew
warm around his collar, and cursed himself vehemently for
being a thousand different varieties of fool, as that musical
little mockery still sotmded in his ears. What an ass, what
a hopeless, pompous, egotistical ass she must think him!
But he was in for it now.

"Your modesty does you credit," she said at last, her
words trailing off into another little quivering sigh of laughter.
"How flattered the lady should bel What is her name, by
the way?"

g2 A Latter Day Cophetim

"Why, Powelson, I suppose." Hamilton was racking his
brain madly for some way out of the ridiculoixs position into
which he had dragged himself, and he found it difficult to
think connectedly.

'*I see I am in for a confession," he said, reddening un-
comfortably. Very few people could boast of having made
Mr. Hamilton blush. **I suppose I might better have come
out with it at first. Miss Thatcher, since I graduated from
knickerbockers I have lost my head more or less over a good
many girls, as most boys and men do from the time they are
old enough to take notice. I loved one woman — and I lost
her. Now I have deliberately picked out this lady, whom
I have never seen, and have determined to make her my
wife if I possibly can, and leave the element of love out of the
matter entirely. I suppose you think it a small sort of
business, this setting oneself to win out an heiress, but it is a
legitimate combination of capital, and has the sanction of
usage. Society smiles on it very indulgently. If I win the
lady, I shall give my wife every honor and consideration that
a man can give a woman, and we shall be the best of friends.
I dare say I shall be as happy as any of them, and happier
than most. People who do not start their matrimonial
careers in a turmoil of excitement are less likely to end up
in one."

Miss Thatcher dropped her napkin on the table with a
certain definiteness of gesture, and looked at him inscrutably.

"Your plans are very interesting," she said lightly, but I
fear you have left out one important factor, and that is the
lady. No, thank you; you cannot see me home to-day. I
am down-town on very serious business, and must visit the
dressmaker forthwith."

Five minutes later, Hamilton turned back from putting
her on a car and strode along very much out of humor with
himself. As a diplomat he was a flat failure; that was
obvious. He had killed his cause in trying to cure it, and
this spirited, oddly independent beggar maid would never
look at Cophetua again. Bah! he had been an idiot! Why,
she wouldn't even give him permission to call on her!
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Mr. Hamilton made his way slowly through the chattering
crush of the reception, feeling in a vilely bad humor with
himself and the world at large. He was still thinking of

A Latter Day Copheiua 93

the egregious dolt he had made of himself that day, and the
reflection was not soothing. A friend tapped him lightly on
the arm.

** There come old Powelson and his party. Isn't the
niece a dream?**

The thought of Eowelson's niece was insufferable; it
nauseated him. Hamilton glowered in the direction his
friend indicated, obstinately determined to disapprove
sweepingly of whatever he might see.

A tall, lean man with unrtdy gray hair and a patiently
bored expression, was coming toward them, and with him
were a well-kept middle-aged woman in a magnificent gown,
and a Visioft all in creamy white, with heavenly shoulders
and a firm little chin uptilted the merest trifle, and a halo of
frisky little gold-brown curls. As she passed Hamilton she
inclined her head graciously toward him, smiled ever so
little, and was gone.

Hamilton was cold inside and hot without. He scarcely
heard his friend's chattering comments.

**0h, you've met her, haven't you, you lucky rascal? Do
you know the story? She's the daughter of a nobody-in-
particular named Tom Thatcher. He and Powelson married
sisters, when Powelson was pretty poor and Thatcher just
comfortably fixed. Ten years later Powelson was 'way up,
and one of his pet deals ruined Thatcher's best friend.
Thatcher didn't love Powelson anyway, and he turned over
every cent he owned to help pay his friend's debts. He was
a queer duck. It was very fine in theory, you know, but
he went sick shortly after that and was an invalid all the rest
of his life, and first his wife and then his daughter also had
to turn in to keep them all alive. He wouldn't take a cent
from Powelson, nor let his family accept anything. Now
this girl is an orphan — ^best thing that ever happened to her,
and Powelson adopted her a few months ago. They say he
thinks she is just about the finest thing that ever happened.
She was jolly independent about being adopted, too."

Hamilton escaped and sought the most inconspicuous
comer he cotdd find. It was all up with him now. He had
ruined himself finally and completely in her eyes, and there
was nothing for him to do now but to keep his idiotic per-
sonality out of her sight. He almost groaned as he remem-
bered some of the things he had said that day.

94

A Latter Day CoftuHma

A

Half an hotir later, Pate placed him directly at her elbow,
and he braced himself to make the best of a very bad busi-
ness.

**0h, it is Mr. Hamilton," she said, with the faintest in-
flection of surprise, but her eyes were dancing with iniquitous
mirth. He might well guess what was running in her mind.
** I suppose you despise me," he began, abjectly. ** I know
I talked like an egotistical idiot."

"You did," she agreed promptly.
**Far be it from me to contradict you.
Have you laid any more plans since I
last saw you?"

"Oh now, please don't. I know I
deserve the very worst that you

cotdd possibly say to me, but "

"You do indeed," she said
severely, and apparently relented
J , a little at the sight of the unmi-

^^^m ^ tigated glumness of his face. "By

mt ^ ^^ the way, I did get a scold-

ing for running off to Itmch
with a wicked man."

!As he was staring
gloomily into space, he
could not see that her eyes
were dancing with mis-
chief, and the laughter
quivering tmsotmded • [on
her lips.

"If you would only be-
lieve me when I say it was
only an imbecile, dastardly ,
driveling scheme to-— to— "
The laughter bubbled out now, irresistibly.
"To make me jealous!" she gurgled in smothered tones,
struggling to regain some measure of gravity where so many
curious eyes wotdd surely be watching old Powelson's niece
and heiress. Hamilton squirmed visibly, but a feeling of
relief was beginning to steal over him like grateful warmth.
"I know you think me a gibbering idiot," he said, thank-
fully, ''but if you only knew how glad I am that you don't
believe me a blackguard as well."

A Latter Day Cophetua 95

"If I had believed you," — and there was a little flash in
her eye, although it died out and she smiled with truly angelic
kindness — "do you think I would have ever permitted you
to speak to me again? Oh, you did it so clumsily, I really
could not help seeing through it after the first two or three
sentences. Forgive me, but it was so ftmny!"

She was laughing again, but nevertheless Hamilton
botmded in one leap from the nethermost]]depths into the
warming stmshine of hope.

"Heaven be praised! I had thought there was nothing
left for me to do but crawl into a hole and die. And you
deliberately sat there and let me make a howling spectacle
of myself! * ♦ ♦ If you look at me like that
again, I shall propose on the spot."

"Don't!" she begged in trepidation, glancing anxiously
about for listening ears. "If any one heard you, I shotdd
expire. Besides — guess who is here to-night, in the [irony
of Fate? Do you remember the young lady who quoted
Tennyson once, as we went by?

'''In robe and crown the kine stepped down,
To meet and greet her on^her way.'"

She whispered it lightly, but her voice caught a little
between the lines as she remembered. The look in her eyes
made his head whirl in the most strangely unmanageable way.

"Do I remember? I know it by heart! But she left out
the best part of all — ^just this:

"^So sweet a face, such angel grace

In all that land had never been:

Cophetua swore a royal oath:

**This beggar maid shall be my queen/' "

AR. Conversations}

For the Benefit of Chauffeurs
and their Employers^ by Barry
Pain*

PREFATORY NOTE.

I UNDERSTAND that many foreigners have recently
come to England in connection with the manufacture,
sale, and direction of motor-cars. Many of these have little or
no knowledge of English beyond a few technical terms belong-
ing to their craft. In consequence the foreign chauffeur
is often seriously handicapped in his search for employment.
I append a few useful sets of conversational phrases, which
the intelligent Frenchman or enterprising Teuton may
commit to memory and use as occasion requires.

I. — SEEKING EMPLOYMENT.

I understand it thoroughly. I know all about it. I am
thirty years old. I have thirty-five years' experience.

I am always very careftil. I have driven for the Prime
Minister.

It is true that I have only one leg. The other was struck by
lightning. I have never had a motor accident.

The slight abrasions on my face are due to a slip while
hanging pictures. You can trust me impUcitly.

Your offer is ridiculous, sir. I receive double those wages
in Paris. I will not take it. I am worth more.

The English are thieves and assassins. Remember
Fashoda! May the Boers live!

Good morning. Thank you very much. May the Kang
Edward live ! Ippippooray !

♦From Black and White.

Car Conversations 97

II. — THE employer's CAR.

You have a very bad car, sir. It is out of date. It is
decayed. It is slow. It is dangerous.

It would be irksome to me to be found dead in a ten-acre
field with such a car.

I cotdd make a better car out of an old perambulator
and a piece of string.

Permit me, sir, to show you the prospectus of a very good
car. You see, it is illustrated. It is all guaranteed. There
is nothing better.

If you mention my name you will receive a slight discount
for cash.

No, sir; I do not receive any commission. I am doing
this for my health.

It will give me much pleasure to sell your old car. It is
worth very little, but I shaU get the best price.

No, I shall not make a little bit out of it for myself.

I am surprised at you, sir.

I am not.

I am nothing of the kind

III. ON THE ROAD.

The elderly rustic in the smock-frock is a disguised police-
man.

The pale curate seated on the milestone is a disguised
policeman.

The long-haired schoolgirl plucking flowers by the wayside
is a disguised poUceman.

There is a policeman behind this bush.

There is a policeman up that tree.

There is a policeman under that bridge.

There is a policeman in that ditch.

This is called the Ripley Road.

We must stop. He has timed us over the quarter-mile
which he stepped this morning by the second-hand Waterbury
of his great-aunt.

IV. — IN COURT.

He says that we were traveling three hundred and forty-
eight miles an hgtirf

98

Car ConversaUatts

He says that he had to run after us and catch hold of
the back wheel before we would stop.
The magistrate is not pleased with me.
It will be six months' hard labor.
I can do it on my head.

Pray, is not that the chauffeur of an eminent politician?
I wonder what he is doing here.

V. — RACING.

Hold tight!
Just shaved it !
Dog or baby?
Faster!
Go it!

A cycUst, I think.
He's not htirt us?
Can't stop.
Let her rip!

Stone wall or thick fog?
Boomp !

He was right then in supposing it to have been a wall.
Where is the apothecary? Can you direct me to a doctor
of medicine? Is there no good imdertaker here?
Be good enough to send a cart to clear all this up.

VI. GENERAL.

I was with my late employer until the time of his death.

It should be complimentary mourning.

Third single, please.

Here we are at the pier. It will be a calm passage.

Motoring is at present in its infancy.

Good-by.

ORD Ctimberwell's
L>e8SOii : The Story of What
Befell a Secretary of State^ by
W. E Cule.*

THE Earl of Ctmiberwell, Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs, was in a most enviable condition of mind. Even
the most prudent of men may sometimes feel it safe to laugh
at Fortune, and such a moment had come for him. He toyed
with the slip of paper which he had been reading, and smiled
benignly through the window of his cab.

**Now,'* he thought, **eveiything is within my grasp.
Nothing can possibly happen to mar my plans — ^nothing!"

He had every reason for his confidence. Our relations with
two of the Powers had lately reached an extremely critical
point, and he was now on his way to the third meeting of the
Cabinet which had been summoned in the course of a week;
but on this occasion he felt that he could meet his colleagues
with a light heart, for he had just made himself master of the
whole position. He had nothing but favorable intelligence
to offer, and knew that the brilliant plan he intended to sub-
mit would be received with approbation. Then in the course
of three days the country would ring with the story of his
official success and the national triumph.

Always incUned to be sanguine and self-confident, the
Minister felt now that he might safely disregard even the pos-
sibilities of circumstance. **And nothing,'' he repeated con-
fidently, **can happen to spoil my plans. I can laugh at
Fortune!"

The cab rolled into Downing Street, and he caught a glimpse
of the crowd of idlers which usually collects on such an occa-

^Frorn Chambers's Journal.

f-^ i \< J \ J V

>. y. *-■■.,

loo Lord CuwberweWs Lesson

sion. He picked up his handkerchief, which lay upon the
seat of the cab, and hurriedly restored it to its place. A
moment later he alighted, his despatch-box in his hand.

Several persons saluted him as he crossed the pavement,
and he responded courteously. In his present mood he was
inclined to value those signs of popularity as good omens, and
even as compliments fully deserved. In a few days the nation
would declare him worthy of much more.

When he entered the room where the meetings were tisually
held, he found himself engaged for a few moments in greeting
those members who had arrived before him. The entrance
of another Minister presently enabled him to turn aside, and
he laid his despatch-box down upon the table. When he had
done this he drew a small bundle of papers from his breast-
pocket.

With quick fingers he turned them over, once and again.
Evidently none of them was what he required, for he made
another search in his pocket. Finding it empty, he examined
several other pockets without result, and even lifted his
despatch-box to look beneath it. Then he patised to consider,
and a sudden look of uneasiness appeared upon his face.

A moment later he was speaking to the attendant in the hall.
"My cab," he said hurriedly; "is my cab gone?"

The man stepped to the door. One glance was enough.

"It is gone, my lord."

Lord Ctimberwell advanced to the door himself, and glanced
up and down the street. He seemed quite unconscious now
of the gaze of those upon the pavement.

""You did not observe which way it went?"

"No, my lord. But perhaps some of those people noticed.
Shall I inquire?"

^The Minister gazed at the group of spectators. "No," he
said; "it does not matter. Did you see the number of the
cab or the name of the owner?"

"No, my lord. I am very sorry; but I did not notice."

"It does not matter," repeated Lrord Cumberwell; and he
returned at once to the room in which his colleagues were
waiting.

The btisiness of the meeting commenced soon afterwards,
and everything went as he had anticipated. The value of his
information was fully acknowledged, and the plans which he
had mapped out to meet the crisis were received with cotdial

Lord CumberweWs Lesson loi

approval and admiration. Not a word was said, not a sug-
gestion was made, that tended to hamper his intentions or to
cast a doubt upon his triumph, and the general attitude was
one of confidence and congratulation. Yet no one could help
observing that even in the moment of his success Lord Cum-
berwell seemed strangely anxious and uneasy.

This was due to a circumstance of which his companions
were totally ignorant. Just before leaving his house that
afternoon he had written out, upon the back of a letter ad-
dressed to himself, an outline of the plan he intended to lay
before the Ministers. He had done this in a careless way,
proposing to keep the slip for reference at the meeting.
During his journey he had taken it out to look it over, and
had probably laid it down upon the seat beside him. In the
hurry of alighting he had forgotten to pick it up.

The consequent position was intensely disqtiieting. That
slip of paper had contained information of the utmost import-
ance with regard to the intentions of the Government towards
Austria and Spain. If this information were made public too
soon the situation would be complicated beyond hope, and
every hard-won advantage lost. A whisper in London would
be flashed across the Channel, and the enemy would find him-
self in a position to deliver an effective counter-blow. The
folded letter, traveling about the city on the seat of a public
conveyance, might fall into the wrong hands at any moment.
Perhaps it had fallen into them already!

It was not surprising, therefore, that the Foreign Minister
was uneasy during the meeting. For a time, it is true, he was
obliged to concentrate his attention upon the work in hand;
but at every opportunity his thoughts persisted in returning
to that most unfortunate accident. He saw the conclusion of
the btisiness with sincere relief.

He was not the man to take a hazard if he could possibly
secure himself, and he set to work at once to retrieve the sit-
uation. Proceeding in haste to Scotland Yard, he soon found
himself face to face with an attentive and capable official. To
this person he made everything clear.

"I must say at once," he explained, "that I am not able to
help you in the least. The cab was not called from a stand,
but was hailed as it was passing my door. Further, I did
not notice the number of the vehicle or the name of the
owner."

I02 Lord CufnberwelVs Lesson

** Perhaps your lordship observed the driver," suggested the
official. "Even the slightest description may prove useful."

The Earl gave all the information he had, and the points
were carefully noted. Then he described the lost document.

**It was a letter," he said; **a printed circtdar, I believe
from the National Club, on small-sized notepaper. My re-
marks were written in ink upon the back of the fly-sheet.
They were very brief; but of course their brevity would
present no obstacle to an intelligent reader."

** And there are so many intelligent readers just now," said
the official.

** Exactly; four men out of every five would grasp the
situation at a glance. My own name upon the first page
wotild make everything clear to them."

The official made further notes. **I think I must tell you
what I fear," proceeded the Earl, anxious to leave nothing
imsaid that might strengthen his efforts. ** It is simply that
the paper may fall into the hands of some one whose interest
it would be to publish it. That would be fatal."

The official saw this clearly enough. Probably both he and
the Minister had in mind at that moment the name of a daily
newspaper to which such a discovery would be an absolute
godsend — the Hour. At the same time he suggested that
there was no reason to despair. It was quite possible that the
person who found the slip would be some one quite unable
to see its value, some one who would throw it away and think
no more about it. There was also the chance that an ignorant
cabman would cast it out with the dust, or that the paper
itself might slip to the floor of the cab and so escape obser-
vation.

These suggestions were only slightly comforting. A cab
passing through the Westminster district was less likely to be
hailed by a so-called outsider than by some indolent but intelli-
gent clubman, some hasty journalist, or some inquiring
member of the Opposition. In either case the restdt would
be much the same*

*' Very well, my lord," said the official. *' What you say is
certainly true. I need not assure you, however, that we shall
do our best. Any result shall be made known to you imme-
diately."

*' Thank you," said Lord Cumberwell, rising. '*I shall be

Lord CumberweWs Lesson 103

at the Foreign Office for the next two hours. After that I
shall be at my own house, 41 Baynton Square/'

"Very good, my lord."

The interview over, the Earl drove to the Foreign Office,
where he set in operation the plan which had been approved
by his colleagues. He did this with the painftd knowledge
that before many hours had passed the whole design might
be thrown into utter and shameful confusion. For the present
however, there was nothing to do but to go straight on and
await events.

He then reached the house in time for dinner, a qtiiet and
informal repast at which his private secretary was his only
companion. Indeed, everything connected with the Baynton
Square establishment might be described as quiet and in-
formal, for the Earl had no family, and had chosen his
residence and arranged his household with a simple regard
for convenience, comfort, and proximity to the Government
offices and the Houses of Parliament. His home and his
heart alike were in a northern cotmty, and he only came to
town when his presence was absolutely necessary. In every
sense, therfore, his sojourn in the Square was purely a con-*
venience, and there was no sign of state in connection with it.

He did not disclose his difficulty to his companion. He
was naturally reserved, and the Honorable Philip Lombard
was quite a new acquisition as a private secretary. Further,
he felt painfully conscious that his action had been foolishly,
criminally careless, so that it was no pleasant subject to
discuss. For these reasons he kept silence, dreading the
worst but hoping for the best.

After dinner an adjournment was made to the study.
There a sheaf of correspondence was dealt with, and after a
while the secretary retired with his papers. When he had gone,
the Earl turned to an uninterrupted survey of the position.

As was his custom when alone with his books, he had
divested himself of his somewhat imposing evening attire,
and had slipped on an old and comfortable garment which his
valet was accustomed to describe contemptuously as his
"study coat/* He had been quite unable, however, to throw
off the doubts and fears which had haimted him since that
unfortunate incident occurred. Unable to sit still, he paced
the room restlessly, working himself rapildy into a fever of
apprehension and self-reproach.

I04 Lord CumberwelTs Lesson

Again and again he counted the probable cost: the public
outcry, the Opposition laughter, the general excitement. He
thought of the leader which would appear in the Hour — ^a
leader which the editor, possibly, was at that moment en-
gaged in writing, with that priceless slip on the desk before
him. He found httnatAf picturing the startling placard which
would face the public in the morning, the sensational head-
lines on the fifth page. He tried to picture the faces of his
colleagues when they should discover that the finest diplo-
matic triumph of the decade had been ruined by an inexcus-
able bltmder. The thing was awful!

In his growing nervousness he strained his ears to catch
soimds from without — ^footsteps of Prettiman in the hall,
the distant clang of the doorbell. He had given orders that
only messengers from Scotland Yard or from the Foreign
Office should be admitted; but now he almost regretted these
instructions. On ordinary occasions they were necessary
for his own protection; but to-night even the incursion of a
troop of interviewers would be something of a relief.

At that point a brilliant idea flashed upon his mind, and
•brought him to a sudden pause in the middle of the room.

What if some one should bring back that paper? It might
have been picked up by an altogether harmless person,
one whose first idea would be to return it to its owner. As his
name and address were both upon it, such a person would
proceed at once to Baynton Square. And then? — ^and then
the placid but inflexible Prettiman, acting on his instructions,
would bar the way, and turn the welcome visitor from thm
door. Perhaps he had done so already I

He must be told at once. Lord Cumberwell stepped in the
direction of the door; but at that moment he heard once more
the clang of the bell. He paused and listened.

It was an unfortunate pause. He heard Prettiman cross
the hall to the door, and then he heard a murmur of voices.
It lasted some moments, for the visitor was evidently importu-
nate ; but Prettiman at last prevailed, and the door was closed.

Lord Cumberwell met the man as he came back. "What
was it?" he asked hastily. "Who called?"

Prettiman was taken by surprise. "It was a lady, my
lord," he stammered. "She had a letter "

"What I" cried the Earl.

"A letter, my lord. She "

Lord CuniberwelVs Lesson 105

Lord Ctunberwell strode to the door, threw it open, and
stood on the steps without. Bareheaded and excited, he
glanced to right and left.

"Which way did she go?"

" I don't know, my lord. I did not notice."

Lord Ctunberwell blamed heavily, at that moment, the
man's stupidity and his own tmfortunate pause in the study.
But just then he saw a woman's figure pass imder the light
of a lamp some little distance away; otherwise the Square
seemed qtiite deserted. Turning into the hall, he snatched
up a hat which was lying on the table, crushed it upon his
head, and went out in pursuit.

Prettiman, filled with amazement, was left in the hall alone.
He realized that his master had gone out in his study coat,
a thing which had never happened before during the whole
period of his service.

Such was the way in which Lord Cumberwell went out to
his humiliating lesson. If he had paused to reflect at that
critical moment, he might have been saved; he would have
ordered Prettiman to recall the visitor, or he would have
asstu'ed himself, at least, that there was misapprehension on
his own part. But his last pause had been so ill-timed that
he saw only danger in another, and he was in such a state of
nervous irritation and excitement that he could not act with
his usual caution. His only thought was to overtake the
woman and to recover the paper at the earliest possible
moment.

By this time^ however, she had gone some little distance.
He could see that she was walking rapidly, making, appar-
ently, for a short street called Baynton Gardens, which led
from the Square into a large and moderately busy thorough-
fare. He qtiickened his steps, but without visible advantage.
He did not care to call, and he cotdd not forget himself so far a^
to run. In that point his natural dignity did not forsake him.

A minute later the woman turned the comer. There was
a lamp at the comer, and the Earl caught a better glimpse of
her as she passed beneath it. As far as he could see, she wa3
a person of medium height, of somewhat slender btiild, and
dressed in dark-colored garments. As soon as she had turned
the comer he again quickened his steps. If she passed
beyond Baynton Gardens he might lose her altogether.

io6 Lord CumberwelVs Lesson

He had not traveled with so much haste for some time,
and before he reached the comer himself he was almost breath-
less. Then he began to see the hopelessness of his attempt
to overtake her. She was already half-way down the gardens.

What was to be done? Beyond he heard the mnrmtir of
traffic and saw numerous lights. The woman seemed to be in-
creasing her speed, and if he intended to stop her he must call.

He prepared to shout. The place was very quiet, and that
was an advantage; but he suddenly realized that he had not
shouted for a considerable time, and that the act required
some courage. However, there was no time to lose, and so he
made the effort.

"Hi!"

It was not an effective shout. It did not by any means
startle the Gardens, as he had almost expected it to do. In
fact, no one seemed to hear it but himself, and the woman
held on her way. He tried again.

" Hi ! " he cried, panting. *' Hi ! "

It was useless. The noises of the thoroughfare beyond
were growing louder, and his feeble shout never reached its
object. Two or three moments later that object had passed
out of Baynton Gardens, and it was too late to shout at all.
She paused at the comer, and then vanished abruptly.

Her pause had given the Earl just a chance, and he felt sure
that he would not lose her. When he reached the comer
he saw that an omnibus had pulled up a few yards farther on,
apparently to receive passengers. One of these was a woman
of medium height, dressed in black.

Lord Cumberwell saw this figure and did not trouble to look
in any other direction. It was necessary to make another
effort, and he gave a last shout. Several passers-by heard it,
and stared at him; some one laughed, but some one else
whistled to the omnibus conductor. Directly afterwards
the Earl, breathing hard, was at the foot-board.

"Room for one inside," said the conductor.

Lord Cumberwell had not intended it; but as the woman
had gone in, he could do nothing but follow her or give up his
quest. No thought of giving it up occurred to him, so he
entered the vehicle and took the only seat that was left.
Yet he had a vague feeling that he was going farther in this
affair than he had meant to go. Everjrthing was moving
in a hurry.

Lord CuniberwelVs Lesson 107

The bell rang ; the omnibus started with a jerk. He thrust
aside his feeling of helplessness and a dim sense of the absurdity
of his position, and thought of the lost document. Before
that thought all else faded into insignificance.

He glanced at his fellow-passengers, but did not examine
them closely. They seemed to be a miscellaneous party,
mostly of women. On the other side, and two or three places
away, sat the woman he wanted, and from the moment he saw
her he paid little attention to any one else.

She was still a young wom^n, and was qtiite neatly dressed.
Her face was ordinary, but not at all unpleasant in expression.
' ' In f act / 'jsaid the Earl to himself. She seems a good-natured
person. She is just the person to return a lost document to
its owner at the first opportunity."

The woman carried in her hand a small ornamental bag of
crocodile leather, and his eyes fastened upon it eagerly. He
had not the slightest doubt that it contained the paper which
he would have given so much to recover. It was impossible
to speak now, because he had no intention of letting half-a-
dozen omnibus passengers get scent of this affair. Neither
this woman nor any of the others appeared to recognize him,
and he could not help feeling slightly stirprised at the fact.
One might have supposed that his face was familiar enough to
at least one in ten of the London public.

At that point he found that the woman with the hand-bag
had become aware of his scrutiny, and that she was looking
at him in a questioning way. It was certainly unwise to make
himself remarkable, so he transferred his attention to another
passenger. This was a stout, middle-aged man in the farther
comer, who was endeavoring to read a copy of the Evening
News by the light of the lamp. The vehicle jolted so heavily
that reading must have been impossible; but he continued to
hold the paper before his face. The Earl regarded his efforts
with nattiral interest until he saw that the man was only using
the paper to conceal a face full of amusement.

Then he saw more. Two other people in the omnibus were
smiling in the same furtive way. Two others, who were not
smiling, were looking at him curiously. What did it mean?

He soon discovered its meaning. While he was wondering,
he suddenly caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass
before:him,^over the shoulder of one of the passengers. It
must be his own reflection, because he recognized the features;

io8 Lord CumberwelVs Lesson

but what was that ctirious object which surmoimted his face?
A hat — could it be a hat ? Then, with a shock, the truth came
home. In his haste to leave the house he had caught up
some one else's hat. It was, in fact, the hat of his private
secretary, a soft, gray, almost shapeless affair which he had
often remarked with strong disfavor.

The general amusement was nattiral enough. He had
never dreamed that a man could look so absurd simply by a
change of hats. As far as he could see in the faint reflection,
his whole appearance was subtly ^ut certainly alt^ed, and his
ustially sober, grave, and statesman-like demeanor had been
changed for one which was only to be described as rakish
and sporting.

His first sensation was one of annoyance and discomfort.
His feeliiig of self-respect and dignity had received a shock;
but in a few moments he perceived that the matter had a
brighter side. He did not wish to be recognized while on this
quest, and Mr. Lombard's hat made recognition less probable.
His discomfort wore off by degrees, and when a diversion
came he was almost himself again.

"Pares, please," said the conductor.

Fares.? The Earl started, and began to search his pockets
hastily. By the most fortunate of chances, he found in one
of them a stray shilling. It was while searching for it that he
noticed the coat he wore, that comfortable but ancient gar-
ment which had not seen the streets for years. Well, it
did not matter — he was all the less likely to be singled out as
a Minister of State!

** Orl the w'y ? " asked the conductor, looking steadily at the
private secretary's hat.

**Ye-es," answered Lord Cttmberwell.

He received his ticket and the change. Although he had
agreed to go all the way, he had not the slightest idea of what
that way was. His knowledge of London outside Bajmton
Square was extremely vague.

They jolted on for twenty minutes, and he saw that
they had left the better residential quarters well behind.
Once they changed horses, and halted more than once to
deposit a passenger on the pavement. Still the woman in
black held fast to her comer. Apparently she, too, was going
all the way.

They passed through another btisiness thoroughfare, and

Lord CumberojeJVs Lesson 109

turned into a series of quiet streets, consisting of what seemed
to be a very modest class of villa property. He was just
wondering how much longer the journey would take when
some one called:

"Stop here, please."

It was the woman in black. The conductor signalled, and
the omnibus stopped. Briskly the woman descended, and
as soon as she had reached the road her ptirsuer also prepared
to alight. He was not precipitate, because he did not wish to
make his object noticeable; for this reason he slightly de-
layed the bus and attracted the unfavorable attention^ of
the conductor.

"Yer not goin' orl the w'y, then?" said that gentleman
crisply.

The Earl did not answer, but alighted.

"Orl right," said the conductor, with increased irony.
"We don't charge any hextra for gettin' out 'ere I" And
then^ with a noisy jerk, the horses moved on.

Lord Cumberwell found himself standing at a comer,
beneath a lamp. The woman with the hand-bag had turned
off into a rather dark street containing small villas of the kind
he had already noticed. She was walking rapidly, and had
now gone some distance. He hurried in pursuit.

At first he gained a little, but then she began to walk more
qtiickly. He fancied that she had observed him, and the
therefore decided that it wotdd be better to speak out. This
ridiculous business had gone far enough, and it only required a
few words of explanation to end it.

" Excuse me ! " he said loudly.

The woman did not turn; instead, she seemed to increase
her speed.

"Excuse me," said Lord Cumberwell again; "just a
moment "

There was no satisfactory response. But the woman
positively began to run.

Puzzled and irritated. Lord Cumberwell fell back a little,
and the space between them increased. Just then they were
met by a policeman, who looked curiously after the hunying
woman. She turned a comer abruptly, and he then trans-
ferred his attention to the Earl. His scrutiny was somewhat
close and careful.

Lord Cumberwell reached the comer just in time to see the

no Lord CumberwelTs Lesson

woman enter a house five or six doors away. His irritated
feelings thrust aside the suggestion that he had better give up
the quest at this awkward point, and he walked on till he
reached the house. She had entered in such haste that both
the gate and the door had been left wide open behind |her.
After a moment's pause he advanced to the door.

When he saw a narrow hallway, with the stairs facing it.
A narrower passage ran beside the stairs to a colored-glass
door, which was closed. On the other side of this door was a
lighted room, evidently the kitchen of the house.

"This is absurd!" thought Lord Cumberwell; "most
absurd!"

He referred chiefly to the ctirious action of the woman in
running away when he had addressed her. There was nothing
for it now but to knock at the door and interview her formally.
He looked for a knocker or a bell, but found neither; conse-
quently he was obliged to knock with his knuckles. There
was no reply. His knock was drowned in a noise of voices
which reached him from behind the colored-glass door; and
before he could knock again he heard a sound behind him
which at that moment was most unwelcome. It was the
heavy, measured tread of the policeman.

He remembered the close scrutiny which he had received
just before, and guessed that the man had turned back to keep
him in sight. The fright of the woman and his own excited
appearance gave sufficient room for inqtiiry, and he saw that
complications were imminent. What was to be done?

A prudent man would have awaited events, and knocked
again ; but he was in an3rthing but a prudent mood. Perhaps
he recollected at that instant that he was a Minister of State,
and that he need not always act by ordinary commonplace
rules of conduct. He stepped quietly into the house, and
pushed the door after him.

Lord Ctmiberwell stood immovable, listening anxiously.
The footsteps approached, slowly and more slowly as they
drew nearer. Opposite the door they paused, but only for a
moment.

Then he drew a breath of relief. As soon as the policeman
had gone to a reasonable distance he would carry out his plan.
He would return to the other side of the door, and knock until
he received an answer.

Still listening to the departing footsteps, he looked arotmd

Lord CumberwelVs Lesson in

him curiously. From the kitchen he heard the voice of a
child, apparently a boy. Just before him, on the left, was the
open door of a room, probably a small sitting-room; and
opposite this entrance was a hat and umbrella stand. Lying
upon this stand was something he had seen before. It was
a small hand-bag made of crocodile leather. There was no
need for a second glance, for it was certainly the one which
the woman had carried. He remembered his conclusions in
the onmibus — that it contained his priceless slip of paper!

Here was the end of his trouble just within his grasp.
Instantly he saw that he could avoid an interview with the
frightened woman, and could avoid also the bother which
wotdd be caused by a revelation of his identity. The way he
saw was short, simple, and inmiensely easy. He cotdd open
the bag, take out the document, and vanish without a sign.

In justice to the Earl, it must be said here that he really did
hesitate for a brief while; but the temptation was too strong.
Perhaps, too, his fall may be regarded as a simple result of his
long diplomatic training. He stepped forward silently, and
laid his hands upon the bag. Hastily and nervously he tried
to open it, but it was in vain that he fumbled with the clasps
and metal work. He had never touched such an article before,
so it is not stirprising that he failed; and while he was still
engaged with it he heard heavy footsteps cross the floor of a
room above him and approach the landing above the stairs.
Some one was coming down.

The position was an extremely delicate one. There was
hardly time to think, much less to escape through the front
door. The Earl of Cumberwell saw one alternative which
looked promising. Still clasping the hand-bag, he stepped
backward into the doorway of the sitting-room.

He was just in time. A man came heavily down the stairs,
and paused at the bottom. Lord Cumberwell moved silently
farther back among the shadows of his hiding-place. Then
he heard the man advance to the front-door, which he closed
and fastened noisily. After that he returned, and strode
towards the kitchen.

**Dear me!" thought Lord Cumberwell, perplexed; "he
has fastened the door. I wonder whether it will be easy to
open."

There was worse to come. When the man reached the
kitchen he addressed some one in a loud tone.

112 Lord CumberweWs Lesson

** Laura," he said, **you left the front door open."

"Did I?" asked a woman's voice. **Well, it was no
wonder. I was so frightened "

At that word the colored-glass door was closed, and the
voices were lost. Again Lord Cumberwell breathed more
freely, for the danger seemed to have passed.2^He must make
one more effort to open the bag, and if he failed this time there
was only one thing to do — ^he must carry it away with him.

It was his mistake, at this point, that he did not pause to
consider; but the whole affair had been so hasty that con-
sideration has scarcely come into it at all. If he had patised
to think now, he would have seen that if the lost document
was at this time in the handbag it would be just as well to
leave it there. In that simple hiding-place it was safe alike
from the members of the Opposition and the editor of the
Hotir; while, seeing the nattire of its surroundings, it was not
likely to fall into the wrong hands soon enough to work harm.
But Lord Cumberwell did not think of this, and saw nothing
but the necessity of getting it into his possession. He was
excited, and in no mood for sensible calculation.

So he fumbled again with the fastenings, losing in this way
his only opportunity for escape. Scarcely had he worked for
ten seconds when there broke upon his ear simultaneotisly the
sound of the hurried opening of the kitchen door, the voice of
the man, and his footsteps in the passage. All these sounds
were full of haste and anger.

**I*11 precious soon see," said the man as he reached the
door; "and if I find him there, I'll just let him know it. You
may take my word for that ! "

The woman followed him up the passage. There were
other footsteps also, probably those of the boy. Lord Cum-
berwell held his breath.

**I can't see any one," said the man, speaking from the
gate. "There's only a policeman within sight. What was
the ruffian like?"

"He was rather stout," answered the woman, and clean
shaven. He had a soft gray hat on, and he was a queer-
looking figure altogether."

A queer-looking figure altogether! The description only
added an extra pang to the discomfort which the listener was
enduring already. This was most humiliating.

Lord Cumberweirs Lesson 113

"Well, 1*11 walk to the comer," said the man doubtfully.

'*Just wait a minute."

His steps receded rapidly, and his wife was left at the door.
For an instant Lord Cumberwell thought that this might be
his chance; but he gave up the hope. There was no time;
and besides, he could not summon up courage to face such a
situation. He stood mute, clasping the bag in his hands.

The man returned. "I can't see any one, ' ' he said. ' * Per-
haps he cleared away when he saw you enter the house."

They came in, closing the iron gate as they did so. The
man passed down towards the kitchen, evidently rather disap-
pointed. **You can lock the door," he said, pausing on the
way. **It won't be wanted again to-night."

His wife remained behind and turned the key in the front
door with a click which was distinctly audible to one person
near at hand; then, on her way to the kitchen, she paused at
the door of the room in which the Earl was standing. It was
her usual habit, and one which she had in common with many
good housewives, to give a last look round before locking up
for the night. She paused on the threshold, thrust the door
back a little, and peered into the room.

Lord Cttmberwell had no time to retire out of view. He
could only stand in his place, helpless and confounded. The
woman gave a start and a scream.

** James! James! Quick!"

With the cry she ran back, and her startled husband met
her in the middle of the passage. To his amazement, he saw
a large, portly figure emerge from the sitting room and
advance towards them. The woman screamed again.

**I really beg your pardon," began Lord Cumberwell. *'I
am sorry to have alarmed you "

His stately apology was interrupted. **What are you
doing in this house?" demanded the householder with vigor.

**I will explain," said Lord Ctimberwell hastily. **I will
explain. The fact is, my dear sir — the fact is, I came in to see
yotir wife — ^this lady."

It was, at the least, an unfortunate way of putting it. i The
woman gave an exclamation of amazement, and her husband
stared. He was a man of heavy but athletic build, one who
would evidently stand no nonsense.

"To see my wife!" he echoed, with darkening face.

**0h James!" gasped his wife tremulously; "it's the man

114 Lord CumberwelTs Lesson

I told you of — ^the one who stared at me in the bus, and then
followed me here. And look — see what he has in his hand! "
Every one looked, the Earl included. Clasped tightly in his
right hand was the little handbag of crocodile leather!

It was an awftd combination of circumstances, and he was
so utterly taken aback that he could not find a word to utter.
It was the husband that spoke first.

"Charlie," he said, addressing his son, a boy of about ten
years, ' * there's a policeman up the street. Run round through
the back door and fetch him."

The boy disappeared at once, before Lord Cumberwell had
recovered his presence of mind. Directly afterwards he found
strength to utter a horrified protest.

"My dear sir " he began, advancing.

"If you move another step forward," said the householder
calmly, " I'll knock you down."

The Earl stopped, aghast. "My dear sir," he began again,
with an effort, "you must let me explain. I came here to
see your wife. She called at my house little more than an
hotir ago."

"Called at your house?" interrupted the man.

"Oh James," cried his wife, "what an awful untruth! I
haven't called at any house — ^you know I haven't."

* * What ! ' ' said Lord Cumberwell. * * Did you not call at my
house this evening with a letter?"

"Yotir house? Why, I haven't called at any house. I
don't know your house."

This was a blow indeed. It had entirely failed to suggest
itself to the Earl that he might have made a mistake^at the
beginning, that this woman in black was not the woman who
had called at his house. Now he perceived, with a feeling of
despair, that he had been following up the wrong person all
along.

He was bewildered and dismayed by this new turn in affairs ;
but his captors saw only guilt in his face. " Perhaps you can
think of a better story than that," suggested the man offen-
sively. "I don't think it will do."

"Sir!" cried Lord Cumberwell indignantly.

"Please don't 'sir' me. What about the handbag?"

Things were growing worse. " I — I thought the letter was
in it," explained the guilty Minister. "I was about to look
That is all."

Lord CufftberweWs Lesson 115

"Indeed! Laura, what is in that bag of yours?"

"Nothing but my purse," answered the woman quickly.

There was a disagreeable pause. The Earl glanced at the
door, but there was no chance in that direction. Then he
made one final effort.

*'It's a mistake," he began — "a foolish and ridictdous mis-
take. You don't know who I am."

'Never mind that. The police will know, no doubt.
They'll be here in a minute."

It was a hopeless affair, and the Earl groaned in his heart.
For a few minutes he contemplated the idea of taking the two
entirely into his confidence, but was forced to relinquish it.
His case was already prejudiced beyond recovery, as far as
these people were concerned: they would regard his story as
a wild fable, and he wotdd simply be exposing himself to
ridictde without any good effect. Perhaps it would be best,
after[all, to wait for the police. Then things would come right.

The wait was not a long one. A back door was suddenly
tnrown open, and a constable appeared, with the boy at his
side. To the Earl's dismay, this was the officer whose conduct
so short a time before had brought all this misfortime upon
him — ^the one whose suspicious scrutiny had forced him to
enter the house. Circtmistances were inexorable.

**Well?" said the constable, striding up the narrow passage
in a leisurely way. **What have we here?"

**A burglar!" cried the woman excitedly.

"Something of that kind," added her husband.

"It is a mistake," protested the Earl — "a most absurd
mistake."

The officer looked at him closely. "Ah!" he said; "it's
you, is it? I had my suspicions."

"What!" cried the householder; "do you know him?"

The constable gave him a wise smile. * * I saw him enter this
house a little while ago, and I thought then there was some-
thing queer about him. How did you get hold of him? "

"We found him hiding in that front-room, and he had my
wife's hand-bag. That's burglary, isn't it ? "

The officer took out his note-book. "It's bad enough,
anyhow," he replied. "It's being foimd on enclosed premises
— ^namely, a front sitting-room — ^for the purpose of com-
mitting a felony." Then, turning to the Earl, he said, *.* You'd
better keep all your talk for the inspector. And I warn you

1 16 Lord CumberwelVs Lesson

that anything you say may be used as evidence against
you."

This was horrible. The man's tone and manner were so
galling that the Eari's last grain of patience vanished. His
dismay, irritation, and bewilderment, his humiliation and his
contempt, all became merged in a sudden rage. The blood
rushed to his brows, and in the heat of the moment one hasty
word escaped him. He had not used such a word before
since his old electioneering days. He regretted it the moment
it had gone ; but his regret was swallowed up in renewed wrath
when he saw the man calmly enter it in his note-book.

A few minutes afterward a small party set out for the local
police station. Lord CumberweU walked between a watchful
householder and an equally watchful constable. He had
demanded a cab, but as he had nothing wherewith to pay for
it, his demand had been ignominiously refused. It was now
qtdte late, however, and the streets of that modest subtirb
were practically deserted. Undisturbed by the attentions of
any curious foot passengers, he tried to give his thoughts to a
survey of the position.

This was a difficult matter. The events which had brought
him to this pass had been so natural in one sense, yet so extra-
ordinary in another, and the situation in which he stood was
so painful and yet so ridiculous, that he scarcely knew how to
regard it. Indignation and rage were succeeded by a strong
sense of the absurdity of things, mingled with a vague per-
ception of some possible consequences. If this affair got into
the papers it might prove more serious for him than a pre-
mature publication of State secrets. It would be received
with universal laughter; it would be exaggerated and mis-
stated in every possible way; it would subject him to the
banter of the whole nation. It would probably bring about
his sudden retirement from public life.

Here was a suggestive comment upon his bright visions
of that very afternoon. Well, the only thing to be done was
to wait, and to make the best of it. Surely the business could
not go much further in its present ridiculous course. As soon
as he came face to face with the inspector all would come
straight again; but he must, above all, try to keep the matter
hidden from the world at large.

As for the lost document, it had receded into the background

Lord CumberweWs Lesson 117

for the time. It was probably in Fleet Street by now ; but he
could not help it. There was something else to think of!

When they reached the station they passed into a room
where two police clerks were engaged at their desks. In a few
moments the inspector made his appearance, a sharp, severe-
looking officer, whose brief manner Was an)rthing but encour-
aging. He gave the group a quick, comprehensive glance,
paying special attention to the prisoner. The Eari tried
to look dignified, forgetting the baneful influence of Mr
Lombard's hat.

The inspector did not recognize him, and it gave Lord
Cumberwell some sense of humility to reflect that through his
whole adventure no one had guessed who he was. The
Minister of State might have been a dustman for all that the
people of London knew. As a matter of fact, however, there
were many excuses for the blindness of the inspector and those
about him; for instead of the dignified and clean-cut noble-
man known to the House of Lords, the clubs, and the illus-
trated papers, they saw only a guilty-looking person attired
in a frock-coat that was sadly worn and ancient, and wearing
a. hideously unsuitable selection in hats. As for the face.
Lord Cumberwell had nothing remarkable to show in that
direction, while he aflEected neither a heavy stoop like the late
Premier, a monocle like the chief Unionist leader, nor an
unmistakable collar like that great Commoner who had lately
died. In short, there was nothing at all in his person to
render him a favorite with the cartoonists and a familiar figure
to the public eye. So the inspector, after one long look,
turned to the others and asked for the story.

It was given plainly enough, the constable speaking first
and laying emphasis upon the fact that the prisoner, when
arrested, had indulged in profanity. Then the householder,
James Ellis by name, gave an accoimt of what had happened
previously.

In this accotmt Lord Cumberwell saw arrayed against him
an appalling mass of evidence. He had, it seemed, followed
Mrs. Ellis into an omnibus, and had immediately begun to
annoy her by a prolonged and impudent scrutiny, paying
special attention to the little hand-bag she carried. Her
natural suspicion became alarm when he left the omnibus at
the same comer, and followed her homewards; but alarm
had changed to panic when he had addressed her from behind.

ii8 Lord CumberwelTs Lesson

She had immediately broken into a run, reaching her house at
last in an exhausted condition. The prisoner, taking ad-
vantage of the open door, had stepped into the house and
concealed himself in a front-room. There he had been dis-
covered later, holding in his hand the bag which contained
Mrs. Ellis's purse; and he had failed to account for his con-
duct except by a story which was absurd and false in every
particular.

Such was the plain and straightforward narrative of Mr.
Ellis. When the Earl heard the last words his anger rettimed.
It would have been better if he had kept his temper; but it
was not in him to hear such a charge without indignation. He
protested therefore, and soon found himself in further diffi-
culties.

*My story was qtiite true," he cried angrily, "it was true
from beginning to end. I can explain everything. I mistook
this woman for one who had called at my house this evening,
and had failed to see me. She bore a letter which I wanted, so
I followed her directly she had gone. I must have lost sight
of the proper person, and mistsJcen this man's wife for her."

The inspector listened without emotion. When he had
considered the matter he put a sudden question:

*' Where is your house ? "

It was most unfortimate. The answer was upon Lord
Cumberwell's lips; but he held it back. If he gave it, his
hopes of secrecy would be destroyed in one word. And while
he hesitated, the face of the inspector hardened.

"Where is your house ? " he repeated briefly.

The Earl recovered himself. *' Give me a word privately,"
he said in the most dignified manner he could assume. "I
have nonobjection to telling you; but I do not wish this
ridiculous affair to become public property."

There was a pause. The police clerks winked at each other
and smiled. Perhaps they had heard similar appeals before.
Mr. Ellis then made an observation in a sarcastic tone.

"He will tell you privately, inspector. No doubt he will
also tell you privately why he hid himself in my house instead
of knocking at the front door, like any ordinary man ! "

That was an effective thrust. The inspector looked at Lord
Cumberwell with a kind of grim inquiry. * * Answer that if you
can," his look seemed to say; and Lord Ctmiberwell saw that
he could not answer it. To say that he had slipped into the

Lord CumberweWs Lesson iig

house to avoid the policeman would make an ugly case look
still uglier.

** I can explain," he repeated, ** if you will give me a moment
in private."

But the inspector, without reply, turned to a desk, and
began, apparently, to make notes of the charge. Lord Cum-
berwell, glaring upon those around him, strove to keep his
rage imder control. He saw that in this lay his only hope of
evading the toils which seemed to be closing about his feet.
Striving to calm himself, he waited for another opportimity.

"What is your name?" asked the inspector suddenly.

" I am ready to tell you in private," answered the Eari after
a brief pause.

"And you still refuse your address?"

"I have told you already that I do not refuse it, sir."

These replies were given with a great attempt to be firm yet
courteous; but the smiles of the company were painfully
apparent. Lord Cumberwell felt rather than saw them, and
tried to remember who he really was — a Minister of State,
whose name was almost a household word in the country; and
all this was taking place within a mile or two of his own house !
It was worse than an absurdity — it was an outrage. Drawing
himself to his ftdl height, he said to the oflBicer:

" Let me warn you, sir, that you are doing a foolish thing.
Having refused me an opportunity to explain, you must be
responsible for any consequences, however serious. Let me
ask you to do one thing before it goes too far. Let me send
for some one who will answer for me and whose word will
satisfy you."

The inspector gave no answer for a moment, and appeared
to take no notice of the words. But when he had finished
the sheet he showed that he had been considering them.
Perhaps the prisoner's insistence had impressed him, though
the case against the man was a perfectly clear one.

"Well," he said curtly, "who is the person you speak of?"

The Earl considered rapidly. It was his first impulse to
send for his secretary, who would probably still be found at
Baynton Square. He saw, however, that this step would be
fatal to his desire for secrecy, for if Mr. Lombard were named
everything must come out. He tried to think of some one
else, and immediately remembered a close personal friend,
who was also one of his colleagues in the Government. This

I20 Lord CumberwelVs Lesson

was a man who would do perfectly, and whose very name ought
to bfe a sufficient guarantee for any one. He was also so
prudent, so imperturbable, that no surprise, no ridiculous
discovery, would l^ave power to disturb his equanimity or
move him to utter a word of astonishment. He would come
at once, and he would not let the secret escape.

**The person I speak of," he said calmly, "is the Marquis
of Leyshon. His house is in St. James's Gardens."

His words created a sensation. Even the inspector was
amazed.

"The Marquis of Leyshon!" he echoed.

"The Minister for War!" added Mr. Ellis.

"Yes," said Lord Cumberwell, "the Minister for War."

There was a silence, and then the sensation hadjpassed.
Mr. Ellis smiled oddly, and the police clerks bent over their
work. They were beginning to see that this prisoner provided
an interesting case, but he was now going into the clouds.
This was too much!

But as soon as the inspector had given the matter a mo-
ment's consideration he appeared to see it in a diflFerent light.
He gave Lord Cumberwell what may be described as one of
his official glances, keen, qiiick, and searching. Somehow he
could not conceal the fact that he was impressed, and his next
remark confirmed this. The tone was even thoughtful and
considerate.

"I think," he said, "that I must consult some one else.
Please take seats and wait. I shall be back in five minutes.

He signed to the policeman, and whispered a few words to
him at the door; then he went out, leaving the man standing
where they had spoken. The police clerks turned to glance
at the Earl with renewed interest, Mr. Ellis with some surprise.
This turn in events had taken them aback.

Lord Cumberwell, however, was filled with relief. He took
a seat with his back to Mr. Ellis, and congratulated himself.
This awful affair was closing at last; he had been exceedingly
lucl^y to think of Lord Leyshon. The inspector had changed
his tone at once, and even the constable, from his place at the
door, seemed to regard his late captive with something like
respect, something like apprehension. Well, they had been
very stupid, very discourteous; but the affair had been a
horrible misunderstanding from the first. There was some
excuse for them.

Lord CumberwelVs Lesson 121

He waited impatiently, wondering whom the inspector had
gone to constdt. Perhaps it was a superior residing in the
neighborhood — perhaps a magistrate. Then he began to
think of the lost document again. Somehow recent incidents
had minimized the seriousness of his loss, and he could regard
it more reasonably. Perhaps the paper was now in the hands
of the police, or perhaps the Scotland Yard man had been right
after all. In any case, the chances seemed now to be all in
his favor. He could hope that the thing was really lost, and
that it would not reappear. In three days his coup would be
made, and he could afford to laugh at every one.

At that point he really did laugh, to the amazement of all
arotmd him. Then he recollected his position, and looked up.
The policeman at the door was gazing at him with visible
apprehension, and the others with surprise. He sobered
down immediately.

Just then the inspector returned with a companion. The
policeman whispered to him as he came in, glancing sideways
at the Earl. The inspector nodded meaningly.

His companion was an elderly gentleman of benign and
cultured appearance. The Earl decided at once that he was
a local magistrate, and prepared for a gentle examination.
He rose to meet the stranger.

"Good-evening,*' said the elderly gentleman pleasantly.

"Good evening,*' said the Earl with dignity.

"I understand, "said the elderly gentleman, "that there is
— well, a little difficulty, and that you wish to have some one
sent for — in fact, the Marquis of Leyshon.**

Lord Cumberwell inclined his head with increased gracious-
ness. This person's scrutiny was as keen as the inspector's,
but it was kindly, sympathetic, benevolent. There was a
pause, while he seemed to be considering further questions.

"Unless I am mistaken," he went on, in an almost con-
fidential tone, "the Marquis is a personal friend of yours."

"He is," answered Lord Cumberwell with some surprise.

" And I suppose," said the elderly gentleman, " that you are
acquainted with other eminent personages — the Premier, for
instance."

Lord Cumberwell stared. The words had been spoken
softly — so softly that they had scarcely been heard even by the
inspector. They had been spoken with a certain meaning —

122 Lord CumberweWs Lesson

he could see that by the look which accompanied them. Then
what was their meaning?

It flashed upon him at once. This gentleman had recog-
nized him, and that was the explanation. Being a magistrate,
he was likely to be acquainted with the Minister's personal
appearance, and he had known him immediately. Why,
there was one London magistrate, Charleston, whom the Earl
regarded as a personal friend, and this, no doubt, was just
such a man as Charleston, keen, cultured, and, above all,
prudedt. As soon as he had recognized the prisoner he had
grasped the whole absurd situation, and had perceived the
need of caution. The Minister's name and station must not
be revealed to the eager watchers about him, and he was
acting, therefore, with a forethought and consideration
entirely creditable to him.

The Earl could have embraced him. Never before, surely,
had there been such an instance of the right man turning up
at the right moment. He stepped back a pace or two, so
that their talk should not be overheard, and signed to this new
friend to follow; then, leaning forward, he laid an eager finger
upon his sleeve.

"I believe," he whispered, **that you know who I am?"

The elderly gentleman's face showed complete under-
standing; he simply nodded.

* * Thank Heaven for that ! ' ' said Lord Cumberwell earnestly,
** I am intensely relieved. You perceive that I have become
implicated in a most ridiculous affair — most ridiculotis. My
only wish now is to escape from it without being recognized.
You will respect my desire for secrecy?"

"Certainly, certainly," answered the elderly gentleman.
"Most certainly!"

"Then I leave it to you," said Lord Cumberwell. "I am
in your hands."

That was enough. With a reassuring look the elderly gen-
tleman turned back to the inspector, and conversed with him
in whispers for several moments. The Earl waited in grateful
expectation. Then the inspector left the room, and the
stranger returned.

"There will be one or two formalities to arrange," he
whispered. " But you need not wait here. Come away into
another room."

The inspector reappeared almost at once, and they followed

Lord CumberweU's Lesson 123

him out. Lord Cumberwell, if he could have done so, would
have shaken the dust of the office from his feet with joy and
thanksgiving.

They passed down a stone corridor tmtil they came to an
open door. There the inspector drew back, as though to give
precedence to the others. Lord Cumberwell, all naturally,
passed on.

Then the door was closed quickly behind him, and he fotmd
himself alone. With a shock of enlightenment he heard the
door locked and barred. He stared at the place in which he
stood, and one look was enough.

The meaning of what had just occurred was suddenly ter-
ribly clear. He sprang to the door, and vainly tried to open it.

**Good heavens!** he cried. "Let me out — I am the Earl
of Cumberwell — I am not mad — I am a Minister of State!
You shall pay for this. Good heavens!"

A crowning indignity had been laid upon him. His request
for the presence of the Marquis of Leyshon had suggested to
the inspector that he was a lunatic at large; and the room in
which he stood was a police cell.

If Lord Cumberweirs misforttmes had gone further than
the police cell this narrative would have been too painful for
continuation. It is a distinct relief to be able to say that at
that point the tide of circumstances ceased to flow against him.
It seemed that Fortune was satisfied with her revenge and con-
fident that he would never again indulge in the ungrateful
fancy which had made it necessary to give him such a lesson.

When the presiding magistrate arrived at the X. District
Police Court on the following morning, he found that his ap-
pearance was extremely welcome. The inspector had a
curious story to submit to his notice.

This was the story of Lord Cumberwell's arrest. He related
it just as it had occurred from an official point of view, and
described all that had taken place subsequently. His first
impression had been, of course, that the prisoner was a
criminal pure and simple, who had taken advantage of an
open door for purposes of felony. His eccentric conduct and
his attempts at mystery had assisted in confirming this
impression. But when he had demanded the presence of the
Minister for War another explanation had suggested itself, and
one which threw a clearer light upon his peculiar attitude.

124 Lord CumberweWs Lesson

The man was a creattire of impaired intellect who had some-
how escaped from the control of his friends.

"You see, sir," said the inspector, "that wotdd explain
everything. No sane thief wotdd risk his liberty for the sake
of what he might pick up in a house of that stamp. Besides,
when there's any great national excitement on, there's always
some poor people who take it into their heads that they are
the men of the moment, though in other things they seem to be
in their sober senses. So I thought I couldn't do better than
call in Dr. Boyle, from the next street, and get his opinion.

"When he came he got into talk with the prisoner, and
foimd that it was exactly as I had guessed. The man not
only declared that the Marquis and the Prime Minister were
his personal friends, but had the fixed idea that he was himself
some one of great importance — a Minister of State or some-
thing of the kind. There was nothing for it but to detain him
while we made inquiries, so we managed to get him into a
comfortable cell."

The magistrate nodded. "And then?" he asked.

"And then we inquired, sir," continued the officer. "But
this is the curious part of it. No one of his description has
been inquired about at any of our stations, and nothing what-
ever was known about him. In fact, we couldn't get a word
of any sort, so we were obliged to keep him all night."

"Indeed! How did he take it?"

"Rather hard at first, as such cases generally do. After-
wards he calmed down, and this morning he seemed as right
as possible, though he still refused to give any particulars of
himself. The first thing he did was to ask who the magistrate
was at this court. We told him that, and he seemed to be
greatly pleased; in fact, sir, he seemed to know your name,
and asked to be allowed to see you as soon as you came down.
The next thing he asked for was a copy of the Hour."

" Ah ! " said the magistrate, smiling. " Perhaps he wanted
the latest news of his own movements in public! But you
don't wish me to see him, do you?"

"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, I think it would be best. He
seems to know your name, and perhaps would be more willing
to give you an account of himself. In such cases there's
nothing like humoring them as much as possible. There's
not the least danger, sir, and I'll be close at hand myself all
the time."

Lord CumbenveWs Lesson 125

With this assurance the magistrate was forced to be

satisfied. "Oh, well," he said, "in that case, of course .

You'd better bring him here, to my room."

The inspector departed, much relieved, and the magistrate
nerved himself for the interview. Even the bravest man
might have felt tremors on being asked to face a lunatic, and
he saw all the discomfort of the position clearly. When he
heard footsteps returning he watched the door apprehensively.

The inspector opened it, ushered in the prisoner without a
word, looked encouragingly at the magistrate, and vanished.
Then—

"Charleston!" said the prisoner hoarsely.

The magistrate was transfixed with amazement. At the
first glance he had suspected a jest, or some curious mis-
understanding for he seemed to be looking upon the face and
form of the Earl of Cumberwell, the Foreign Secretary, a
statesman who had long been quite a familiar acquaintance
of his own. At the second glance he felt inclined to dismiss
the idea with scorn. Though marvellously like Lord Cum-
berwell, this person, on a closer scrutiny, displayed certain
differences. He was shabby and faded, whereas the Earl was
famous for his always irreproachable appearance. He was
also older than the Minister; his aspect was altogether more
subdued; he was a little more gray, much more haggard.^ But
that voice — that voice — and that look!

"Charleston!" repeated Lord Cumberwell, advancing.

Mr. Charleston awoke from his doubts. He stepped for-
ward in great agitation, and caught the hand extended to him.

" My dear lord! " he stammered.

When he heard the words Lord Cumberwell's strength
seemed to fail him; he sank into a chair at the table, and
gazed at his friend in a way which was extremely pitiful.

"I was afraid," he gasped — "I was afraid that you would
not — that you would not recongize me!"
'J[Mr. Charleston had forgotten his doubts by this time.
"Not recognize you!" he repeated in pure bewilderment.
"My dear lord — ^not recognize you!"

The Earl sat still, trying to recover himself. He was dazed
and could scarcely realize what had happened — that he was
at last saved. After his late experience he had not been able
to feel sure of an3rthing, and it wotdd have fitted in com-
pletely with the other portion^^ pf hi? mghtmare if the magis-

126 Lord CumberweWs Lesson

trate had failed to claim acquaintance with him. The
foundations of his world had been shaken, and nothing could
have caused him astonishment.

"Ah!" he said slowly, in mingled pain and relief. **Ah,
my dear Charleston, you do not know — ^you cannot know —
what I have gone through!"

So in fifteen minutes more it was all over. Everjrthing had
been left in Mr. Charleston's discreet care, and Lord Cum-
berwell was speeding back to his home in a well-horsed cab.

He was slowly recovering now, though it wotdd be long
before the pains left by his astounding adventure would be
• soothed. To escape from the vicinity of the station and its
officials was a great relief in itself, and he was able to collect
his thoughts. He tried to glance at the probable consequences
of what had occurred. These could not be very serious. His
absence would scarcely have caused alarm, for he was often
away for the greater part of the night. Only Prettiman had
seen him go; and though the circumstances of such a disap-
pearance were certainly unusual, they need not have startled
him to any great extent. For Prettiman was in every sense
a useful servant, slow, cautious, and discreet and he would
not create a sensation imtil he thought it absolutely necessary.
It was not likely that he would have thought it necessary just
yet. As for Mr. Lombard, he did not reside in the house, and
his only surprise would be at the disappearance of his hat.

As for the still missing doctmient, the Earl did not feel so
anxiotis about it now. It had not fallen into the hands of the
enemy, for he had scanned the columns of the Hour without
finding the startling headline he had dreaded to see. Perhaps
it was completely lost, after all; perhaps the police had
recovered it; or perhaps it was now l5ang upon his table,
returned through the post by some loyal and intelligent
supporter. His first panic had been natural enough; but it
had now passed, and he could wait a while.

The cab sped on through Baynton Gardens and into the
respectable quiet of the Square. A moment later it drew up
at the door. There was no sign of alarm, no trace of anything
unusual. He alighted, still attired in the hideous hat and the
shabby coat, and Prettiman appeared at the door. After the
first glance the man's face was as placid and inscrutable as ever.

Lord Cumberwell replaced the hat of misfortune upon the

Lord CumberweWs Lesson 127

table from which he had taken it, and gave Prettiman direc-
tions to pay and dismiss the cabman. He saw Mr. Lombard
crossing from the stairs to the study, and greeted him with a
hurried "Good-morning!" Then he passed up the stairs.

Half-an-hour later he descended again, a new creature,
fully refreshed and transformed by a bath and a change of
garments. As he strode down the stairs not even the most
stupid policemen or suburban householders cotdd have mis-
taken him for anything but a Minister of State. He paused
in the hall to question Prettiman.

"About that woman," he said, "who called last night with
a letter, just before I went out: what did she want?"

" She was collecting for a mission, my lord. The letter was
a circular letter of reference from the vicar of the parish."

So that was the secret ! Without another word the Earl went
on to the study. His chasehad been awild-goose chase indeed!

Prettiman looked after him soberly, and when his master
had vanished his generally placid face wore a look of curious
uneasiness. Though he kept his coimsel faithfully, that look
reappeared many times during the days that followed. In
fact, Prettiman had been intensely anxious throughout the
night. It was not that his master had been absent, for that
was no common event; but the circumstances had been so
unusual. He had come to the conclusion at last that the
Earl had been suffering from a fit of temporary aberration,
and had gone out under its influence. Two facts appeared
to confirm this view. The first of these was the circumstance
that he had gone out in his study coat and in Mr. Lombard's
hat, a proceeding utterly foreign to his habits; the second
was that he had rushed away to overtake a person touting for
subscriptions. Either fact would have been suspicious enough
but the two in conjtmction were sufficient evidence to Pretti-
man of a want of mental balance. His lordship's return,
apparently sane and sotmd, was an immense relief; but from
that time he was always inclined to be watchful and appre-
hensive. He would have qtdtted the house immediately
if Lord Cumberwell had ever again rushed out of doors in
his study coat.

Unconscious of all this, the Earl joined Mr. Lombard. "I
must apologize to you," he said in his most genial way. "I
took your hat last eveningbymistake. It was a" — ^he onlyjust
kept back the word "hideous" there — "it was a soft gray one/'

128 Lord CumberwelVs Lesson

*'0h, it did not matter," said the secretary, smiling. *'I
had another here.'*

Nothing more was said about that mysterious action. Lord
Cumberwell sat down to examine a number of letters which
awaited him, running through them in a quick, eager manner.
The lost slip was not among them. Then he leaned back in
his chair, and his hand strayed, in a half-imconscious way, to
find his handkerchief.

The coat he now wore was the one he had taken to the
Cabinet meeting yesterday, and the arlScle he required was in
his tail-pocket. As he took it out loosely, something released
from its folds and dropped at his feet. For a while he could
only gaze at it dumbly. Then he picked up a piece of paper
loosely doubled. There was no doubt about it, no need for a
careful examination. This was the lost doctunent whose
disappearance had brought about his shocking adventures.
The secret of its loss was now fully explained.

In the cab on that eventful journey he had taken out the
slip to read it, and had laid it down upon the seat beside him.
A moment later he must have laid his handkerchief down also,
covering the one article with the other. On reaching Down-
ing Street he had picked up the handkerchief hastily, and the
paper with it. Both had gone into the same pocket, and the
slip had thus escaped his subsequent search. That was all.
His whole adventure, every indignity he had suffered, had
spnmg from his careless action in laying that slip of paper
upon the seat of the cab

Then, with sudden enlightenment, he remembered^how he
had come to commit so thoughtless an action. It had been
done in a moment of mental triumph and exaltation. While
scanning the slip and considering its contents, the idea oc-
occurred to him that he might almost defy the Fates. His
plans seemed so perfect, his position seemed so secure, that no
set-back, no disaster, was within the bounds of possibility.

Lord Cumberwell read the lesson in all its bearings. He
rose slowly from his chair, and moved towards the fireplace
tearing into small fragments that sheet of unlucky notes.
He dropped them, one by one, upon the coals, and the flames
sprang up to receive them. As they vanished into ashes, so
vanished also the last remnant of the Earl's sublime self-
confidence. Never again would he dare to laugh at Fortune.

''^'«l

OS A: The Story of a Queen of
Hearts, by James Lincoln* Illus-
trations by Florence England
Nosworthy*

TIT H? tir t|t t|t

GORDON HARPER had no difficulty in finding the lost
Cuban of whom he had been sent in search. On the
•comer of Mount Auburn and Dunster streets stood a sobbing
senorita, surrounded by a miscellany of sympathizers. A
blear-eyed Irishwoman was patting her shoulder, a dumpy

* Written for Short Stories.

ijo Rosa

Gennan boy was snuggling an apple into the crook of her
elbow, a grimy teamster loomed above her with an expression
of profound concern, and a Harvard professor hovered at a
respectful distance, hat in hand, as if he were attending
a funeral.

As Gordon walked briskly toward the scene of his adventure,
he vaguely perceived that the girl was extraordinarily pretty,
but this one fact more in a universe of facts brought no
shadow of confusion to his clear gray eyes. Since accepting
his appointment as Guide, in the Cambridge Summer School,
Gordon had devoted all his leisure hours to phrase-books,
and it was in very tolerable Castilian that he asked the Cuban
what had gone amiss. But as for understanding her reply,
that was quite another matter. Those glistening dark orbs
flashed out through a mist of tears, the most bewitching
smiles that Gordon had ever encountered, the slender brown
hands twinkled in a series of gestures too eloquent for illus-
trating any calamity within compass of the phrase-books, and
the roseleaf mouth, moulded in a perfect Cupid's bow, poured
forth an ejaculatory cascade that abased Gordon's pride of
Spanish to the dust.

'*It's longin* for home she is, the darlint," cried the Irish
woman, stroking the girl's powdered cheek with a rough, red
hand which the graceful Cuban instantly drew down to her Hps
and kissed.

"She's htmgry," asserted the stodgy urchin with the
flaxen locks of the Fatherland. He took a capacious bite out
of his apple and held it up to the sefLorita's mouth. Her
little white teeth bit promptly into the very traces his had
left. The Harvard professor who had shuddered when she
kissed the washermoman's hand, now put on his hat and
walked moumftdly away. But the big teamster turned
awkwardly to the Gtiide.

'* Maybe it's her shoes that hurt the lady, sir. I've heard
say how their feet get precious sore with the walking. I'd be
jolly glad to give her a lift to wherever she wants to go," and
he jerked his thumb toward the high seat of his lumbering
vehicle.

To his proud delight, the sefiorita held out her arms to him
like a child, all eagerness to be lifted to that democratic
eminence.

"Ob, I say, hold on, nowT' interposed Gordon, even his

kosa 131

calm brain beginning to reel. **rm much obliged to all of
you, but green apples will make her sick, and she can't go
driving — I'm sure of that — without a chaperon."

The Cuban began to weep again, while the indignant team-
ster clambered profanely to his perch. As this maiden all
forlorn nestled her head against Biddy's heaving breast, keep-
ing one delicate hand on Wilhelm's flaxen poll, Gordon
cursed himself for a monimient of ice. But mindful of his
official responsibility, he bent and made sure of the number
on her metallic button.

**Do you live near?" he asked of Biddy, recognizing her
as the woman who had done his freshman washing until her
drunken habits wore his patience out.

From Biddy's volubility he ascertained that she, her
husband and seven children were ** boarding with a friend"
close by. Gordon walked with the women and the faithful
Wilhelm to a dingy cottage, a glimpse of whose uncleanly
interior made him turn toward 856 in apologetic dismay. But
this exquisite little beauty of aristocratic feature tripped in
so joyously and crossed herself so devoutly before a gaudy
print of the Virgin that Gordon, leaving her in Biddy's
affectionate charge, raced over to Holden Chapel and ascer-
tained her address. When he returned, Rosa Miranda, the
name entered on the printed list against 856, was cuddled up
contentedly on a heap of dirty cushions, admiring with un-
feigned enthusiasm the tawdry splendors of Biddy's Sunday
bonnet. The Cuban fervently enclasped and kissed her
hostess at parting, and Gordon, whose ear was beginning to
disentangle the rapid syllables, improved upon her valedictory
in a fashion that might well have brought his Presbyterian
forefathers trooping from their graves.

* * Ask her to come and see me every day. She is so beautiful
and refined, and I am so very fond of her," quavered Rosa,
beginning to cry again.

**She thanks you for your kindness," translated the Guide,
intercepting Wilhelm's apple-core.

**Och! It's mesilf that will do her swate washing for
nothing at all, at all," blubbered the sympathetic Biddy.

**Tell her I shall love her till the day of my death," sobbed
Rosa, resisting Gordon's awkward efforts to part their clingingr
pmbrace.

"She says good afternoon," was Gordon's Saxon version^

'32

Rosa

At last the separation was effected, and Gordon, sternly
dismissing the broken-hearted Wilhelm, led off at an athletic
pace toward Plato Street. Rosa tripped beside him for a
moment, but presently began to hobble in the rear, and
finally sat down on the curbstone and took off her shoes to
rest her feet. Gordon deemed this state of affairs improper,
but the shoes were so absurdly small that they diverted his
attention long enough for Rosa to cast up at him one of her

enchanting glances and say that
she would always remember him
as her American father. This
was such a shock to the comely
undergraduate that he had no
Spanish left in which to bid her
put on her shoes again.

When this Queen of Hearts
was quite ready, she resumed
her fairy footgear and suddenly
fled in advance of the guide to
No. 13 Plato Street, in whose
yard a white-haired sorceress
was gathering patent herbs.
This apparition Rosa presented
as her mother, and while Gordon
was in the act of bowing low
with that frank deference which
became his youth so well, the
strange little figure glided for-
ward with the sweetest dignity
and slipped a miniature hand,
exquisitely fashioned, into his
tanned fist, saying with soft
graciousness: **I am happy to
know you, Meesta Dear. It is good to see how strong the
young oaks grow, though the palm of my own patio is
withered," added the senora simply, still keeping her hand in
the Guide's and looking up to him with dreamy eyes.

Even plain-witted Gordon knew it was not his face that
wistful look was seeing, as he bowed low over the widowed
hand and wished, for the first time in his life, that the gods
had made him a poet.

Rosa 13J

WEAVING OP THE SPELL.

More and more he wished it as the days went on, for the
Latin vivacity that rippled through Cambridge that summer
awakened Gordon Harper to such a buoyant and romantic
mood as he had never known before.

There was plenty of hard, hot work for the Guides, and
bedtime often found them more exhausted than after a tug
in the football field, but not a man of them could have been
bribed to unpin his green badge and take a train for the
mountains. The Summer School was in full swing. The
Cubans were learning English, and all Cambridge was learning
the Cuban variety of Spanish. Every other shop window
flaunted a placard with the seductive information that Spanish
was spoken within. The Italian who sold plaster images by
the hundreds at the entrance to Memorial Hall, barefoot little
Pat who peddled Havana newspapers through Quincy Street
and Massachusetts Avenue, enterprising Yankee boys who
set up stalls for the sale of lemonade and palm-leaf fans, even
John Chinaman, at the door of his laundry, all cried their
prices in the sonorous speech Columbus knew. As for the
classic Harvard nonchalance, it had broken down into bub-
bling glee and affection. It was all like a transformation of
the Arabian Nights.

The lawn-party that afternoon took place at one of the
stateliest homes of Cambridge, but the chaperones had no
longer any concern for the social bearing of their charges
under such conditions. The strangers were neither forward
nor abashed, and knew no more of awkwardness than a frog
might know of feathers. Young girls from inland villages of
Cuba, girls who seemed entirely at ease and happy in the
poor tenements to which the adoring street children would
sometimes lead them, bore themselves with the sweetest grace
and 'cordiality toward the finest ladies of the land and flirted
as naturally with a governor as with a motorman.

As the trooping guests arrived and were presented to the
nervous hostess, who had taken a course of two and a half
Spanish lessons in preparation for this unwonted function,
they responded to her stammered Castilian greeting with the
sunniest- smiles and such a lively chorus of compliments as
left the breathless interpreter, Spanish count though he was
said to be, a thousand leagues behind.

134 f^osa

**0h, what is she saying?" implored the great lady;
pinching, in her excitement, the interpreter's noble wrist.

'*She offers you her house in Cuba," explained the count,
and the flattered hostess, new to the conventional phrase and
happily unaware that her island mansion consisted of but
three rooms, one of which extended hospitality to pigs and
poultry, actually kissed — ^tell it not on Copley Square — ^the
winsome lips of the Madonna-eyed school teacher in a cotton
shirt waist.

Rosa and her mother were among the last arrivals. The
chaperon of No. 13 Plato Street, had fondly hoped to con-
duct her thirty charges in a single galaxy of beauty, but after
three hours of helping, hurrying and despairing, only fifteen
were arrayed. They seemed to bring the scent of tropic roses
with them, as they flocked like children about her, holding
up their dainty faces to be kissed and praised. The Beacon
Hill woman groaned inwardly over the cheap American hats
with which all the fifteen had crowned their midnight tresses,
but she knew that those garish structures represented to them
the height of Boston elegance. Unable to restrain their im-
patience and her own, she marshaled them forth at once,
requesting Rosa's mother, dignified and lovely in her black
lace mantilla, to chaperon the second detachment. But
meanwhile Ester and Anita had danced on in advance, and
their witcheries so wrought upon the popcorn man at the
comer that he filled their little gloved hands with his whitest
kernels. These they ate greedily \nd thus disarranged the
powder about their precious mouths, whereupon nothing
would do but they must go back for a fresh application. In
vain the chaperon dusted those charming faces with her best
lace handkerchief, and swore by bell and book that the
powder was distributed with absolute impartiality. They
had no confidence in her judgment in matters of importance,
and she was obliged to leave them for the later party.

When an hour had passed* with no sign of her tardy graces
the chaperon grew anxious and sought out Gordon Harper,
whose bright head, overtopping the throng, made an easy
beacon. As she slowly neared him she looked the Gtiide over
from head to foot and her dark eyes misted with admiration.
How like a young Apollo he stood upon the greensward, the
wind lifting his thick brown locks for the sun to turn to gold!
Where was the Brunhild for this Siegfried?

Rosa

135

But the hero — God save the mark! — had been dreaming
Helens and Cleopatras. Gordon had known nice girls all his
life, played with them, studied with them, walked and driven
and danced with them, but these exquisite exotics from the
Antilles wrapped his senses in a glow and perfume that had

nothing in common with his New England flirtations. Not
his platonic friend Miss Wrenn, nor any other of the clever
Radcliffe girls who were teaching the English classes or
serving as interpreters and guides had won a word from him
the afternoon long. He could not have told whether Miss
Wrenn was there or not, much less the others. They had all

136 Rosa

dropped out of his consciousness like mathematics after the
last examination.

Ever since greeting his hostess, Gordon had been roaming
from group to group of those bewitching Cubans, finding one
as wondrous as another and all alike Titanias of some mystic
fairyland. He seemed to be breathing a new, delicious air, or
something finer and more exhilarating than air. His spirit
overran with mirth, and he revelled in Spanish-English
badinage with the ready senoritas, who made him blush by
their compliments and taught himto**throw flowers^in return.

The chaperone had to speak twice to Gordon before he
heard her voice. Even then he listened absently, and though
he dutifully went to do her bidding, he missed his way in
those Cambridge paths that he knew like a primer, and had
passed No. 13 Plato Street by more than a block before he
remembered that he had an errand there.

As he strode up the walk beneath the open windows, a
stormy drum on the piano teased his spell-bound senses,
and he turned his head, for there was no one to warn him, and
looked in. Rosa was dancing, that was all. A soft-eyed
quadroon leaned over from beyond the pianist, a flush
in her dusky cheeks, eagerly watching every poise in the
slow and rhythmic swaying of that stately little figure.
Gordon, standing like a statue midway up the walk, could
not see Rosa at all, only her reflection. A shadow in a glass
had changed his life.

After some ten or fifteen minutes, when Dorotea, whose
fainting fit from the exertion of the toilet had delayed them,
was revived; when Blanca, who had taken Pepita's hand-
kerchief instead of her own to bathe Juana's head, had been
upbraided and forgiven ; when Inis had wept over her sandal-
wood fan which the landlady, in a moment of agitation, had
dropped into the teapot; and when the whole fluttering,
twittering bevy had come down stairs at last, Rosa, a naughty
child of seventeen; Rosa, a witch with tropic starlights melted
in her eyes, elemental womanhood, the lyric of the world, was
dancing still, and Gordon, outside the window, was staring
at a shadow in a glass.

CLIMAX.

An east wind blew up one morning, about a fortnight later,
and put all Cambridge out of sorts. The management was

Rosa

137

mortified. Possessed, as it had come to be, by a very mania
of hospitality, it would have given the Cuban guests only
those burning azure skies which seemed their natural right.
This dull, sullen air was not becoming to the lovely senoritas.
They huddled into such American shawls and cloaks as they
could borrow, beg or steal, and even kept on their curl-papers
for warmth.

/ -/ v^"/

People woke with headaches and with a tendency to think.
They had been laughing, singing, dancing so much of late that
the map of care had faded on many a conscientious brow, but
this was northern weather. Teuton weather, and the dwellers
by the Charles, shaking off their tropical enchantment, re-
turned for a little to the dismal ways of common sense.

Even to Gordon the prosaic morning brought a heavy mood.
He sighed as he fastened his collar, and sighed again, with a
different inflection, when the collar button slipped out of his
fingers and rolled merrily under the bureau, making a stmshine
in a dusty place. His manly brows were knitted and his lips
were firmly set as be stooped and groped for it. The Twins,

138 Rosa

whose vocabulary is limited, would have said that Gordon
was cross.

There was a photograph of the Twins on the bureau. Gor-
don glanced toward it from time to time, almost guiltily, as
he brushed his hair. (It was only hair this morning. There
was no sunshine to turn it into gold, and 'no wistful gaze of
Radcliffe damozel to transform it to the halo of a yoimg St.
George.) What was there in that photograph to make
Gordon wince? Perhaps the look of his mother in Jack's
determined face, or, perhaps, the chubby clutch with which
Marion held to her breast a ridiculous little tin bank, in which
were hoarded all those glittering coins that Gordon made a
point of collecting and contributing to her ** Education Fund."

It would cost some thousands of such coins to give Marion
the college course that her brother already planned for her,
for there is not much money in the Presbyterian ministry,
and it had come to be quietly imderstood at home that Gordon
would relieve his father to the extent of educating at least
one of the twins. And Marion, Gordon's pet, was to be a
woman of culture. Culture? Good heavens! As a matter
of fact, this child, at the age of nine, this baby sister still
playing with her dolls, had already a better schooling than
Rosa, whom he had adored for two ecstatic weeks, whom he —
meant to marry ?

The word struck him like a shower bath. Gordon gasped.
Then he strode over to the northern window, stared into the
lowering sky, and thought and thought and thought.

When, an hour later, he turned and took his hat, he looked
like a man exhausted from a hard day's work.

As the gate swung behind him, he became aware of tumult,
outcries, alarm. All the faces up and down the street were
turned in one direction. Gordon impulsively ran on, where
the faces were looking, swung around a comer, dashed across
the square, caught sight of a bicycle wildly wobbling far ahead,
a bicycle too evidently in the grip of a daring, ignorant rider,
and ran more swiftly than before, until a faintness took him —
for he had recognized the figure on the wheel — yet still,
although his dizzy head rocked queerly from one shoulder to
the other, those good long legs of his mechanically ran and
ran. But before he reached her, she was down, there m the
midmost of the street, frightfully in front of a galloping horse

Rosa 139

with a heavy carriage attached — Rosa, his Rose of Life, that
those hoofs wotdd crush forever!

If only that girl had been half as well-disciplined and rea-
sonable as that dumb brute above her!

She lay flat across the wheel, face upward, and the horse,
unable to check his pace or turn in time, had it clearly in
mind not to trample her. His kind eyes looked down into
hers and wotdd have told her so, as he planted his iron feet
so carefully on either side the slender body, rending and
smashing the bicycle, wood and metal, but not so much as
bruising a finger of that delicate shape in flesh and blood;
but Rosa screamed frantically and, lying safely as she was,
midway between the ruts, flung herself to one side so that a
wheel must perforce jolt over her right ankle. The pain
sharpened the fierceness of her terrified outcry, an outcry so
uncontrolled as to seem almost barbaric. It was repulsive
even to Gordon, even in the moment when he gathered her,
restored from the peril of death, up into his arms and bore
her, a dusty, disordered, struggling burden, toward the city
hospital, that chanced to be close by. A capped and aproned
nurse came running out to meet them and led him to a chilly,
whitewashed basement, where a few emergency cases, a much-
bandaged urchin, with a fish hook in his calf, two blotchy
little girls who had been playing in poison ivy, a negress with
a bruised face, and a workingman with a bloodied blouse,
were patiently waiting their turns. But they all fell back in
consternation before Rosa's ear-splitting shrieks and yielded
her right of way.

She gave the doctors and nurses so much trouble that they
finally had to etherize her in order to do what must be done
for the injured ankle which, after all, had escaped wonderfully
well.

Despite Gordon's protests and assurances, she fought against
the action of the ether as against the creeping, suflfocating
numbness of death itself and, for an hour after, had to be held
down on that white draped, ghastly surgical table by force of
three strong men. And Gordon, standing faithfully beside
her in virtue of his frayed green badge, an official guide and
interpreter, thought his love for her was dead. Few people
appear to advantage under opiates, and this was Gordon's
first experience. The glamour of the eyes was shattered.

But as the excitable southern brain reeled out from under

I40 Rosa

the beclouding of the ether, Rosa began to call his name, to
seek his touch. Wild and frightened still, she flung herself
upon his breast.

*' She's light-headed yet," said one of the surgeons good-
humoredly, to save the Guide's blushes.

But Gordon, with a sudden new sense of protection and
power, closed his arms about her and felt her nestle close
against his heart.

ENTRANCE OF THE VILLAIN.

Gordon, a few days later, gloomily aware that a fellow's
engagement must sooner or later be broken to a fellow's
family, sat himself down at his desk with a thump and
scrawled off a note to his father. He wrote more heavily than
usual, the imcommon inkiness of his penmanship giving, of
course, weight to his arguments. The letter went out by the
evening mail. It reached Pinecrest in time to spoil an
excellent breakfast for two excellent people.

The mother's speech, incredulous, indignant, sarcastic,
gushed on and on. She talked long after she had said a num-
ber of times over all that she had to say, for she was a gallant
little woman and believed in holding the fort to the last
powder-flash. She knew that when she stopped her husband
would begin, and from the way in which his blue- veined,
ministerial hand gripped his gray whisker, she dreaded the
upright words that he would speak. All minor decisions of
the household he had always left to her, but when he scented
a moral issue !

Yet it is evident that a distressed mother, who has felt a
lump of lead dragging at her heart ever since the postman
made his morning round, cannot talk forever.

When at last his wife's hurried, incoherent sentences,
which had affected him no more than the clamor of the English
sparrows in the vines outside the window, fluttered into silence
Mr. Harper spoke:

" It is a sore trial, but our path is plain. Truth and honor
outweigh all temporal concerns. The promise that Gordon
has given — "

'* Oh, John ! He hasn't given any promise."

"Or implied — "

"John! John! John!"

Rosa

141

** He must keep, let the cost be what it may. As a Christian
gentleman he has no other course."

And having thus uttered forth his voice, with as much
appfarance of emotion, or likelihood of bending, as his own
Presbyterian steeple would have shown, the Rev. John
Harper excused himself to the lady of the coffee-urn, walked
to his study with a feebler step than ever before, bolted the
door behind him, and cried like a little child.

And Gordon had meant to be such a comfort to his parents!

Mrs. Harper, mean-
while, fiercely choking
back her sobs, was de-
liberately making, one
shudders to record, a
contract with the devil.

**I have been a faith-
ful wife to John five and
twenty years," she
moaned, so brokenly
that the very walls
might have pitied her,
**and when he said a
thing was good or bad I
have never gone against
him once — ^not once.
But I don't care whether
this is right or wrong,
and I don't care what
John thinks or what I
ought to think. I know
what Fm going to do.
Tm going to save my
boy. And after that it doesn't matter what becomes of me."

And thereupon the Prince of Evil did so strengthen her
that she lifted her head, scrubbed her red eyes dry, and began,
a wily general, to lay out her campaign. And John Harper,
with his blue-veined hand gripping his gray whisker, never
dreamed that for the first time in a quarter of a century a gulf
had opened between his wife and him.

In due season Gordon received an exemplary note from
his father which hurt the boy like toothache. First he

143 Rosa

crumpled it ftuiotisly in his fist; then he smoothed it out

and laid it away in his Bible. As for his mother's missive, it

simply befogged such wits as the summer's experience had

left him. It ran: tV

•'My precious son:

I know that you would want, hard as it may be, to bring her to us
at once, and Mrs. Miranda, too. We shall expect the three of you
to-morrow for Itmcheon. I will have native foods as much as pos-
sible and the Twins tmderstand that they are not to notice it if they
eat with their fingers. Mrs. Moren will lend me one of her maids for
waiting, so that I may keep our colored Peggy out of their sight. You
can always depend, dear boy, in all distresses; on

Your affectionate mother."

Gordon ran both hands through his brown mop and groaned.
"Really, mamma's style — !**

He tried to think it was his literary sense that was wounded.

As Mrs. Harper stood waiting at the foot of the stairway
to greet her descending guests, a little woman with a careworn
face and rusty hair drawn severely back to a structure
modeled on a doorknob, she looked, in her best black silk, with
a red carnation and a geranium leaf pinned exactly up and
down on her left breast, Uke the respectable person that she
was. She had accepted the presidency of the Pinecrest
Woman's Club, she had organized a Magazine Circle, she
was leader of the Bible Class, she was the Chairman of the
Missionary Committee, what she knew about the general
activities of the world was to the knowledge of DofLa Benita
Miranda as the farmer's granary to the squirrel's hoard, what
she contributed to the betterment of humanity was to the
conscious philanthropy of this other as a furnace to a firefly.
But how wondrously the little Cuban lady swept down those
parsonage stairs, how daintily her soft draperies, of flimsiest
stuif though they were, enveloped her, with what a winsome
dignity she extended her delicate hand to that stiff, forbidding
hostess I Tiny creatures both, they had recognized each other
as foes.

Gordon was not without nervousness over Rosa's first
appearance before the authors of his being — for Gordon could
see the powder now — but Rosita looked so exquisite in that
cheap finery of hers that the white powder disfigured her no
more than the threads of morning gossamer disfigure a wild-
rose bush. Her strange, dark beauty sealed her fate with
Gordon's plain little mother. **A Witch of Endor! A Cleo-
patra! A — a — a — Jezebel! " The heavens shotdd fall before

Rosa 143

Mrs. John Harper wotdd own to a daughter-in-law with eyes
like that. Very meltingly they looked for the maternal kiss
which was by no means given, but Mr. Harper, noting the
wa^ of surprise and half resentment that swept across the
eager, glowing face, and resolved, now smarting at the stake,
not to flinch for a fagot more, stooped and saluted his son's
choice, as she seemed to expect, with a touch of his gray
moustache to either powdery cheek.

As for the Twins — and the approval of the Twins really
counts for much in the Harper family — they were enamored
of Rosita from the outset. Yoimg pagans that they were,
they loved her for being so pretty and for hugging them so
hard. Marion's exuberant caresses went far toward making
good any shortcomings in other members of the family, but
it was Jack of the lemon-colored locks in whom Gordon had
really found a rival. The youngster stood staring mutely on
this Queen of Faery, such awe and adoration in his roimd
blue eyes that Rosa did not disdain to put forth all her
coquetry and feed his milk-white flame with such flatteries
and favors as Gordon himself had never yet enjoyed. She
kissed Jack for his eyes and she kissed him for his hair and
she kissed him for his name, because it was the name of good
San Juan. With Gordon standing to interpret, she drew
Jack close to her side — the boy sniffed rapturously, for he
had not been bred in an atmosphere of sandal wood and
musk — and told him how on San Juan's day in Cuba the sun
rises dancing, and at noon, if you bend the branches of a tree
over a fountain, so as to make a shade, and then break an
egg and drop it into the water, you will see the head of Jesus
there.

•'Jack!" called Mrs. Harper, her very marrow curdling,
"run this minute and see if limcheon is ready. Marion, go
with him!"

But these absorbed little brands could in no wise be plucked
from the burning.

** And at midnight the dear San Juan goes to and fro and
blesses all the earth, all the mountains, fields and rivers, even
the least of the blades of grass, and then my mother goes out
and gathers heahng herbs, that cure chills and fevers and
love-longings — "

**John, will you take Mrs. Miranda out to the dining-
room?"

144 kosd

CATASTROPHE;

The luncheon, to the consuming rage of the hostess ^wlio
had thought to bring confusion of face and enhghtenifllg of
eyes to Gordon by putting his wild islanders to the sharp test
of civilized society, went off extremely well. Gordon, as the
medixmi of commimication, by putting a 'Spanish polish on
all the Harpers* remarks and trimming the Cuban compli-
ments down to American size, did much toward the promotion
of harmony. When Marion, for instance, pleasingly observed :
*' I thought you'd just be niggers,*' Gordon translated: '*My
sister says you are even more beautiful than she expected."
The table manners of the guests, though Gordon, who had
observed Rosa and her mother in Memorial Hall and under
still more informal circumstances, was not without his secret
apprehensions, stood the strain. Taken utterly by surprise,
they had devoutly bowed their heads before the grace was
over, they helped themselves with knife and fork even to rolls
and cakes, and before the mystery of finger bowls they waited
quietly for an initiative from their hostess, though it must be
admitted that they wiped their hands on the embroidered
doilies. Dona Benita, it is true, endured one awful moment.
The mustard had been handed her by Mrs. Moren's maid and,
mistaking the yellow paste in the fanciful cup for an American
sweetmeat, she responsively took a heaping spoonful and
instantly thrust it, mustard spoon and all, deep into her
mouth. It made the^great tears spring, but she swallowed
it smilingly, and no one seemed to notice save Gordon, who
promptly put a glass of water at her hand.

Rosa, seated next to Mr. Harper, marveled at his inhos-
pitable rudeness in not asking her to drink coffee — ^since
there was no wine — from his own cup. Gordon, who, in
preparation for this luncheon, had been reading up in Gore
Hall on Spanish Table customs, explained her puzzle to his
father.

**She says, sir," concluded Gordon, "that you must be
afraid she will surprise your secrets, for if two drink from the
same cup, they drink each other's thoughts."

"Tell Miss Rosa," replied the minister, beaming so kindly
on them both that his wife could have hurled the coflee-um
at his reverend gray head, "that I am thinking only this:
one must be old to understand the happiness of being young."

kosa 145

But Mrs. Harper, though foiled in her treacherous design of
exposing the barbarism of these impossible relatives, had a
yet more baleful weapon in reserve — the odium theologicum.
After luncheon, when Gordon and Rosita, with the enraptured
Twins at their heels, were strolling down the orchard, and
Mr. Harper was watching. them with a half -guilty smile from
his hammock under the elms, Gordon's mother stealthily
conducted Rosa's mother across the street to ** see the meeting-
house.'*

One would have supposed that this square, uncompromising
edifice was stored with dynamite, so explosively did it act on
the incredibly simple mind of the sefLora. Up to this time
she had utterly failed to grasp the fact, which Gordon had
haltingly explained, that there was a difference of creed
between the lovers. She and Rosita had listened graciously
to the long word Presbyterian without the remotest inkling
of its meaning. But this was something concrete, something
tangible — a temple without images; a church without a
Virgin. Horror and sacrilege! The village priest at home
had warned her against such heretic thresholds. In a flame
of fervor Dofla Benita shook her fist at the pulpit and spat
upon the floor.

When Gordon, with the others, came rushing to the scene
of outcry, his mother-in-law elect was dancing with fury and
snapping her wee brown fingers in Mrs. Harper's encrimsoned
countenance, while pouring forth a torrent of vehement
Cubanese.

** You would have made my child a Lutheran Atheist ! Bah !
Bah ! You would have married her with horrid rites — Maria
Santisima — in a Protestant temple! And you! Fie, fie upon
you for a vile, bad woman! You live with a priest. I have
eaten shameful bread."

For a moment even yet the family sympathies wavered, but
Mrs. Harper, turning from red to white, fainted on the pulpit
stairs, and won her Waterloo.

It was the first swoon of her life; a stubborn and alarming
one, and when her husband and children had at last succeeded
in reviving her, the luncheon-guests were gone.

Gordon looked about him in a dazed, wistful fashion, as a
child looks for the iridescent bubble that was the joy of his
eyes an instant since.

^-^^

' r-\f^^'

V ---

UK Ivory Fltite: A

Tale of Eastern Magic, by
I Aldis Dunbar. lUtistrations
by Bessie G>llins Pease""

^ ^ ^

FROM the cool darkness of Mirza Achmet's inner court,
Thomassin passed out to meet the glare and commotion
of the bazaar. For a breath of time he paused in the shadow,
letting his eyes become accustomed to the brightness.

Written for Short Stories

The Ivory FluU

M7

Everywhere was vivid, swirling color. Sight was dazzled
by the constant sway of the crowd — ^the ever- varying succes-
sion of blue, red, intense green, saffron shot with silver. Here
passed a swarthy giant, clad in white threaded with gold, a
leopard skin hanging across his arm. There, the unwieldy
bulk of an elephant — ^the scarlet
trapping gleaming on its dusky sides
like a gaudy pennon against a storm
cloud — shouldered its way anto the
confusion, the shrill cry of the
mahout warning those on foot to
stand aside. The sunheated air was
heavy with the scent — aromatic and
all-pervading — of wilted marigolds.

Paulet and Hira Singh had re-
turned direct to the hotel, but Philip
Thomassin, allured by that which
was to them the veriest common-
place, sauntered serenely through
the bazaar, toward the wider space
within the open city gate.

Here was less turmoil. Beyond
the wide arch, along the dusty road
that led across the level country,
grew dark mango trees. The morn-
ing mist had long passed away, and
there was a pleasant hint of wood
smoke from some smoldering camp-
fire. The fascination of the land was .
strong within him, and Thomassin 's
blue eyes studied his neighbors un-
tiringly.

As he stood there, a little aside
from the stream of traffic, a new
sound broke on his ears. Turning,
he saw, in an open space before the

low shops, two figures, until now unnoticed. One was a boy,
dark and impassive of expression , his clothes tattered and faded .

Thomassin went closer to see. The liquid notes rose and
fell, first loud and cheerful, then slower, more soft, slipping
almost imperceptibly into the monotonous chant of the snake-
charmers. The flute — ^unlike any that he had ever happened

"^^

148 The Ivory Flute

to notice — was of ivory, with a row of turquoises set in a band
of gold that twisted entirely around it from one end to the
other. While he looked at it curiously, standing in the full
blaze of the sunlight, something — a faint flash as of a mirror —
drew his attention to the second figure. In a low, arched
doorway stood a tall man, wrapped in a dull gray cloak. On
his head was a green turban, with tarnished golden fringe
hanging about it. His eyes, deep-set and compelling, sought
those of the yoimg Englishman.

The music ceased with a low wail ; the player held out his
hand, its thin fingers curved in appeal. Thomassin, half
heeding the whisper of ** Sahib, sahib!*' from the lad, yet
unable to draw his attention from the man in the gray cloak,
dropped a small coin into the waiting palm, and walked across
to the shop, stepping aside to avoid falling over a sprawling
brown baby, whose mother had set it down while she bar-
gained for a handful of greasy sweetmeats, paying down their
price with feigned reluctance.

The ring on his finger — the finest seal in Mirza Achmet*s
collection — was too tight. It made his hand throb and bum.
The shop was that of a working goldsmith. When he reached
it, the man in gray was sitting inside, twisting some gold wire
into a bracelet like those worn by the women of the district.

**The sahib's ring is too small?** he asked, in a low, rather
dull voice. Thomassin nodded, holding out his sun-burned
hand. The jeweller took up a little gauge.

**It should be stretched two sizes larger. Will the sahib
be seated wljfle I make it right for him? " Again Thomassin
assented, this time almost wearily. He dropped down on the
waiting pile of cushions with a sense of relief. The place was
so quiet. Only a single ray of sunshine crept through a
crevice in the roof, falling athwart his hand and glinting on
the handsome sapphire that Paulet had pronoimced flawless.
And Mark Paulet knew. Had he not hved for nine years in
Surajpore, learning to know the people around him, taught
by Hira Singh, more comrade than retainer?

A sudden glare in his eyes brought him to his feet with a
start. The hot sun shone on him as he stood there in the
open space before the Lahore gate. The flute-player was
gone. The naked baby still sprawled at his feet; its mother
was still counting out the few coins from her scanty store.
Where were the jeweller and his shop?

"^ The Ivory Flute 149

The blank surface of the city wall met his gaze as he looked
across the beaten roadway. No man in gray lounged there,
no sombre-faced lad made music in the sunlit dust, though
the droning plaint of the ivory flute was still ringing in his ears.
But the feeling of discomfort in his finger had disappeared —
with his sapphire ring.

Thomassin could not repress a cry of amazement, and all
faces turned toward him. A little nut-colored policeman —
elaborately uniformed — ran up.

**Has the sahib lost something?" he inquired with defer-
ence, having seen Thomassin in the company of Mark Paulet.

** My seal ring," gasped Thomassin. ** I went into the gold-
smith's shop, over there — " but the wizened face expressed
only polite incredulitv.

** Where, sahib? This is not the jewellers' quarter. No
goldsmith has his shop between the Lahore gate and the house
of Mirza Achmet, the jewel merchant. Moreover, the sahib
has been standing quite still — perfectlee — and not moving."

Thomassin 's temper rose in a sudden gust. He had been
tricked in some manner, and the swindler, in league with these
people, was escaping, while he was delayed by them.

*'I tell you I went into a shop — over there" (pointing
toward the uneven wall), — '*to have my ring altered."

A chatter of voices uprose.

'*No shop is. Only wall."

"Never was shop there in Surajpore!"

' * The sahib took no step back or forward since giving money
to the flute player."

"Hai!" exclaimed the diminutive official. "May be the
flute boy is thief!" But Thomassin shook his head.

"I had the ring after I gave him the money and walked
away. What do you call him? Paulet Sahib will get to the
bottom of this affair." He strode toward the big pink hotel
in a rage, followed by the policeman, if possible, more defer-
ential than before at the name of "Paulet Sahib."

The gossiping groups melted away; the veiled woman lifted
the cooing baby to her hip and shuffled out of sight ; a caravan
from the south filled up the gate, and the new interest it
created drove the thought of the mad English sahib from
the minds of the loungers in the bazaar.

But on the cool veranda of the "Queen's Hotel" an angry
young Hercules with flashing blue eyes and close cropped fair

ISO

The Ivory Flute

hair, and a very small and tawny policeman with many gilt

buttons and yards of braid on his otherwise shabby blue

imiform, were interrupting each other in vain endeavors to

pour a clear and consecutive story into the ears of "Paulet

Sahib."

** You say that the ring was still on your finger after the boy

had gone?'* asked the quiet voice, stilling the confusion.
**Yes/' averred Thomassin. **It was so tight that I

could scarcely endure the pressure. I couldn't be mistaken

about that, you know.'*

**And the man — ^the one with the green turban. Did you

see him leaning against the wall, Abdallah?"

It straightway appeared that Thomassin alone had paid

any attention to the man. So many men came and went

by the Lahore gate, and green
turbans with ragged gold
fringe were not uncommon.
All had been listening to the
boy with the white flute, and
Abdallah was willing to swear
that Thomassin had never
stirred a step after giving the
coin to the lad.

"^^^^^ f///f ¥FMK/WM^' **Like this he held his
^^^^ ^J/(t\ WMM:^ w( hand,** explained Abdallah,

in the vernacular. ** The

blonde sahib dropped a piece

of money into it without

touching it. Then the boy

put his flute in his bosom and

disappeared in the bazaar.

He had not fairly turned the

comer of Suleiman*s well

when the sahib gave a great

cry and all looked up. We saw no man. He may have

been there, but who would have looked? I was seated in the

shadow of the gate, and I know.**

"Then find the boy, son of a bat,** commanded Paulet. ** If
he is not in the jail by sunset, there shall be fines and cutting
off of gilded buttons. Give word to Mirza Achmet, for he
must know that a wily thief is in Surajpore.**

Abdallah, bowing to the earth, hastened T' out, almost

^^^'

The Ivory Fluie 151

colliding with a stout little man in a pith helmet, who was
talking vehemently to Hira Singh.

** 'Twasn*t the value of the thing, I tell you. It was the
association. Why, it belonged to my great grandfather, Sir
Anthony Garth, Vice- Admiral of the Red. I never allowed it
to leave my finger.**

V What's up, Garth?" asked Paulet, as he and Thomassin
looked around in surprise.

** Fve lost my ring. That big yellow diamond I was show-
ing you.** Thomassin caught his breath, but Paulet laid an
imperative hand on his arm.

**How did it happen?'* he asked.

**Why, it was right outside here. I stopped to listen to a
street musician, and when I tossed him a shilling I noticed
that my hand had a smear of fresh paint on it. I went into
a shop, and the man gave me a cloth to wipe it on. And — **
he paused and gulped — **I don't know where the ring went,
but go it did.**

**And you*re sure it wasn*t the flute-player that took it?"
Garth shook his head.

."Impossible. I didn't see the stain until I'd picked out a
shilling to give him. And when I — I came out — he was
gone."

** There's something behind all this! What did the mer-
chant look like?** demanded Thomassin, no longer to be
restrained.

**Dark, as all these beggars are — and he wore a green
turban."

**Had he queer eyes?"

"Sort of," Garth admitted uneasily. *'But he never
touched my hand at all. He pointed to the clothMying on
a chest, and as I stooped to pick it up — "

*'Well," asked Paulet, **what came next?"

** Perhaps you'll not believe me, but — " he gulped again,
**there^ wasn't any shop there. Nothing but the wide wall
of the hotel compound. What's more," working himself up
into a rubicund passion, **the lazy beggars around swore that
I hadn't gone into any shop. That there hadn't ever been a
sign of a shop near there. And there wasn't a sign of paint
on my hand, either!"

** And one thing more, did you notice the flute?" asked
Paulet?

IS2

The Ivory Flute

*' Yes. That was what made me stop first of all. It was
a queer white one, slender, with a band like a gold snake
coiled around it, and blue stones set in."

Mark Paulet's eyes met those of Philip Thomassin.

"The flute player — or his master? Which?**
But none cotdd answer.

It was a year later. Paulet, worn with work in the famine
district, had been given three months leave. There was noth-

The Ivory Flute 153

ing to take him to England, so he left the steamer at Naples
and traveled slowly northward — he and his friend.

At last the two — ^the wiry, quiet officer and his tall, dark
companion — saw the miracle of Italian spring on the banks
of the Amo, and rested from wandering.

One^ day they were exploring a narrow street in the oldest
quarter of the city, Paulet pointing out the quaint carvings
on the dark, overhanging walls to Hira Singh, when a strain
of music, oddly familiar, trembled in the air. The face of the
hill man lighted up.

*'That is home sound, Paulet Sahib. Who in this land can
play the chant of the snake-charmer?*'

Paulet, catching his arm, drew him forward in pursuit. A
moment later they came out into a little lonely square, with
a moss-covered fountain in the center. Here half a dozen
children were gathered about a boy, whose tattered garments
were of a fashion that filled them with wonder. He was
playing mournfully, slowly. But Hira Singh drew back.

* ' Look, sahib ! The ivory flute ! ' '

Paulet's cool gray eyes dilated, then contracted, and, with
his companion, he stepped back into the damp shadow of the
narrow lane through which they had come.

**The sahib remembers how Thomassin Sahib and Garth
Sahib lost their rings in Surajpore? And how the boy who
played and the man who offered help could never be traced? '*

Paulet assented, his eyes roving restlessly around the little
piazza.

** There of a surety is the boy we sought. So was he dressed
in Surajpore."

*' But where is the man ? '*

**He will not be seen until he chooses," whispered Hira
Singh.

Paulet considered silently, then raised his head.

'*See here, Hira Singh. Will you do exactly as I say?
We'll bag this pair of rascals."

**I am the sahib's man," was the firm reply, as a look of
devotion illumined the dark eyes.

** Hark, then. Don't listen to the boy. I am going to put
on this ring," he drew a heavily chased gold band from his
pocket, and slipped it on his finger. **I shall let the boy see
it. You follow, at one side. In the moment that I give him

1S4 The Ivory Flute

a piece of money, note where I am looking. If a man stands
there, grasp and hold him fast. I shall take care of the boy.*'

Without another word, he strolled out into the little strip
of light near the fountain. As the boy saw him, the tones of
the flute swelled again.

Hira Singh, watching every motion, saw Paulet stop, gazing
fixedly at the wall of the church. Behind a buttress crouched
a gray -clad figure. The fold of a green turban showed dimly
in the half light. Slowly Paulet's hand moved to his pocket.
With a step like that of a panther, the lithe, agile hill-man
stole along the wall, and as Paulet seized the cowering musi-
cian, there was a spring, a mufiled outcry, then a grim struggle
under the walls of the gray old church.

The terrified children fled, clinging to each other in terror,
to bring help, but it was soon over. The flute-player and his
companion were secured. Hira Singh, willing to take no
chances, tpre the green turban from the shaven head it cov-
ered, and bound its owner's arms behind him. Paulet looked
at the captives with interest.

** Where is the sapphire seal ring that you stole in Suraj-
pore?** he asked, in Urdu.

** Allah knows, or Rasalu, there," muttered the boy, sullenly.

** And the yellow diamond of GartTi Sahib ? '* turning to the
one called Rasalu. The swarthy face twisted in a mocking
grin.

'*If I tell the sahib, will he let Ali go free? I did it all.
He but played the flute at my bidding."

** Prove that, and we shall see," answered Paulet. ** Where
is my ring?"

**In my sash," was Ali*s sulky reply. Paulet, searching,
returned it to his pocket.

** Nevertheless," put in Rasalu, eagerly, ** I did it. Hearken,
sahib. When he plays on the ivory flute, all must listen.
Then I look steadily at the one who has a ring of price. He
sees me, and what I will is reflected in his mind. Ali, seeing
that he is mine, stops playing, receiving the ring from the
one who gives it, thinking it a piece of money from his purse.
Hai! Many a time! I give him to believe that he comes
near me with the ring afterward, while Ali slips out of sight.
It lasts but a moment. Then we are both gone and he has
not moved. Few men would believe, but you know truth,
sahib. You know India."

The ivory Flute 155

"Yes," Paulet spoke slowly, **I knew — a minute ago. I
would have sworn that you sat reading — ^in a book stall —
there — ^in the wall of the church. Had it not been for Hira
Singh—"

* * And the sahib will let Ali go ? He is the pearl of my heart.
Such SL flute-player. Punish me, but release Ali. Play, play,
my son!"

Obedient, the slender, dusky fingers glided along the jew-
elled stops of the flute, and its uncanny tones wandered out
on the air. Patdet and his companion listened, half fasci-
nated. More sweet grew the notes, more soft. The eyes of
both men rested on the band of twisted gold, that seemed to
move around like a snake writhing. As men tranced they
watched it, while Ali let one hand fall to his sash, keeping up
the music with the other. There came a sudden sweep of a
curved knife, cutting through green turban cloth, a cry, a
leap forward, the light crash of a small object on the worn
old stones of the Florentine pavement. Down the narrow
lane came the clatter of the hurrying carabinieri.

But the bare feet of Ali and Rasalu sent back no echo to
tell the path by which they had escaped. The gloom of. the
crooked streets swallowed them, and in the lonely piazza
Paulet and Hira Singh stooped over the handful of white
splinters which had been an ivory flute. Many rings glittered
among them — one a yellow diamond, one set with a brilliant
sapphire.

«|B

T Friend Mussard: An

Adventurer's Story, by Ludovic
Halevy. Translated from the
French by H. Twitchell*

nUt ^ ^

r]J* OR eight years my schoolmate Mussard and myself traveled
wearily round and round a large square enclosure with
grated openings, like genuine circus horses. This was teimed
our recreation. At the end of these eight years our prison
doors had been opened and a brood of bachelors took their
flight. We were free at last.

Mussard was the rich boy of the college. He went to
riding school on Tuesdays, and quite dazzled us with his
spurs, his patent leather boot's, his gay-colored cravats and
his dogskin gloves. He had his duels, and his tilbury with a
little negro for a groom. In fact, he was one of the glories of
the Latin Quarter, and when he appeared, followed by his
black man, he was greeted with "Vive Mussard! Vive
Loulou!"

Loulou was the name of the negro. Ten years afterward
I ran across him in the green-room of a theater, dressed in
the costume of a prince of Abyssinia.

By the time he was twenty-three, Mussard had received
200,000 francs 'of his inheritance from his father. Mussard
senior died this same year, 1857, and his fortime was divided
among his four children. Mussard 's share was half a million.

At the end of five years he was penniless, with a hundred
francs of debt. He was compelled to set to work to do some-
thing for a living. He had one fixed idea: to get rich again
so as to be able to amuse himself.

When I met him in 1862 he was on foot. No more tilbury,
no more negro! He was in the best of spirits, however. He

♦Translated for Short Stories.

My Friend Mussard 157

came to see me often after that, and he always had some
scheme in view; something sure, with millions in it, to be
had for the mere trouble of picking it up. But in the mean-
time he was a trifle embarrassed — five louis would be agreeable
to him. The request was always made frankly and cheerfully.
He was no shamefaced pauper; on the contrary, he was a
confident, brilliant one.

I gave him five- louis twice, thrice, then I grew discouraged.
My friend was becoming too costly. I lessened the amount
of the gift to one louis. He was not in the least offended at this.
He always took the money without looking at it. He was
delicate in his indelicacy.

**I keep an account of it all," he would say. **I shall be
able to pay back all I owe you in a few months, if my new
scheme succeeds. And it is a good one, I can assure you.'*

He would then rattle on about his prospective millions,
furnishing me amusement in return for my money. During
the past quarter of a century I have often met my college
classmates in one place and another. One was a lawyer and
kept on being a lawyer ; another was a physician and continued
in the profession. Another still was a politician, and although
he had changed his opinions ten times, a politician he remained.
These meetings were monotonous, uninteresting, and without
surprises.

With Mussard it was different. Every time he planted
himself squarely before me with outstretched hands and
hearty greeting, I said to myself, *'This will cost me twenty
francs, but in return I shall hear an amusing story.**

Every time it was something new. One time it was coal.
He had been made the director of a company to exploit a new
kind of fuel. When next I met him, I inquired about this
enterprise.

"Which one?*' he asked.

**Why, the coal that wasn't coal.**

"Oh, that was a failure! The stuff was never willing to
bum. But I have several other things on hand — a health
flour, a system of paving, etc., etc.*'

He then took his twenty francs and passed on.

I^met him regularly every six months. It was always
something new: he was going the next day to join Garibaldi
in Italy; he was about to become the manager of a provincial
theater, and he wanted me to take a letter for him to Sarddu;

158 My Friend Mussard

he was the representative of a wine house, the editor of a
government paper; he was going to America to take part in
the Civil War, on which side he had not yet decided, besides,
that didn't matter in the least; he was writing a play; and so
on, ad infinitum.

He was a veritable knight of labor, and so witty, original
and merry withal.

On one occasion I met him in Bordeaux. He wore top-
boots, a red Garibaldi shirt and a felt hat. He rushed up to
me as soon as he spied me.

'* So it is you!'' he exclaimed. ** Here in Bordeatix! What
luck! Where are you stopping?"

** At the H6tel de France."

**Have you any clothes with you?" he asked eagerly.

"What kind of clothes?" , .4

"A change." , ' "^^

"Of course."

"Come right off, then. We are about the same height. I
know you will lend me a suit."

I took him, or rather he took me, to my hotel. On the way
he told me his story and convinced me how necessa/y it was
for him to get out of his present garb. He had been offered
a position as secretary to a deputy at a salary of three hundred
francs a month. But the deputy belonged to the extreme
right, and to present himself in a revolutionary costume was
a thing not to be thought of; hence the urgent need of con-
ventional clothes.

On reaching my apartment he at once proceeded to make
his toilet, describing the battle of Dijon as he proceeded. He
donned my suit, and brushed and combed himself complacently
before the mirror.

"Upon my word! how well I look. Your coat fits me
perfectly. I shall surely get the place."

He borrowed his usual twenty francs, and, without taking
time to thank me, he was off, leaving his red shirt, gray hat,
sword and boots. Five minutes later, he reappeared out of
breath.

"I forgot to take gloves. Ah, here are some."

He immediately began to rummage about in a half-open
drawer.

" Which shall I take ? " be asked. *' Blapl^, dpn't you think

My Friend Mussard 159

so? They are more serious looking. Thanks! Good-by.
1*11 see you again soon."

That **soon" was a long time. For six months I heard
nothing from my friend. Finally, I encountered him in Paris.
He at once began a long tirade of explanation.

**Ah, I am such a careless fellow! I should have come to
see you before. You did me such a favor. At Bordeaux,
you remember.'*

I remembered very well, and I told him so.

**That very day I became secretary to a deputy; I still
hold the position. He is very well pleased with me. I wrote
a little speech for him which was a great success. He raised
my wages; I get five hundred francs now. We belong to the
extreme right. If we could enter the wall to get further to
the right, we would do so."

Three months later, we met again. Mussard carried a
splendid portfolio of red morocco under his arm.

** How's your deputy?'* I asked.

** * My deputy ' ! Say * my deputies ' rather. I have two of
them at present."

'* Explain."

" My deputy of the right used me only mornings. I was at
liberty after two o'clock, so I entered the service of another,
of the extreme left, this time. He is one of the men elected
last July, a democrat, and a rich one, too. He pays me five
hundred a month, the same as the other. I think I do pretty
well, to manage both of them. But I have never lacked in
facility. I wrote for newspapers under the Empire in all
kinds of veins, sometimes for the government, sometimes
against it, and sometimes both for and against. Now I have
the most interesting of two-party practice. You see this
portfolio."

"Yes."

**Well, both my deputies are in it. In the right pocket
Chambord; in the left, Gambetta. The papers get mixed
sometimes, and there is a pretty intermingling of fleur-de-lis
and poppies. I have filled this double position for three
months without the least fatigue. I am forming for myself
useful and solid relations in the political and business world,
and one of these days I shall be able to make use of my
deputies to launch myself in some profitable enterprise."

Three months later, this very thing was accomplished. I

i6o My Friend Mussard

met Mussard riding in a carriage, hired by the month, it is
true, but a carriage, nevertheless. He was president of a
large electrical company to be formed at Marseilles — but
which was never formed, I might mention incidentally.

After 1873, ^^y poor friend began a series of presentations
to me under various aspects: editor of different papers,
director of all sorts of enterprises, and so on. From Plevna,
under the fire of Turkish cannon, he wrote me a brilliant
Parisian letter. He forwarded me from Constantinople the
first number of his French newspaper, bearing on its title-
page these words: Etienne Mussard, Editor-in-chief. I did
not receive the second number; it never appeared; the usual
fate of the papers he started.

For a long time after this, there was no news of my versatile
friend. No more inventions, no more journals, no more any-
thing! And, I must confess, I missed him! This fact was
to my credit, for, after all, his disappearance was a great
saving to me.

On Tuesday, January 19, 1886, as I was walking along a
street in Paris, about seven o'clock in the evening, I saw a
coup^ stop a few steps ahead of me, and I heard the driver
call for the gate to be opened. I continued to advance until
I had to halt to allow the carriage to cross the pavement just
ahead of me. The gaslight fell full upon me, and just as the
vehicle was about to pass under the porte-cochere of a very
elegant private hotel, I heard my name spoken and saw a face
at the window. It was my old friend Mussard.

He leaped out to the sidewalk, and, urging me along with
him, ascended the four steps of a veranda facing a court.
Here he turned me over to a footman, who courteously drew
off my overcoat. He tossed his own costly fur coat over a
leather-covered chair, and ushered me into a little apartment,
hung in red velvet, in which four great logs crackled in an
immense fire-place — a genuine millionaire's fire. A torrent
of words followed.

** So it is you, is it! What an ungrateful fellow I am to let
you hear nothing from me for two years, since I have
become rich! For I am rich. This hotel is mine; the
coup^ in which I drove up is mine, and the horses, too. I
have three more in the stable. These valuable paintings are
all mine, and I have a round sum in the bank. And to think
that I did not hunt you up to thank you; you, who in my

My Friend Mussard i6i

bad days never abandoned me I I am going to pay you back
all the money you lent me this very night. It will be a nice
sum, and I know you never expected to get it. You might
as well own up to it. You didn't believe me when I promised
to pay you, but you were wrong. You shall see your account,
and your money, too. Come, come."

As he 3poke, he urged me along again. As for myself, I
was completely bewildered. We crossed a spacious salon,
in which another bright fire crackled. We entered a library
furnished with simiptuous simplicity, in the center of which
stood a massive oak table covered with papers, pamphlets,
journals, etc. Mussard took an accotmt book out of a drawer.

**Here is your account. Five louis, five louis, five louis,
then seven lotiis, given separately. You lessened the loans,"
this with a smile. **Then five louis again. The reply to my
letter from Plevna. Just think! I was at Plevna! What a
strange episode of my life! Then separate louis again. The
sum total is fifty-five louis. I will pay you now."

He took from the same drawer a large, black morocco
pocket-book in which were carefully arranged a respectable
number of bank notes, and he paid me!

I repeat it : he paid me ! I actually held the bills in my hand I
I could not find a word to say in reply to him. I was simply
suffocated with astonishment. Mu^ard went on :

"And now you must do me a great favor. You must dine
with me. No excuses, I shall keep you. You are dressed for
the evening. You were going to dine at some club. Give me
the preference. I have so many things to tell you. How I
made my fortune, first of all. Then, too, I have some one
to show you; I am expecting a singular guest, a Bolivian
general; a genuine article. He calls himself Moyabamba;
he's coming to talk over a question of railroads in Bolivia.
I feel quite'sure that you have never dined with a Bolivian
general."

"Never, indeed," I found words to reply.

"Well, you will, this evening. There is a beginning to all
things."

Mussard rang. A domestic appeared instantly. The
establishment was certainly a well-ordered one.

"Have another cover laid."

"Yes, Monsieur le comie.*'

So Mussard was a count! Count Mussard!

x62 My Friend Mussard

My astonishment became stupor. I must have shown my
feehngs, for Mussard broke out into boisterous laughter.

"Ah, I forgot; you do not know that I have become a
count. One can imagine nothing more ridiculous; but,
mon Dieu, what would you? The title dropped down upon
me from the skies last year. I rendered a service to a poor
boy, a Royal Highness, if you please, the son of a prince. It
was only a matter of about two thousand francs. The young
man obtained the title of 'Count' for me out of gratitude. It
cost less than to repay the money. I hesitated before burden-
ing myself with the title. But it really fitted my name very
well, so 'Count Mussard' I became."

I was by this time divided between anxiety and curiosity.
I had evidently entered a singular and dangerous world, still
the coming dinner with Count Mussard and General Moya-
bamba was very tempting. If I let such an occasion pass, it
certainly would never return again.

Soon the general was announced. At sight of him I
hesitated no longer. He was most astonishing. He was
short and stout, with the shoulders of a Hercules. His eyes
wore a fierce expression; his gray hair was brushed straight
up and his heavy mustache was of the deepest black. A
large scar across his brick-colored face gave him a sinister
appearance. *

He wore a correct evening costume, and his breast was
covered with decorations. A commander's cross hung sus-
pended from his neck by a broad yellow ribbon, and a jeweled
ornament sparkled from the left lapel of his black coat.

"What an elaborate costume for such a small dinner, gen-
eral!" exclaimed Mussard.

"It is not for you, my dear count," replied the guest; "I
am going out to a musicale this evening."

He spoke with a decided accent. Was it that of Bolivia,
or of Marseilles or Toulouse? I could not decide, but I
afterward learned that a theatrical manager had offered
him an engagement solely because of his personal appearance
and strange accent. It seemed to me now that I was on the
stage of the Palais-Royal, and that I was to play a modest
r61e in a vaudeville. I expected to partake of a theatrical
dinner with all the traditional accessories; pasteboard chicken
and p^tds, spiced bread cut in the form of cutlets, and effer-
vescing lemonade in place of champagne.

My Friend Mussard 163

I was presented to the general, and we all sat down to
dinner, a real one, the arrangement of which was the simplest
and most elegant. Mussard was in high spirits, and he did
nearly all of the talking. The general ate, ate, ate, and drank,
drank, drank. I never before saw any one eat and drink so
much. The spectacle became highly interesting.

From a brick-red he became cherry-colored, then crimson.
He visibly dilated in rotundity until it seemed to me he
had reached the limit of distension. I thought that he was
going to burst.

He did not do that, but he had all he could do to cross the
room after the meal. He did not walk; he fairly rolled, and
sank down in a heap in an easy chair. Mussard made the
coffee himself, Turk fashion. As the fragrant liquid steamed
up in the cups, the host, in a state of perfect bliss, told me how
fortune had at last smiled upon him.

" You know I was always at some scheme or another. Well,
finally I fell upon one that succeeded. I was one of a
company to promote a gold mine on the Congo. The public
was slow in subscribing to stock. We had only three days left
in which to raise the required sum, and it seemed as if the
whole matter was about to fall through.

" * We must hatch up some scheme for interesting the public ! '
one of the company said to me.

** His remark rang in my ears, and one day as I was passing
the Madeleine, I saw an enormous negro, shabbily dressed,
coming toward me. The fellow stopped on seeing me and
cried, *Is that you, Mussard?* It was Loulou; my Httle
groom, you remember.

** At sight of him, an idea flashed upon me. Loulou was to
come from the Congo! The next day, transformed into an
African nabob under the name of Maroko, the negro was
sumptuously installed at the Grand-H6tel in the royal apart-
ments. I rented a splendid carriage which had been used
once for a royal wedding. In this, Loulou went to the Bois
and the races. He was an immense success. He received
twenty declarations of love and offers of marriage in as many
days. He was shrewd and intelligent, too, and I coached
him. He received reporters and talked to them enthusiastic-
ally about our mines on the Congo. The entire press ex-
ploited our nabob, and, incidentally, our mines. Our sub-
scription was soon trebly covered. Then Loulou disappeared,

1 64 My Friend Mussard

promising never to return to Paris. We agreed to pay him
the small stmi of three thousand francs, which he had well
earned. He is now living quietly in a provincial town, where
he married a lodging-house keeper.*'

I was positively uneasy as my friend proceeded, and I could
not help showing it.

*' It was all very clever, wasn't it? " he remarked.

*' Very; a little too clever, I might say."

"Ah, my dear boy, one must look at things from a certain
point of view. Business is business. First of all, one must
succeed, and we have succeeded beyond all expectation.
There has not been a hitch from the very first, not a false
operation. Though business is rather dtill at the present
time, we find a way to pick up a little money. We have added
mineral waters; they always go. We have promoted half a
dozen springs whose waters are entirely harmless. We are in
a position to choose now. That is why we don't care to have
anything to do with your Bolivian railroad bonds, general.
We have no confidence in them."

Hearing himself addressed, and the Bolivian railroad men*
tioned, the general roused himself.

"No confidence!" he exclaimed; "why, it is a superb
affair; an assured success!"

"A superb affair possibly," replied Mussard; "but as for
being an assured success, that is doubtful."

** It is a pity you do not favor the scheme. I woidd have
liked to take you in with us."

"What do you mean?"

" Give you an interest in the business. When one does not
understand a language very well, it is hard to express exactly
what one means. I will try to make you understand. Bo-
livia is a wonderful, unexplored country. There is everything
in Bolivia — everything, everything — ^gold, silver, copper,
forests. I know the country by heart. I fought in its wars
for twenty years; in foreign wars and civil wars. The civil
wars were the best paying ones. Then everything is per-
missible, and even honorable. One can make counterfeit
money, hold up coaches, and the like. I am sure that neither
of you gentlemen ever played the brigand and robbed coaches.
I assure you that nothing is more amusing. At present,
nothing of^that kind can be done, as the government is strong.
I have now decided to devote myself to commercial and in-

My Friend Mussard 165

dustrial affairs. Revolutions are more profitable, I know
but there are none. One of them made me a colonel, another
gave me a chance to win my general's epaulets; still another
brought me this decoration, the highest recompense that can
be given to a soldier."

Here the general attracted our attention to the jeweled
decoration which blazed out from his black coat.

**I have it sewed on, you see. If I were to commit the
slightest indelicacy or forfeit my honor, it would drop off of
itself. That alone ought to reassure you regarding the affair
I propose to you."

By this time my anxiety had changed into positive terror.
I feared every moment lest the door should open to admit
officers of the law. I might be caught in a trap. I rose
abruptly, pleaded an engagement, and succeeded in making
my escape.

Once outside I seemed to be awakening from a dream.
Then I remembered the thousand francs. If the bills were
in my pocket, I had really seen Mussard instead of fancying
that I had. I felt for them; they were there!

An exchange shop stood near. I stepped in, and, address-
ing a clerk who was reading his paper behind the grating, I
said :

"Pardon me, monsieur, but I would like to ask you for
some information. Will you kindly examine these bills and
tell me if they are genuine?"

The man regarded me with a surprised air, then took the
bills and examined them carefully. Handing them back, he
said :

''They are good."

That was all I wanted to know. I had dined with my
friend Mussard, but, it is needless to state, I dined there no
more.

N Involuntary Olive*

BrancH: The Story of a
Mutual Antipathy*

WHERE there areso many attractive walks of life, and so
many forms of occupation which are alike profitable and
interesting, I cannot help regarding in the light of a personal
grievance the circumstance that the accident of my residence
in our quiet country village should have apparently forced
me for several years to occupy the position of a chronic
buffer between two opposing forces. It is a position that no
sane person would of his own freewill elect to fill, inasmuch
as it brings neither pleasure nor emolument. But the neces-
sity of keeping the peace and, generally speaking, the force
of circumstances year after year saddled my shoulders with
a responsibility which I found as hard to dislodge as Sinbad
found the Old Man of the Sea ; and I sometimes seem to foresee
that I was destined to the end of the chapter to play the part
of buffer between those two most excellent but diametrically
opposite personalities, the Major and Tommy Lowndes. Per-
haps I ought to have blessed my stars that the difference
between the two parties was not of the type that implies
manual violence, and that in my efforts to keep the peace I
was neither threatened by the fire shovel, which the valiant
Pott once wielded, nor called upon to encounter the **good
thick'* and conveniently packed hair-brush, which rendered
the rival editor's carpet-bag so formidable a weapon of offence
Still, even a war of words persistently carried on, as it were,
in the territory of a friendly neutral power, is, as I found to
my cost, apt to wax wearisome, and even exasperating, to
the non-combatant.

'*One of the rudest young men I've ever met is your par-
ticular friend Lowndes, George," the Major would say; **I
never can make out what you see to like in him. What he
really wants is a thorough good kicking."

**Well, why don't you tell him so. Major?"

♦From Blackwood's Magazine.

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 167

'* Because, my dear boy, a man in my position must have
some regard for the convenances of life."

*' ril tell you what it is, George," — always a favorite prelude
to Tommy's words of wisdom — '*that old Major of yours don't
improve with age. He grows more pompous and dictatorial
every day. People down here, and you in particular, give
him his head too much. It would do him a lot of good if
some one burnt his stays — you bet he wears them — or put a
match to one end of his moustache. What the devil does he
mean by waxing the ends till they look like porcupine quills?"

"Bum them yourself. Tommy, if you want to; it's no
business of mine."

** Not so sure about that. You seem to make a sort of pri-
vate-property business of him. Anyhow, I don't run him."

**ril tell you what you do do, though, occasionally; and
that is, hurt his feelings."

**Good job, too. If someone could only hurt his con-
founded self-satisfaction it would be better still. What right
has a superannuated old fogey like that to be so very superior ?*

There were, of course, faults on either side — we none of us
attain to absolute perfection : the pity was that things which
with the world at large passed as venial offences were magni-
fied into mountainous sins by the two belligerent parties. In
reference to our notable match at the park, where neitherman
had been wholly free from blame, each assumed an aggressive
attitude, directing his assaults upon the real antagonist
across my defenceless body.

'*The day when Lowndes had a convenient sprain, and
hired a pro. to bowl for him."

This was the Major's version.

**The match in which the Major would not face the music,
and young pudding got cut over on the toe," corrected
Tommy.

'*When I missed my innings by having to help the poor
boy home, and we lost the match in consequence."

'*I don't know what you thought, George ; one would almost
have imagined that her ladyship and her maid, and the saw-
bones, and the coachman, and half-a-dozen gardeners, and
seven people who had had an innings, might have done the
job without the Major's help. But perhaps the Major wanted
to hold his hand, or to give the sal-volatile to the little dear.
I never saw such a fuss made about a crack on the toe."

1 68 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

"The human foot, let me inform you, my dear Lowndes,
is a very delicate and complicated piece of mechanism."

''Is that original, Major, or a quotation from Locke on the
Human Understanding?" inquired Tommy ironically. "I
would humbly suggest that if young Emden's big toe is such a
delicate and precious article of furniture that it requires a
dozen men and half a score of women to look after it, he had
either better lock himself up in a glass case or cut it off and
have done with it. It would look very well, wouldn't it,
George, neatly corked up in a bottle and kept on the Major's
mantelpiece? In years to come, when it got black, the Major
would be able to say it was the only part fotmd of a nigger
he sliced up in the what-do-you-caU-it campaign."

Such was the sort of sparring which went on by the space
of two years whenever the two men encountered each other —
a welcome relief, possibly, to the feelings of the gladiators,
but very embarrassing to the audience.

However, for the eighteen months during which Tommy,
who had joined our local yeomanry, was serving his country in
South Africa, there was comparative peace and contentment
at home, and the Major was a great authority in our parts
on the way in which the war ought to have been carried on,
and in the absence of the somewhat over-candid critic laid
down the law pretty freely.

"Roberts," he would say, "was a bit too mealy-mouthed
for scoundrels of the Boer type, and I am not quite sure
whether 'K,' as they call him, is exactly the stamp of man I
should have chosen for the job. Deuced good organizer and
all that, I grant you, but not a downright good fighting man.
No, no; the sort of general we want out there is one of the old
school — no red tape man, but a fellow like old Pennefather
was. Poor old Pennefather, as I may have told you, George,
wasajsort of connection of my own, and I'll be hanged if I don't
think that the fighting instinct is hereditary. However— — ■!"
and he sighed before inquiring, " Heard anjrthing, by the way,
George, about your friend Lowndes? I did oflEer to give him
a few hints on the art of campaigning before he started, but
of course, like all young fellows, he was much too self-satisfied
and too cock-sure about everjrthing to take the trouble to
come round.'*

It was indeed true that the worthy Major had talked to
me, or, to be more correct, at me, on the subject of Tommy'

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 169

campaigning, and had thrown out strong hints to the effect
that if the young yeoman, prior to starting, cared to call on
the retired soldier, he might gather some wrinkles on the art
of combining active service with the least possible discomfort;
and I had duly reported the conversation to Tommy, as I
knew that it was meant to be repeated, not without some faint
hope that he might accept the olive-branch thus indirectly
tendered. But Tommy, obstinate to the core, had received
the proposition with huge disdain.

"Rather like the old Major's hints on cricket, I should
imagine," he observed; "standing behind a net and saying
he cotdd do it better himself, eh, George? Lessons in the art
of being conveniently absent when the balls are flying about,
or the principles of scientific commissariat personally adopted.
Thank you, George; I have got plenty to do before I start,
mthout putting on the Major as coach. Tell him, with my
love, that he had better do a little practicing instead of
preaching. He may be a bit too old and too well-conditioned
— ^what a stomach the old man is getting! — ^to chase Brother
Boer, but he might go and re-learn the goose-step in a garrison.
Tell him they would make him mess-president, and chief of
the staff, and so forth, and he'll go like a shot!"

Not the ipsissima verba, or anything like them, of course,
ever reached the Major's ears through my medium; but I at
once salved my own conscience and tickled the Major's
vanity by inventing a polite message from Tommy to the
effect that he was "awfully sorry" that his spare time before
sailing was so limited as to make it impossible for him to
avail himself of the Major's assistance. On the whole, the
worthy veteran accepted the position rather gracefully, and
during Tommy's absence, which lasted for some eighteen
months, not only abstained from making any disparaging
remarks, but even inquired from time to time whether I had
received any tidings of our "young yeoman."

But, "Oh what a tangled web," etc. If I had noted with
satisfaction that our Major was beginning to regard his neigh-
bor's proceedings -through more rose-colored spectacles, I was
totally unprepared for the latest result of Tommy's suppos-
ititious act of graciousness. For when the war came to an
end, and Tommy, who had gone through a fair amount of
hard fighting without further mishap than a grazed shoulder,
and had been specially commended by his general for a

170 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

plucky bit of scouting, was reported to be on the high seas
en route for home, I one afternoon received a note marked
*' Urgent" from the Major.

"Dear G., — Come round to mv place, if possible, to-night, as I want
to consult )[ou about giving a fitting reception to our gallant young
friend on his return from the campaign in which he has played so
worthy a part. — Yours, H. Owen.

"P.S. — Are you not a bit of a poet? A few original lines on the
arch would be very appropriate, if you won't undertake this, I must
even try my 'prentice hand. I have got several ideas for a start."

As I had some preliminary acquaintance with Tommy's
views on the subject of public demonstrations, it occurred to
me at once that the principal character in the tableau which
the Major was contemplating was more likely to be conspicu-
ous by absence than by presence. However, I strolled round
to the Major's domicile in the course of the evening, to find
the occupant evidently in the agonies of composition. Hav-
ing hurriedly stowed away two or three books in a convenient
drawer, lighted up a pipe, and invited me to do the same, he
put me into a chair and plunged at once into the details of
the proposed reception.

The samples that he was pleased to show me of sundry
promising beginnings of what I may call the Ode of
Welcome suggested the idea that the poet had drawn his
inspiration from Hymns Ancient and Modem, and that
his ideas of versification were of a somewhat crude order.

"They are only in the rough at present, George," he
remarked; "but I think I can manage to work up something
out of one or two of them."

In the rough, therefore, as I found them, I venture to
present the most promising specimens to my readers:

I
"When yeoman Lowndes went off to war

With martial order |^[^^^'

Our hearts with expectation sore
( fluttering ^ stilled

( longing ( tired

II

\ir ^^^«* +v,^« Tu^«,oo 5 warrior tried and leal,
We greet thee. Thomas. | ^^^^^^ ^^^^^

Returned to peaceful climes.
Our hearts with exultation thrill
After most dolorous times.

Ill
Hail to our yeoman! hail to thee!

Who courtcdst war's alarms;
Our greeting warm 'tis thine to see.

Returned to peace's charms."

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 171

Having read the story of Gil Bias and the Archbishop,
and convinced by a little knowledge of mankind that the
feelings of an author, when personally confronted by a
candid though friendly critic, are akin to those of a cooped
hen who sees one of her chickens handled by an interfering
biped, I should in any case have hardly ventured to suggest
corrections. But I soon discovered that active interference
on my part was not on the programme. For the Major,
acting as his own critic — dare I say trumpeter? — kept up a
nmning commentary as he handed me the various slips of
paper.

** You see, George, why I substituted * yeoman ' for * Tommy.*
I had the sort of feeling, you know, that a Christian name
abbreviated was hardly formal enough for a public occasion ;
and besides, people might have thought I meant Tommy
Atkins. Good word 'leal,* don't you think, George? A bit
stronger and more expressive than *true.' And I think that
line about 'expectation sore* hits the right nail on the head.
Terribly anxious we were, weren*t we? For months together,
too. Of course, when I wrote down 'Thomas, warrior,' etc.,
I had Thomas the Rhymer in my head, comes in Scott's
ballads. A good poet of his sort, Sir Walter; though, now
I come to think of it, Aytoim might be a better model. Pity,
isn't it, that those Dutch names are so unsentimental, or we
might have had something after the style of The Burial
March of Dundee. 'Climes* is a good word; goes well with
'times,* doesn't it?"

So ran on the Major, and all I had to do for a good half-
hour was to sit still and nod my head at intervals like a
Chinese mandarin.

But at last I ventured to ask for a little more definite
information as to the coming pageant.

"And what's your programme exactly. Major?" I inquired.

"Well, what I thought was this: We'll take an open car-
riage of a sort down to the station — her ladyship, no doubt,
will lend us her landau — then we'll have a few ferns and
flowers on the platform; take the horses out of the carriage,
and draw Lowndes home. It's only just over the half mile,
and there'll be plenty of stout young fellows who'll lend a
hand for a pint of beer. And we will have the village school
marshalled behind the carriage to sing 'See the Conquering
Hero Comes,' or something of the sort appropriate to the occa-

172 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

sion. They go in for that style of thing at the board school
and I will just drop a hint to the schoolmaster to teach them
to sing a thing more or less in tune. Then when we come to the
arch, which I am going to have erected just at the turn to his
mother's house, we will call a halt, and I will either present
Lowndes with an address or perhaps, better still, make an
impromptu speech. I've had to do that sort of thing once or
twice in my life — and things said like that on the spur of the
moment come so much more nattirally . However ,as Lowndes
is very likely not a great orator, I have jotted down on paper
the substance of what one would naturally say on such an
occasion. It's hardly fair to take a man quite by surprise,
you know, George ; and if you are going to run up to town to
meet him, it][will be a real kindness to give him an idea of
our programme, so that he may know what line to take in
answering. So here is a rough draught of what I am likely
to say. Just shove it into your pocket and show it to Lowndes
when you can get a chance."

I duly pocketed the paper before lodging my feeble protest.
For I was perfectly certain in my own mind that nothing I
could say or do would ever bring Tommy up to the scratch.
However, I saw a gleam of hope when the Major suddenly
resumed :

**0h yes, and, by the way, I thought you two fellows and
young Emden, and perhaps one or two more, would come and
dine here quietly in the evening, and we would get Lowndes
to tell us some campaigning yams."

"Thanks very much. Major; that would be very jolly. But
do you know, though all your other arrangements sound very
nice and — eh — proper, I am not quite sure that Lowndes will
care to go through it all. He is rather — ^rather — ^what you
may call diffident about that sort of thing."

Alas! I might as well have talked to a brick wall.

"Diffident!" snapped out the Major — "Diffident be d — d!
That is just where all you young fellows make a mistake,
George, ' ' he went on , lapsing into the air of didactic superiority
which invariably had the same effect on Tommy Lowndes'
temper as a red rag is reputed to have upon a bull's. ' * You should
never let an opportunity pass of fostering a loyal and patriotic
feeling in that state of life — that is, in that domestic circle
where fortune has placed you. The return of these volunteer
soldiers — ^not that they've done much, poor fellows, how

An Involuntary Ohve-Branch 173

should they, untrained as they are? — is a sort of national
occasion. And if an old soldier puts himself out of his way
to organize a suitable reception for our local representative,
it is his manifest duty to — eh, what shall I say? — ^to respond
becomingly. And it is your duty, George, as being his most
intimate friend, to explain to him what I — ^that is, his country
— expects of him.'*

When the Major is once fairly seated upon his high horse,
attempts to dislodge him are apt to provoke unpleasantness.
So I thought it best to give in on all points, and shortly took
my leave, having pledged myself to use my utmost exertions
to induce Tommy to regard the matter of the reception from
a proper point of view.

II

I am afraid that, having from the outset regarded Tonuny's
refusal to be f^ted as a foregone concltision, I did not allow
my own promised assistance in the transaction to weigh very
heavily on my conscience.

To be sure, it was refreshing to see the Major trotting about
the village from sunrise to simset button-holing eveiy other
man he met on the way, and holding long consultations at the
comer of the street with the board school master, who was
evidently armed at all points to play a conspicuous part in the
coming display. But it was not till I received a wire from
Tommy, who had landed at Southampton, reminding me of
my promise to meet him in London, that I was awakened to a
due sense of my responsibility; and it was on the journey to
London that for the first time I remembered to read over the
Major's rough draft of his impromptu speech.

'*My dear Lowndes," it ran, "representing, as perhaps I
may claim to represent, the military instincts of your native
village, I am at this time acting as the mouthpiece of this most
loyal community in welcoming you home to the scenes of your
childhood, and in expressing to you our warm admiration of
the spirit which prompted you at your coimtry's call to doflE
the garb of peace and assume the panoply of war. That your
conduct during the late trying campaign has been such as to
merit the special commendation of your commanding officer
is more gratifjring than surprising to us who have known you
so intimately, and we feel that the encomium earned by you
reflects credit not only on yourself personally, but on the

:74 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

village where you received your earliest training. It is, let
me add, my dear Lowndes, to us a source of deep satisfaction
and of heartfelt gratitude that, escaping as well the perils of
shot and shell as of devastating disease, you have been per-
mitted to return to us with what I may indeed call the mens
Sana in corpore sano. Permit me, then, my dear Lowndes,
not only in my own name, but in the name of all these present
and many absent friends, to extend to you a most hearty
welcome. N,B. — Here shake hands."

Even as I read this, stage directions and all, the wicked
thought occurred to me that there was a tolerably strong scent
of midnight oil hanging about the spontaneous utterance of
our good Major's overflowing heart, and I found myself rather
sorry for the orator if he had been at the trouble of learning
his speech by heart. For I had a shrewd suspicion that, like
the Roman cobbler's crow, he might shortly have occasion
to remark, ** Opera et impensa periit.** However, it was a
consolation to remember that in committing his speech to
paper the Major was only following the example of some of
our greatest orators, and I charitably hoped that some of his
elaborate sentences would serve as stock-in-trade for future
occasions.

I found my old friend Tommy looking a bit fine-drawn and
very much bronzed, but apparently in excellent health and
spirits. We dined together at my club, and I was so much
interested in listening to his adventures that neither the Major
nor the proposed reception ever again entered my mind till
the waiter brought me a telegram forwarded from my lodgings :

*'Wire immediately day and train. Essential he should
come in khaki.*'

*' Nothing wrong, I hope, George?" inqxiired Tommy, judg-
ing probably from the expression of my face that the contents
of the despatch were not of a very welcome nature.

"Well, no, not exactly, but," as I determined to get the
thing over and have done with it one way or the other, **it
concerns you more than it does me, so I think you had better
read it, and this too," and I handed him the telegram, and
the Major's rough draft.

" And pray what is the meaning of all this jargon ?" inquired
Tommy, after casting his eye over the two documents. Give
us a key to the riddle, old chap."

Lamely enough, and with many hesitations and apologies.

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 175

I gave Tommy a brief risum^ of the principal acts of the
drama in which he was expected to play so conspicuous a
part.

*'You know the Major means it most awfully kindly,
Tommy."

"Devilish kind of him it sounds to try and make a raree-
show of me. Great Scott! George, you don't for a minute
seriously imagine that I am going to be made an exhibition of
for that old dot-and-go-one Major's benefit?"

"Well," I repeated, "he means it kindly, and I know that
he has set his heart upon it."

"Then he can jolly well set his heart on something else.
This cock won't fight anyhow."

"Couldn't you meet him half way?" I suggested.

"It'll have to be the last half, then," was the reply, and
though the words were carelessly spoken, they gave me the
clue to a solution of the difficulty.

"Why not the last half, then? Why not come and dine
quietly with the Major, and let him make this great oration
of his in his own dinine-room?"

"What's the French for compromise, eh, George?" ex-
claimed Tommy, laughing; and then after a momentary pause
he added, " But I'm not sure that you are not right, old chap.
I don't profess to be particularly in love with your precious
Major, as you know. But after all, the old boy meant it
kindly, and I do not want to figure as an ungracious beast
any more than I want to be exhibited as a sort of prize pig to a
lot of yokels. So, if you think fit, George, you can write to
the old man that I shall be very glad to avail myself of his
kind invitation to dinner, but that the — hum — ha — shattered
state of my nerves after scrimmaging with Brother Boer won't
allow me to take part in a public ceremonial. In fact, write
any rot you like, as long as you square it with the Major
somehow. He can spout that balderdash of his at my
head at his own table if he likes; but I'll see him somewhere
first before I'll have any brass bands and squawking child-
ren, or be upset in a ditch by a lot of beery ruffians."

On these lines the matter was finally settled after a little
correspondence with the Major, to whom I broke as gently as
I could the fact that a team of wild horses would not bring
our unwilling Hamlet up to the scratch to play his part in a
public ceremony. For all I know to the contrary the Major

176 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

tore his hair, rent his clotheSp and beat his breast in the
orthodox fashion, but he evidently found some consolation
in inditing an autograph letter rather after the florid style
to Tommy, who from sheer inability to write an answer
really appropriate to the occasion simply wired, "Many
thanks. Shall be most happy."

A week later the dinner came off with great iclai. For one
reason or another the afiEair finally resolved itself into a party
of four. ** Best number I know but two," as Tommy sagely
remarked when the host apologized for having failed to
secure a larger attendance to meet the guest of the evening.
The Major's cuisine and champagne were alike admirable,
and his speech came ftdly up to sample, having been deftly
altered to suit the more private occasion, and containing
a telling paragraph anent the speaker's nervousness in arising
to address so distinguished an audience, the Right Honorable
the Viscotmt Emden to wit. Tommy really comported him-
self admirably during the delivery, merely winking at me from
time to time, and reducing Emden to the verge of suffocation
by muttering ** military grandmother!" when the speaker
thundered forth ** military instinct." But the Major's
eloquence flowed on and tmchecked, and at the conclusion
Emden and I essayed a feeble cheer. The compliment was
briefly acknowledged by the guest in a reply apparently
modeled on W. G. Grace's Canadian speeches. For, avoiding
any allusion to the war. Tommy informed us that he had never
eaten a better dinner in his life, and only hoped that he might
never have to eat a worse.

Nor was it till late in the evening that any discordant
element was introduced, by che Major suddenly launchLig off
into a learned disquisition on the merits of golf. There had
come something like a frost over the park cricket since the
disastrous termination of our memorable match, and latterly
the Major, who still acted as voluntary bear-leader to young
Emden, had taken it into his head that the latter would be
better fitted to assume his proper position in society if he was
properly initiated into the mysteries of golf. Perhaps our
sagacious veteran had the feeling that, taking all the sur-
roundings into consideration, where the pupil is naturally
awkward, instruction in the art of golf is attended with less
personal risk to the instructor than either shooting, cricket,
or even squash rackets, in each of which the Major had attem-

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 177

tempted to give his proUg6 lessons. And so it had come to pass
that, with Lady Emden's sanction, a golf course had been
laid out in the park, and a club partially established, and
nothing was wanting to assure the due registration of what
we hoped to call the*' Royal Overton Golf Club " but the com-
pletion of the pavilion, and the formal opening of the course
by the Duke of Tufton, who happened to be a distant cousin
to Emden, and was lord-lieutenant of our county. ,

"You'll join our golf club, of course, Lowndes," remarked
the Major. ''You can come in now as an original member
for two guineas. Later on we shall have a rush upon the
thing, and a big entrance fee."

"I shall be most happy to lump down my two guineas.
Major, if it is any satisfaction to you, but I don't play the
game."

"Never too late to learn, my dear fellow, never to late to
learn. I'll very soon make a player of yom."

** Htmi," said Tommy doubtfully. ** I was rather thinking
myself that it was a bit too early to learn. It always strikes
me as being an old man's game. When I have got to a stage
when I can't hit things that run and fly, I shall take a turn at
mowing — I mean swinging — at a stationary ball, and potting
partridges on the feed."

If that inane young donkey Emden had not thought fit to
explode into a loud guffaw, the Major might now have let the
matter drop. But as it would clearly never do to let the boy
imagine that his preceptor had got the worst of an argument,
he now assumed his most didactic manner.

"Pray do not be under any misapprehension about it, my
dear Lowndes," he retorted. "When you grow a bit older
and wiser you will find that the proper method of striking
what you call a stationary ball is a good deal more difficult of
attainment than anybody who has not tried it is apt to think.
It took me four good years to get a proper swing. Golf, let
me tell you, is far and away the most scientific of our outdoor
games, because the elements of chance and of brute force do
not come in as they do in cricket and so forth."

In an instant Tommy, a cricketer from boyhood, was up in
arms, with a whole train of possible and impossible propo-
sitions.

In the first place, golf was not one of our outdoor games —
it happened to come from Scotland, and he heartily wished

178 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

it had stayed there. Moreover, any fool could play golf after
a fashion, while it took a wise man to make a cricketer. Was
it not a well-established fact that any decent cricketer could
play a respectable game of golf with a few days* practice,
while a man who had played golf all his life would be hope-
lessly at sea if you put a cricket-bat into his hand?

Finally came the old argumentum ad hominem.

**ril tell you what TU do, Major. I will take you on at
your own game, and play you. on your own course for a fiver
a side.**

** Bravo, Lowndes!" exclaimed Emden, who still clung to
his old Etonian idea that a former captain of his house eleven
must of necessity be one of the greatest athletes of the day.

** What's your handicap?*' inquired the Major, with the
characteristic caution of the old golfer.

"Handicap!** exclaimed Tommy — "handicap be hanged!
Fm not going to give you any start, or take one either. It's
not a weight-for-age selling race, is it?'*

*' Every golfer, my dear Lowndes, has his recognized handi-
cap. It is, as you surely know, one of the most important
principles of the game, as regulating the start to be given or
received to ensure the equalization of the chances of success."

**The devil it is!" exclaimed Tommy. '* Well, then, I am
sorry to say that the chances of success in this particular game
will have to go without equalization. I only hit at a golf -ball
once in my life, and then I broke the silly stick, and had to
fork out five bob for a new one. If you and I are to play,
Major, we'll have to start all square, and it will be a case of
devil take the hindermost — I mean he'll have to pay up and
look pleasant. So there."

For a minute or so the Major seemed to hesitate about
accepting the challenge so boldly offered, although, according
to his own line of argument, he apparently had a soft thing in
taking on a man who had never played golf at even terms.
Five-pound notes do not grow on hedgerows in our part of the
world, and I had fully expected him to accept Tommy's offer
with avidity. But his hesitation seemed to simply that he
either entertained a lurking suspicion that Tommy was not
quite such a novice at the game as he professed to be, or
that in his heart of hearts he knew that the latter was partially
correct in asserting that a cricketer with a good eye is poten-
tially a golfer of a sort. The Major's own golf, so far as my

An Involuntary Olive-Branch ijq

very limited capacity enabled me to judge, was of the steady
and theoretical rather than the brilliant and practical type,
and although he could make rings round Emden or myself, I
already fancied that in Tommy Lowndes, who possessed the
happy knack of playing most games indifferently well, though
often in a most unorthodox style, he might find a far more
formidable antagonist.

** You're not going to back out, Major, are you?** suggested
Tommy, by way of bringing his adversary's courage up to the
sticking point. ** I shan't cut you over on the toe, you know."

*'Most certainly not," retorted the Major. **But at the
same time, let me tell you, Lawndes, that it is no joke to be
hit by a golf ball. In. fact, I have seen a man very seriously
hurt by a careless player, and so I hope that we shall have
none of the reckless hitting that characterizes your cricket."
And then, as if satisfied that he had got his own back again
with interest, he went on more calmly: **I shall be most
happy to ratify a match on the terms you propose, any day
you like to mention. I don't pretend to say that my game
is quite what it was — but — "

"But mine is," interpolated Tommy; it's "what you call
in statu quo; at least that's the Latin for non-existent, isn't
it, Emden? Right you are, then. Major! Shall we say
to-morrow week, eleven o'clock sharp. That will give me
time to run up to my office for a couple of days, and then buy
some sticks and things, and have a little quiet practice some-
where by the salt sea waves. You shan't have to run against
an untried horse. Major, I'll promise you. Good night, and
many thanks — we've had a rare good evening, and we'll have
a rare good match next week."

"Who are you going to play with, Tommy?" I inquired, as
we walked part of the way together to our respective homes.

"You!" was the prompt answer. "Now don't say you
can't come, because you've got to come. I will run down
on Friday night to Barford-on-Sea, and take some diggings,
or go to the Dormy House. I'll square that all right."

" But won't you get on better by yourself with a pro. ?" I
suggested.

"Get on better with a fiddlesticks! I don't want a fellow
who'll try to make me stand with my legs like a pair of
compasses, and my arms as stiff as a poker. No, no, George;
unaided light of nature will have to win this match."

i8o An Involuntary Olive-Branch

Unaided light of nature, however » refused to shine kindly
on Tommy during our first day's practice, in the course of
which he broke two drivers and lost three balls, the latter
misfortime being due to his inclination to "pull" and ** slice"
alternately, a method of progression for which the somewhat
narrow course, abounding in dykes and whyns, was eminently
imadapted.

** Won't do," remarked the unsuccessful player decisively
at the end of the day. ** I guess we shall have to remodel the
situntion."

And he remodelled it on the following morning by paying
his second visit to the professional's shop and requesting to
be armed with a weapon ** which no mortal man could break."

** Is it a nubbluck ye'll be wanting?" queried the rather dour
Scotsman with some irony.

" Let's have a look at her," and after weighing the weapon
critically in his hand, Tommy announced that it was, par
excellence, the best club he had yet seen.

**Real good bit of wood, this, George, something solid^to
get hold of, not like those gimcrack things I tried yesterday.
It's got a more respectable blade, too."

** Would I be putting a new heid to yon drivers?" inquired
the Scotsman.

**No, I shall drive with this," was the reply.

"Hoot, mon! Who ever heard tell of a man driving fra
the tee with a nubbluck?"

**I mean to, anyhow," said the unabashed Tommy; "you
can come and see if you like!"

And as it was a slack time of year, and we had the links
pretty well to ourselves, the professional put down a club he
was mending and followed us to the teeing-ground, where
Tommy, hitting with his new toy for all he was worth, success-
fully carried the first bimker.

" What do you think of that?" he inquired.

"It's no just canny!"" was the cautions reply, and the
Scotsman walked slowly back to his den to digest the new
sensation of having seen the bunker carried with a niblick.

Tommy was so immensely taken with his new weapon, that
he absolutely decUned to take any other club out with him,
thereby dispensing with the assistance of a caddie, whom he
was pleased to define as " a dirty little scoundrel who was paid
a lot for putting you off your game by grinning at you,"

An Involuntary Oliife-Branch i8i

The new departure in the way of employing unorthodox
methods was so far crowned with success that Tonuny distinctly
improved on his earlier performances, and by the end of the
third day was becoming very deadly on the putting-green.
Remembering our own course at the Park was as yet in a very
primitive stage of development, and that, owing to a good
deal of rough ground and long grass, highly scientific play
was rather at a discotmt, I began to think that there was some
method in his madness, and that a niblick might, in his hands,
prove a more useful implement than it is generally supposed
to be.

Not Goliath of Gath, when David advanced to the attack
with a sling, was more contemptuously indignant than our
good Major at the appearance of the niblick, the introduction
of which he resented as a violation of the laws of the etiquette
of the game.

"Haven't you got a caddie, Lowndes?" he inquired.

** Don't want one, thanks."

"Are you going to carry your own clubs, then?"

"Well, yes. I am going to carry my own club!" replied
Tommy, accentuating the singular number.

" But you are not going to play through the game with that
thing?"

"That's just where you're wrong. Major, because I am.
There is no rule against it in my book."

The Major frowned, breathed hard, and for a moment
seemed inclined to argue the point. However, he thought
better of the matter, and walked off to meet his groom, who
had appeared in the distance, carrying a formidable array of
clubs.

"First blood for me, George," quietly remarked Tommy.
"I've got a book of the rules in my pocket, and know most of
it by heart. I wasn't going to have the old man inventing
as he went on."

They halved the first two holes, the Major won the third,
and at the fourth came the first appeal to the referee, in which
capacity I was called upon to act.

"Here, I say, Major, that won't do!" Tommy exclaimed,
as his adversary, having driven his ball into some water,
claimed the right of lifting without a penalty.

"Casual water," ejaculated the Major; "most ordinary by-
law!"

1 82 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

' ' Casual watex be hanged !" retorted Tommy. * ' That pond
has been there Tor the last twenty years, to my certain knowl-
edge. I used to come and catch tiddlers in it when I was
a kid."

"In a pond, possibly, or even in the pond, but not in the
overflow of the pond. There is a very great distinction
between the two. The Nile, for instance, my dear Lowndes,"
continued the Major, aggravatingly didactic, being fed by
two great lakes, is subject to yearly intmdations; but even
those would come under the heading of casual water, as be-
ing only existent at certain times of the year. If, that is, I
were to drive my ball into the actual bed of the Nile "

*' You'd have made a deuced fine drive!" interpolated Tom-
my, by way of supplying an apodosis. "Come, come, Major;
this is golf, not a geography lesson ! Let's refer it to George."

As the pond had evidently been considerably enlarged by the
rains of an abnormally wet summer, I gave the Major the
benefit of the doubt, and allowed him to lift. But, attempt-
ing to use his brassey on the rather rough ground, he topped
his ball badly, and there was no doubt oir this occasion about
its having found its way into the pond proper.

Ours was a nine-hole course, and when they were all square
at the end of the first round, I was inclined to fancy Tommy's
chances. Hereabouts, however, in the game, he began to have
all the worst of the luck, and was especially tmforttmate in
the matter of two stymies, one laid by the Major being just
outside of the six-inch limit, while when Tommy returned the
compliment at the very next hole, his opponent was by the
merest fraction of an inch entitled to have the ball lifted.

"What a rotten rule!" exclaimed Tommy. "I suppose
that is where the delicate and scientific side of the game comes
in. Fancy a beastly half -inch being allowed to make the
difference of two holes."

" I am afraid, my dear Lowndes, that we can hardly modify
the rules of the game to suit every individual player. Speaking
from a personal point of view, I should have been delighted
to pick up my ball for you on the last green. But after all,
golf is golf, and we must play the game. That's dormy two
by the way."

At the next hole, the longest on our course, there was
another incident, and again Tommy was the sufferer. Always
a good fighter in an uphill game, he had made what promised

An involuntary Olive-Branch 183

to be his best drive of the day, the ball going off that
astonishing niblick hard and straight at the sort of angle one
associates with a good stroke from a wooden club. . Unfor-
tunately, at the very moment of his addressing the ball, an
errant donkey, which varied its time between drawing the
mowing machine over the greens and grazing the more
luxuriant grass, took it into his perverse head to walk straight
across the line of fire.

It would be a hard matter to decide whether Tommy or
the donkey was the more annoyed by the unexpected. The
latter, intercepting the ball in full flight with his bony hind-
quarters, squealed loudly, kicked up his heels, and fled inconti-
nently to seek pastures new. Tommy, as he watched this
ball rebound off the donkey's stem into a patch of long grass,
threw down his club, and anathematized the innocent cause
of the mishap.

'*D — ^n your donkey. Major!** he exclaimed. **He has
spoilt my drive. I am not likely to make such a good one
again — I — *'

" I am afraid you won't get a chance till the next hole, my
dear fellow,** said the Major blandly. **That*s what we call
a rub of the green.**

"Rub of the donkey, more likely!*' was the angry retort
*' You don*t call a donkey the green, do you?"

"Well, it*s a technical phrase for any unforeseen obstruc-
tion.**

So explained the Major, and when Tommy appealed to me
I was obliged to give it against him.

With a face of disgust Tommy picked up his club and
walked after his ball,to find it lying some thirty yards behind
the Major *s, in the very center of a small circular patch of
tough stalks of half-mown cow-grass.

"What the dickens do I do now?** inquired the aggrieved
player. " I don't lose a stroke for lifting this, do I?*'

"There's no question of lifting, unf orttmately ; the ball is
in sight, and quite playable," came from the Major, and again
I felt bound to uphold his decision.

"Well, of all the rotten rules that were ever invented!"
exclaimed Tommy.

" Summum jus summa injuria,'' quoted the Major. " There
must be slight inequalities in every hard-and-fast set of laws,
my dear Lowndes. Personally, of course, I should have no

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1 84 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

objection to your lifting; but after all, golf is golf, and one must
play the game."

"I think I've heard that remark before! Many thanks,
Major, all the same. All I can say is, that if the delicate
science of golf includes a donkey's rump, foot-rules, and
nettle-grubbing, I shotdd call skittles a better game. Play-
able you call it — ^here goes, then!" and Tommy commenced
a vigorous assatdt on the cow-grass.

It is never wise policy, I have been told, to stand by and
make remarks to a heated antagonist who is tr3ring to dig a
ball out of an impossible bunker with a niblick, or any form
of heavy iron. Now, however, the Major, already discounting
in his own mind his fortunately won victory, took his stand
about three yards off the offending patch and cotmted Tommy's
strokes.

"The odd!"

**Two more!"

"Three more!"

"Four more!"

Here Tommy paused to take breath, and to vow that he
wotdd never come out golfing again without a spade or a
pickaxe.

" You can give up the hole, of course," suggested the Major,
by way of encouragement.

"And the match too, I suppose. Many thanks, Major.
Not quite yet, though. There's a longish way to travel to
the green, and you may get down into a bottomless pit for
all I know to the contrary. Or that precious moke of yours
if he has got a spark of gentlemanly feeling about him, may
swallow your ball, or I might play out time. Here goes again,
anyhow."

"Five more!" resumed the Major.

"Six more!"

"Seven more — oh!"

For the ball, actuated by one of those fits of perversity
which on occasion will seize a golf -ball, suddenly bounced out
of the cow-grass at right angles, and hit the Major a tolerably
sharp crack on the shin.

"Hulloa!" exclaimed Tommy, "that counts something,
don't it? Sorry, Major! I hope it didn't hurt you."

"Do you mean to claim the hole, Lowndes?" inquired the

An Involuntary Olim-Branch 185

Major viciously, desisting from the occupation of rubbing
the injured shin.

"Oh, by Jovel Well, I hadn't thought of it, as a matter
of fact, Major. But as you've put it into my head — well,
golf is golf, you know, and one must play the game — eh,
George?"

** There's nothing more to be said then," said the Major,
stiffly feeling himself thus hoist with his own petard.

'' Well, I don't know so much about that. Rules may be
rules, but fair play is a jewel. What do you say to this,
Major .^ Shall we let that blessed donkey and this blessed
cow-grass, or btmker, or whatever you like to call it, and your
valuable shin count for nothing, and start the hole fresh?"

But the Major, far too much upset in his temper to recog-
nize the generosity of the proposal, indignantly rejected the
compromise, and, picking up his own bidl, strode on to the
next teeing-ground, where shortly befell him the fate which
commonly overtakes the short-tempered golfer. For he
foozled his drive, got into long grass, lost the hole, and the
match was halved.

It had been arranged that the two players shotdd Itmch
at my house, and I will own that the Major's expression of
cotmtenance — he preserved, I should add, a stolid silence —
did not augiu- favorably for the hilarity of the meal. But
being a real good fellow at heart, though subject, like the rest
of us, to his little weaknesses, he thawed visibly tmder the
influences of a well-cooked grouse and a couple of glasses of
champagne, insisted on shaking hands across the table with
his late antagonist, and finally succeeded in extracting from
the latter a promise to come and support the Dtike at the
formal opening of the Royal Overton Golf Club.

"No speeches, mind you. Major," bargained Tonmiy.

" Oh, certainly not — ^that is, not from you, my dear fellow.
Perhaps I shall have to say a few words myself, and the Dtike
will perhaps get on to his legs ; but all very short, I can promise
you."

Beyond the fact that, when a fortnight later our Itmcheon
came off, the Major's "few words" proved to be somewhat of
an equivocal term — ^he spoke a good twenty minutes by the
clock — there was little fault to be found with the arrange-
ments.

Theluncheon served in the new pavilion was excellent of its

1 86 An Involuntary Olive-Branch

sort; the twenty or thirty people who partook of it were not
too painfully impressed by the solemnity of the occasion;
and if the Major was rather tmduly verbose, our lord-lieu-
tenant very wisely curtailed his remarks. His Grace, whose
appearance was rather that of a jovial country squire than
of an ex-Lord President of the Council, appeared to be not a
little nervous as to the part he was to play in the formal
opening ceremony.

** Would you mind telling me again exactly what I am
expected to do, Major Owen?" I heard him inquire as we
rose from the table.

** Merely drive the ball oflE the tee, and declare the club open,
your Grace. *The Royal Overton Golf Club' is the exact
title."

"The words are simple enough," observed his Grace; but
don't you think that perhaps you had better do the other
thing yoiu^elf, Major? I have not played golf in years, and
was never a good player."

"Better than most of us, 111 guarantee, your Grace," said
the Major cheerily. "I'm sure you'll drive quite a good ball,
and besides, we are not quite so critical as they are at St.
Andrews. If your Grace would wait a minute, I'll bring
you a selection of drivers to choose from."

"Just you come along with me, George," whispered Tommy,
who had also overheard the conversation; "if my name is
Lowndes, there will be ructions presently, so we will just get
a good place." And he dragged me off with him.

Quite a respectable gallery of spectators had assembled
when, some ten minutes later, the Duke, with the Major in
close attendance, issued from the pavilion. For our luncheon
party had been recruited by Lady Emden and eight or ten
fair visitors who were staying at the Park, as well as by a
goodly crowd of villagers, whose presence had been urgently
insisted upon by the Major.

" You'll have the chance of seeing the lord lieutenant of the
county — a duke, you know, and one of the greatest men of
the day — quite close, and perhaps he will talk to some of you."

In fact, according to the Major's representations, the affair
seemed likely to be almost as interesting as a funeral, and so
quite thirty men in their Sunday clothes, as many women in
their newest bonnets, and carrying their latest babies, and
a goodly contingent of grinning lads and buxom lasses

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 187

were lining either side of the course, all on the tiptoe of
expectation.

If the Duke, as he stepped on to the teeing-ground, was
undeniably a fine figure of a man, it occurred to me that the
creaseless frock-coat, exquisitely fitting trousers, patent
leather boots, and tall white hat, eminently suitable attire for
a garden party on a warm September day, were rather out of
place on a golf-course.

** Allow me, your Grace," said the Major; and with that he
stooped down, carefully teed a new ball, handed a driver to
the Duke, and then, bowing to the company, made the
following announcement :

"His Grace the Lord Lieutenant will now drive the first
ball off the tee, and then declare the Roval Overton Golf Club
to be formally open.**

As the hum of applause which greeted this proclamation
subsided, his Grace the Duke firmly gathered himself together,
took a mighty drive, and — missed the globe! Moreover, as
he slightly overbalanced himself in the effort, his foot slipped,
his hat fell off, there was an ominous sound as of the rending
of those garments which commonly shroud from view the
lower extremities of ducal as well as of ordinary mankind,
and — for dukes are human after all — his Grace, by way of
declaring our golf-course open, made the remark which seemed
most appropriate to the occasion.

"D — n!'* he ejaculated, and, as Tommy irreverently re-
marked later on, '*By Jove! the old man meant it, too!'*

For the first time in my life I exactly realized what the
Roman historian meant when he wrote, '* Horror ingens sped-
antes perstrinxit.'* No English worcjs could so exactly de-
scribe the situation. For a good half -minute an awful silence
was only broken by a shocked " Oh!'* from Lady Emden, who
was standing next to our rector, and a loud guffaw from a
rustic in the background. It was then that Tommy Lowndes
stepped in to the rescue, and practically redeemed the situa-
tion. For doling out to me, by way of a strong hint to follow
his example, an unnecessarily hard kick on the ankle, and
treating Emden on the other side in the same friendly fashion,
he personally inaugurated a vigorous hand-clapping, which
was taken up by the whole audience. Under cover of the
applause, the Duke, disregarding his hat, and resisting the
natural temptation to thrust his hand under his coat-tails

1 88 An Ifwoluntary Olive-Branch

and^examine the extent of the damage suffered by those other
garments, manftdly assaulted the ball for the second time.
And this time his effort was so far crowned with success that,
struck with great violence, it flew, not perhaps exactly in the
direction it was intended to go, but, to borrow a cricket
simile, somewhere between point and cover-point, humming
close by Johnnie Daws' left ear, and jusl over the right
shoulder of Mrs. Daws* newest baby. Where it landed finally
I never had the curiosity to inquire. The great point was
that, by what the late Mr. Sutherland might have called "a
merciful dispensation of Providence," nobody was killed, and
the ball was no longer in evidence on the tee. Amidst a
new outbtu-st of applause [the Duke now declared, the
Royal Overton Golf-Course to be open, and I was hurried
off by Tommy Lowndes into the dressing-room of the pa-
vilion, where we could laugh without fear of interruption,.

An hour later we chanced to encounter the Major wending
his way homewards, looking tired and profoundly tmhappy.

*'Poor old chap!" exclaimed Tonmiy, with new-bom sym-
pathy, "he's down on his luck, George. Let us go and cheer
him up."

A moment later he was addressing his old enemy.

"Look you here. Major," he exclaimed, "don't you go and
take things too much to heart. What does it matter, after
all, if the Duke did miss the globe and say d — ^n? I've done
the same myself, and so have you in your time. We had a
jolly good show, however, and we are all infinitely obliged to
you for the trouble you have taken."

"It is very kind of you to say so, my dear Lowndes, and
indeed I saw how kind you were to start that hand-clapping.
But," and he sighed, "I'm afraid it will be a bad thing for
the club. Her ladyship seemed very much put out, and
besides, there were several clergy present. I'm afraid we
shall lose a lot of subscriptions."

"Not you!" asserted Tommy confidently. "And by the
way, Major, about that fiver which you really won in otir
match, I'm going to send you a check round to-night as a
sort of donation, or entrance-fee, or whatever you like to call
it. And, by Jove! sir, if you'll only get your Duke to come
and give us a show each season, I'll make it annual."

Even the Major joined in the chorus of the shout of laughter
with which Tommy wound up his oration. But something

An Involuntary Olive-Branch 189

in his manner seemed to tell me that Tommy's words, though
lightly spoken, had touched a softer chord in his heart than
that of mere amusement, and when the two men shook hands
at parting, I knew that that old hatchet had been buried
forever and for aye.

I am no longer called upon to act as "buflEer." For to his
cronies the Major now describes Tommy Lowndes as '* quite
the smartest young fellow in our part of the cotmtry." "To
be sure," he adds, "he is much too modest about himself;
but, after all, that is a fault on the right side, though I have it
on very high, authority" — ^the Major's information, I may
remark, always does come from very high authority — "that
Roberts was quite disappointed when he would not accept a
commission. The boy did right well in South Africa, you
know. Oi course, he has had some advantages in having
talked over military matters with — ^well, with other old
soldiers besides myself."

"Sound old chap, the Major, when you know him," I have
heard Tommy say. "Do you say he is a^bit autocratic?
Well, and who cares if he does seem to lay down the law
occasionally? That is only mannerism. He is a rare good-
hearted old boy, and that is the great point, after all."

Curiously enough, too, the Duke's brief visit, has had a
salutary effect on the opinions of another important personage
in our parish. For my old friend Johnnie Daws, who has
hitherto posed as a Radical, and entertained grave dpubts as
to the wisdom of retaining either the rights of primogeniture
orTthe^House of Lords, would^now, I think, be inclined to
make an exception in favor of one at least of our hereditary
legislators.

"Amassing fine old nobleman, the Duke, ain't he. Master
George? And what an affable and 'earty-speaking gemmel-
man he is, too; said his little d — ^n when his 'at blowed off and
he bust his trousers, just the same as you or me or any one
else. And that were a fine 'ard 'it as he made o' the off-side,
weren't it? 'Ummed'past my ear'^like a swarm o' bees, it did.
Not as I wouldn't a put out m} 'and and ketohed it if we'd
a 'appened to be plajring cricket. You never didn't ought
to ketch one o' them golf-balls, ought you. Master George?"

"It's not very wise to try, Daws," I replied. "You can
thank your stars it didn't ketch you.'*

'TC RecKonin|(i A Stot

<rf the Sea, by Herbert La wi«ia
Stone*

"^ Sl^ ^

against the taut cable anw ,^^ Francisco Bay swept

cut-water beneath berca^ifi^^u ""'"'^^ *^°"* *^« ^^^^^
gaff the stars and ^rir^ figurehead. From the monkev-

her canvas ^^iTCZ\^ ^"'"^^ '" *^« ^^^^ ^'-e.;,
chafed alongside ^ '''^'^^^ *"** ^ 'waiting tow-boat

^ame Vo''chrSltt"°l''''- Z'""'" ^'^ forecastle-head
that should have b^en ^^£"5^*1' ''""' *° ^''^ ^"^"3^ ^^^
^mdlass was silent andllJ: ^^ ^^"^ "'"^'^'^ ^'■"""d .- her
the hawse pipe. Ba^fc I^ S "''' '""^ "^^'^^^^^ ^o-
^••°"t of the wheel walked rf^ ^'T '""^ *'"^'^«^ <1^^ i"
•motion, the quick, short steosT"? ^'^^'^^^- Hi« ever^-
cyc. denoted that he captafn t "^"^^^^ ^^*«' *he flashing
l^-^ he had iust causeToranr:: """7; ''''''' '^ ^ *^->-i4

selves w,th the main deck i„ the L 7^^'' «>"*«°«°g them-
Presently the cant ^^*-

Window of the pilot ho"i°' '''' *°'^-^* »»^«i ^om the
*>eJl, Cap, what a«.

'>*, hangin- on here all d^,?^" ^^" *° <^° *»>aut it.' I can't

Go back to Tnsco th

;i cant go to sea -^thout'-crew'T^H''"''*^ «'^^*--
^^ther one somehow." " '^ ha^"* to pick np an-

■«]L"^u;/,::"::j'rj'.'" >-°° «« »■» -« n p«

F«^>rarvi there *' t.^ i-u^

^ ^

The Reckoning 191

The chief object of Captain Bradshaw's resentment was a
certain sailor's boarding master named Jacob Upther — known
familiarly along the water front as Dutch Jake — ^and when-
ever the captain's thoughts were concentrated on this worthy,
which, on the average, was about twice in every minute, his
huge hands would clench and an involuntary oath would rise
to his lips. To this man Captain Bradshaw had gone when
he wanted a crew, and Upther, for the usual consideration of
a month's advance (which the crew never saw), had agreed
to supply the sixteen A. B.'s that were needed. These men
he had duly put aboard the Vigilant some twenty-four hours
ST- previously, where they had all answered to their names on

4i3 ; the ship's articles in approved fashion, on which he had gone

• i:r ashore with the captain's receipt and the order for the eighteen

■~r V dollars advance out of each man's pay stowed safely away in

-?x an inside pocket.

I-- Now it happened that at the time a westerly gale was

blowing and the Vigilant did not go to sea that day. So the
men were kept at work about the decks until night shut down
on them, when they were allowed to turn in. As the ship
was moored well out in the stream, in a safe harbor, the second
mate, when he came on deck for his anchor watch, did not
deem it essential to keep a very strict lookout. With the
result that when the officers went to turn the men out at
daylight the following morning, they found that the entire
crew had jumped the ship and that the forecastle was as
empty as though the shipping master had never contracted
to put them aboard. Now Captain Bradshaw knew as well
as anyone that Dutch Jake was the vilest ** crimp" in San
Francisco; knew the reports of his many atrocities in obtaining
crews and his skill at the fine art of **shanghaieing." Yet
he was a little unprepared on going ashore that moming.with
blood in his eye, knowing that he would be the laughing-stock
of every master in port, to hear that it was Dutch Jake's
boat moored to the Vigilanfs cable in which the men had
made their escape. And there was a sinister rumor flying
about that Mr. Upther had lifted Captain Bradshaw's crew
after collecting his advances and fees, so that he might re-ship
them in the Tam-o'-Shanter, then awaiting a crew to sail for
London.

This Tam-o'-Shanter was anchored in the stream not far
from the Vigilant, and as Captain Bradshaw was put aboard

192 The Reckoning

his own ship again, he could see her sixteen men gathered on
the top-gaUant forecastle, their bodies bent over the capstan
bars as the cable was hove in. And the refrain of the chanty
that arose therefrom and drifted across the narrow stretch of
water to the listeners on the Vigilant, ran :

-— >**LeBve her, Johnny, leave her.
Oh, there's six feet o' water in her lower hold.
So leave her, Johnny, leave her."

A grim smile overspread the features of Captain Bradshaw
as he heard the words, but he swore to himself, then and
there, that Mr. Jacob Upther would pay a heavy penalty for
that night's work. The cable of the Tam-o'-Shanter is soon
up and down, her anchor broken out and a snub-nosed tow-
boat takes her in hand for the trip to the Golden Gate. As
she swings tmder the stem of the Vigilant and gets straight-
ened out for the sea, there are seen lining her rail at irregular
intervals, some sixteen heads which grin cheerfully at and seem
strangely familiar to the three officers who occupy the quar-
ter deck of Captain Bradshaw's vessel.

Here was a pretty pass! The Vigilant was channels deep
with wheat, ready to sail for Antwerp, with crew lifted, and
sailors in San Francisco scarcer than sperm whales in the
North Atlantic. And ashore an anxious agent was being
driven nearly insane because of the detention, while wheat
was soaring higher every day on the Continent. But San
Francisco could count more than one shipping agent to its
'cross-sea's trade, and to one of these others Captain Brad-
shaw betook himself. When he had told of his plight and
stated his requirements, the boarding master shook his head :

"Sorry, but I can't fix you out just now. Been blowin'
fresh off shore for some time, so there ain't over fifteen deep-
water men in all 'Frisco to-day, and Dutch Jake's signed those
for the Ringleader. I could pick you up a crew of longshore-
men or roustabouts, but you wouldn't go to sea with such a
lot, so what's the use."

The captain's face clouded. After a paus#«—

''What's the matter with shippin' Jake's fifteen? I've no
scruples."

The agent shook his head :

** He's keepin' 'em pretty close, I can tell you, seetn' as the
Ringleader sails in the momin'. His runners are already

The Reckoning 193

roimdin* *em too, and by night they'll all be as full as Liverpool
cattlemen.*'

The captain was silent for a moment. Then, *'Well, I've
got to have the men. They won't be averse to signin' again
if you'll give up half the advance you are to get — Dutch Jake
doesn't give up any, you know. I'll make it up to you and
give you two hundred dollars besides if you put them aboard
for the first of the ebb to-morrow. There are fifteen of 'em
and on a pinch you can sign Jake himself on for the six-
teenth," with a smile. **He was once a man-o'-warsman,
they tell me, and I guess ain't forgot the difference between a
brace and a tack."

The shipping master laughed. There was no love lost be-
tween Upther and him; indeed, they were the keenest of
rivals and there was no villainy to which either of them would
not have stooped to beat out the other or to sign on a crew.
But to do what Captain Bradshaw had suggested was going
to great lengths and was a very risky business — much more
so than the mere drugging and robbing of sailormen.

Well, he would think it over and see what could be done;
and so Captain Bradshaw departed.

Shortly before daylight the following morning, when the
hush of dawn had fallen on San Francisco's water-front and
the street lamps were but a blur of light struggling through
the cold night mist that arose from the bay, an open express
wagon rattled out to the end of one of the wharves. From it
tumbled, were helped and lifted some fifteen men, followed
by a number of long canvas clothes-bags. These bags were
hastily tossed to the deck of a waiting tow-boat moored at
the end of the pier. After them went the men, scrambling
over the string-piece and down a narrow ladder, those that
were able to go alone being first, while the others were assisted
by the agent's runners to the accompaniment of oaths and
blows. Mr. Upther brought up the rear, and from the deck
waved a farewell to his assistants as the tug sheered off and
headed seaward just as the sky above Oakland, across the
bay, was becoming ruddy with the approaching dawn.

The shipping master climbed to the pilot house, where he
passed the time of day with the tug captain and surveyed
with evident satisfaction the fruits of his night's labor sprawled
about on their bags on the deck beneath him.

** You'll find the Ringleader over back o' Go^t Island," he

194 ^A^ Reckoning

remarked, **1 promised her Cap I'd have 'em aboard by day-
light and I'm generally a man of my word. Guess hell have
a fair wind to take him to sea," as he looked towards the
northern horizon.

The captain grunted a reply and for a time silence fell on
the little craft, while the light of a new day suffused itself over
the harbor, the surrotmding hills and the shipping, chasing
the darkness out on to the broad Pacific beyond the Golden
Gate.

The anchorage is soon in sight, the lofty spars of the vessels,
the tapering yards and the delicate trace/J of lifts and braces
outlined against the fast-brightening sky, and the shipping
master, a binoctdar to his eyes, is peering hrough the half
light ahead to pick up the Ringleader. So / tent is he on his
occupation that he has failed to observe the two men who,
soon after the tug left the pier, had climbed the narrow iron
ladder leading from the fire-room and have now moimted to
the pilot house and stand at the door thereof.

They enter the doorway just as Upther lowers the glasses
and remarks to the tug captain: **That looks like her, right
enough. Over back o' that four-master there."

He turned quickly when he heard the footsteps and a look
of blank amazement overspread his face when he recognized
in the intruders a rival shipping agent and one of his runners.

"What in 'ell 're you doin' here?'* he asked shortly.

"Oh, only out for a little taste o' sea air before breakfast.
It aids the appetite. And the Cap here was good enough to
offer to put us aboard the Vigilant on his way down. We've
got a little business with her cap'n."

" But we're goin' out to the Ringleader, not to the Vigilant/'

The tow-boat captain here spoke up :

** I didn't suppose as you would mind if I dropped these here
friends o' mine aboard the Vigilant on our way down, seein'
as they was on urgent business and we have to pass close
alongside o' her."

He did not think it necessary to mention what this little
act of courtesy was worth to him in coin of the realm.

So Dutch Jake relapsed into silence again and nothing more
was said until the tug captain rang two bells to go astern as
his boat scraped alongside of the Vigilant, and he yelled to
her deck for someone to lower a ladder. As it came dangling
down the side, the shipping agent and his runner, followed

The Reckofiing 195

closely by Mr. Upther, descended to the deck of the tug and
stood waiting for it to reach them. As soon as it is made
fast above them the boarding master's runner, instead of
mounting it, steps forward and hails the men there with a
*'Come now, get on to your feet and up with you. Lively,
there.''

The words are not out of his mouth before Dutch Jake
springs after him, but is brought up sharply by a heavy hand
on his shoulder and as he spins quickly around to see whose
it is, he finds a revolver stuck under his nose, with the resolute
face of the shipping master behind it.

*What the devil's the meaning of this?" shouted Upther.

'*Only that I've shipped these men here and am going to
put *em aboarc the Vigilant,**

The first of the men is already on the deck of the ship and
has sent down a bight of rope with which to haul up the
dunnage bags, while the balance of the crew are making their
way laboriously up the ship's side. As the last one drops
over the rail, the boarding master nods to the man he has
been covering so carefully all the while, with an **Up with
you, now."

For answer Upther rips out an oath, but before his hand
can go to his hip pocket, a bullet whistles by his head to be
lost in the waters of the bay while his cheek is burned with
the powder grains. There was nothing for it but to obey, so
up he goes, followed by his oppressor, and as they disappear
over the rail, the tug swings clear and heads out into the
stream.

*' Here's your crew. Captain Bradshaw. Sixteen all told
and sober," said the agent. "Will yoii have Mr. Dunning
check them off as I call the roll?" His assistant meanwhile
had been hurriedly lining the men up under the break of the
poop. They were a motley crowd, with their canvas bags
set behind them against the spare yard carried on deck, and
as the boarding master turned to them and, reading from a
paper in his hand, began, ** Charles Swenson, Oscar Johnson,
Manuel Llagimo," and so on down the list, the answering
**Here" came in many a different accent and tongue. And
when the answer was slow in coming or came in thick tones,
the agent's runner was at hand to shove the muddled owner
of the name to one side.

When the last name on the list is reached the agent, with

196 Tha Reckoning

no sign of hesitancy in his voice, calls out ** Jacob Upther."
There is no answer, though a light of comprehension spreads
over the face of that worthy, and almost instantly the board-
ing master has him covered again with his revolver, saying:
**Get over there, you. Why don't you answer?" Then, to
the captain, though with eyes still on Jake: "There they are,
sir. Now, if you'll sign the receipt and give me the order on
your agents for the two htmdred dollars. I won't detain you."

While this is being done, Mr. Dunning and the second mate
are going through the clothes of the men for guns. Upther's
is the only one found and, after a sharp struggle, is confiscated
and passed up to the captain for safe keeping. Then, pocket-
ing his receipts, the shipping master and his assistant drop
into a small boat made fast on the other side of the vessel
from that on which the tow-boat had approached and which
had thus escaped the watchful eyes of Dutch Jake. As the
boat is shot clear of the ship with a vigorous shove of the
oars, Upther springs to the pin-rail and hurls a string of his
choicest epithets after his retreating enemies. He is promptly
dragged back by the two mates and ordered forward to man
the capstan bars, where the rest of the crew have already
preceded him, after having dumped their bags in the dirty
forecastle.

But instead, he jerks himself free, leaps to the quarterdeck,
thence to the top of the afterhouse, where Captain Bradshaw
is keenly watching the proceedings, and addresses the skipper,
his face livid with rage:

"What's the meaning of this, Cap'n Bradshaw? I want
to know. This isn't your crew and I never shipped here."

The captain surveyed him coolly from head to foot and let
his eyes travel upwards again until they rested full on the
face of the angry man. Then, with no sign of recognition,
*' Who the devil are you? And let me tell you the first thing
you'll do '11 be to get off this deck a heap sight quicker'n you
came here, and go for'ard where you b'long." There was
menace in the captain's eye, and Upther backed sullenly off
the house, stopping by the booby-hatch on the quarterdeck,
where he repeated his query.

"What do I know about it," answered Captain Bradshaw.
"You were put aboard this vessel by a reputable shipping
agent as one of my crew. I've paid a month's advance for

The Reckoning 197

you same's for the rest of the men; your name's on my papers
and to Antwerp you'll sail this ship."

** I never signed your papers. Why, you know me, Cap'n
Bradshaw. Tm Jacob Upther, a boarding master, and this
here crew belongs to the Ringleader, lyin* just ahead of you.
Signed 'em all a week ago and have given each man a month's
advance out o' my own pocket. What'd I be doin* shippin'
afore the mast with a lot of crazy galoots. If my name's on
your papers, it's a forgery and you'd be afraid to take it to
law. Guess there must be some mistake here and I insist on
bein' put aboard the tug again with my crew."

**I don't know an)rthin* about that. I transacted my
business through a reliable man and this is the crew he put
aboard," said the captain shortly, motioning to Mr. Dunning
to get the man forward.

As the mate approached with the order on his lips, Upther
spim quickly about on his heel and his fist shot out with
sledge-hammer force. But the mate was wary and had
stepped quickly aside while a heavy belaying pin crashed
down on the outstretched arm with such force as to make it
drop helplessly to the side, and the two mates hustled the
resisting man forward.

Soon the click of the iron pawl dropping into place drifts
aft, then the words of "Down the Bay of Mexico" rise in
loud, crude tones, followed by **Walk Her Round" and
"West Australia," to the rhythm of which the shuffling feet
keep time. The iron cable comes slowly in, a link at a time,
grating harshly on the hawsepipe, the mate now leaning out
on the bumpkin to watch it, now admonishing the men to
"walk her round briskly." Suddenly he straightens up,
raises a hand to the men to cease heaving and shouts aft:
"Up and down, sirl"

"Break her out, Mr. Dimning," answers the captain, and
the bodies bend lower over the bars and muscles swell as the
strain on the capstan increases. The songs have ceased and
in their places are heard, here and there, the muttered words
"Heave and raise the dead," "Dig your nails in, now,"
"Break her out." Slowly the anchor leaves its bed at the
bottom of the bay and when it is at last clear and the strain
on the cable is eased, the men break into a run and soon have
it, dripping and muddy, hanging at the fore-foot.

The tug, which all this time has been hanging in the stream

198 The Reckoning

hard by, now ranges nearer. A coil of light Une is sent spin-
ning over the water to her, and as it falls across her stem is
hauled rapidly aboard, followed by the heavy, dripping
manilla hawser which is being paid out through the forward
chocks of the Vigilant, Then, with wheel hard over and the
hawser tautening until the bitts crack, she heads for the dis-
tant sea, the huge ship following helplessly after her as the
blind follow a dog.

. The wind being fair, the gaskets are soon off the topsails
and the sails sheeted home. The upper topsails are mast-
headed to the tunes of '* Johnny Bowker" and **My Tom*s
Gone to Hilo,*' the ex-boarding master being driven from one
halyard to another, where he ** tailed out** with the crew as
well as his aching arm would allow. As they pass Fort Point,
with its light, Upther climbs to the rail once more and meas-
ures with his eye the distance to the shore. But the ship is
well out in the channel and he does not dare risk a swim;
the tide making strong ebb as it is. So he turns inboard
again, as does a htmted animal whose chances of escape are
one by one cut down, and is met by the mate's order, **Get
the gaskets off the main t*gallants*l. You there! Why
don't you jump when you're spoke to. Aloft with you, now."

There was no help for it, so up he goes with his one good
arm, and is still aloft when the tug casts off the hawser,
swings about, and with a farewell blast of her whistle, heads
back to the city without coming alongside again.

But there is still one more chance when the pilot leaves.
The station boat is abeam just as the last of the topgallant-
sails is set, and as the yawl-boat puts out from her side and
comes breasting over the seas toward the ship, an urgent job
in the chain lockers, with a watchful second mate bending
over him requires Jake's attention. When he reaches day-
light again that last chance has gone.

The staysails are already set, the courses are hauled down
as the pilot leaves, then follow royals and sky sails, one after
another. The ship is now sliding smoothly over the long
Pacific swells, heeling more and more in the fresh breeze as
each additional sail is piled on to the white cloud above her,
until the lee channels are rippling noisily through the blue
water. The moist, sweet smell of the sea comes down on the
north wind, the eastern hills are being dropped rapidly astern
as the Vigilant lifts over the long rollers, with a mass of foam

The Reckoning 199

tinder her figurehead, a long, white furrow astern pointing
back to the last bit of land that will be seen for many a day,
and before her the illimitable sea.

We will draw a veil over Upther's first week on the ship.
It would not make pleasant reading and it is sufficient to say
that, almost before the Farallones were dropped, a full
measure of punishment was exacted from his person for the
filching of Captain Bradshaw's crew. At the end of that
period he had retrograded into a dutiful, submissive foremast
hand ; jumping when he was spoken to and with a wholesome
respect for the mates. And yet this metamorphosis was not
brought about without a hard struggle, for the ex-boarding
master was game. When the mate first jumped him for some
trivial matter, soon after the pilot had left, Upther was ready
for him, in spite of his helpless arm, and clinched with the
officer, the two rolling over and over on the deck until the
second mate came to Mr. Dunning's assistance. At the close
of this little affair, Jake was carried to his bimk in the fore-
castle. After that the mates lost no opportunity to impress
upon the offender what he was up against, while the skipper
looked on from the quarterdeck with grim satisfaction.

Captain Bradshaw's only cross was that he had to stand
idly by and see this chastening effected by proxy. For many
a time his fist itched to be at the work which the etiquette of
the ship forbade him to take a hand in. But, at the end of a
week, with a badly disfigured countenance, Upther knuckled
under and accepted the situation as philosophically as possible,
seeing what the fall meant to him. And from that time on
he proved himself a good sailorman, taking kindly to the
bone soup and salt horse, and, on account of his masterful
ways keeping his place in the forecastle, which, considering
his former occupation, was no easy thing to do.

In due time, at the end of some one hundred and thirty days
namely, the Vigilant arrived off Flushing, and, with the aid
of a tow-boat proceeded up the winding Scheldt to Antwerp.
Here, fearing his man would escape and his crime not yet
expatiated nor his indenture worked out. Captain Bradshaw
turned him over to the American Consul for safe keeping,
and he in turn handed him over to the police, where he was
lodged in iail at his own expense, until the ship was ready
for sea again.

In ballast the Vigilant made a three weeks* run of it across

200 The Reckoning

the Western Ocean, during which Jake received his finishing
touches, and drove into New York on the forerunner of a
northeaster at the beginning of the winter.

Two days later the crew gathered before the shipping
commissioner to be paid off — ^together for the last time, these
waifs of the sea. When Upther's name was called and he
stepped to the desk to receive the w£^e of his six long months
of toil, his account read: "For six months and five days*
service at $i8 per month, $iii. Deduct for clothes, boots,
etc., from slop-chest, $64.50; for one month's advance in
San Francisco, $18.00; for four weeks' board to American
Consul at Antwerp,$22.oo. Balance due and payable, $6.50."

And along the water front in San Francisco they tell to
this day the tale of Dutch Jake's madness, and how he gave
up a lucrative business to go to sea again when the old longing
for the smell of the salt, the creak of the yards, and the lift
of a heaving deck beneath his feet was on him. But there
is a certain sailor's shipping master who lives in constant
dread of the day when Jake, tiring of the sea, shal sail in
through the Golden Gate again.

BACHBI^OR of Got-
tin^en: The Story of a
Test, by Augustin De La
Ooix. Translated from the
French by H. M. H. Walker*

THE setting sun was gilding with its last rays the painted
spire of the principal church of Gottingen, when Doctor
Fonarius, after having dismissed the crowd of his disciples,
returned within his Cabinet. An iron stove, placed in the
middle, kept up in the chamber a soft heat, for it was the
month of December, and the sedentary life of the good doctor
had rendered him very sensitive to the cold. A thick bed of
snow covered the streets, which commenced to become de-
serted, and the north wind whistled with force on the glass
windows of the Gothic houses. The habitation of Doctor
Fonarius was situated at the extremity of a Faubourg
and completely isolated from the neighboring houses. The
high wall which surrounded it served to enclose a little garden
shaded in summer by green trees; its windows, besides being
constantly shut, protected from the vulgar gaze the interior
of the dwelling of the sage, and the door opened but rarely
for a chosen few. This mysterious existence, joined to the
extreme austerity of his habits, had not less contributed than
the diversity and true depths of his knowledge to extend afar
the reputation of the savant Fonarius. And they said
especially of him that he was versed in the occult sciences
and initiated in all the secrets of the Cabala.

Scarcely, this day, had he installed himself, with a sigh of
relief, in his great leathern chair, and opened upon his
knees his favorite book, when a light knock came upon the
door of his Cabinet.

* Translated for Short Stories.

202 A Bachelor of GoUingen

"Come in," said Fonarius, visibly annoyed. **Ah! it is
you, Frank," lowering his voice at once to a sweet tone, at
the sight of a young man who timidly advanced. ** Sit down
there first and warm your numbed hands. You may tell me
afterwards the object of your visit," Speaking thus, Fonarius
indicated to the stranger a seat near his anh chair.

The young man, after relieving himself of his hat and cloak,
white with snow, seated himself with an embarrassed air in
the place designated, Fonarius, at the same time, fixing upon
him a scrutinizing look tempered with kindness.

He was quite a young man, in whom the candid physi-
ognomy, framed in the flowing locks of his blond hair, was
relieved by a high forehead where rested intelligence. His
eyes, habitually pensive, lit up at times by ardent thought.
Fonarius liked him above all his disciples on account of his
marvelous aptitude and zeal for study.

"Master," said he suddenly, raising toward the doctor a
look ill assured, "your lesson of to-day has been to me of
lively interest. Your very wise researches upon the effect
and causes argued a superior and subtle mind from which
nothing escapes, that knows equally well how to ascend to the
principles hid in all things and distinguish the invisible line
which links the one to the other."

"My son," interrupted Fonarius, with modest gravity,
"there are without doubt at the bottom of these investigations
of the philosopher a powerful allurement and a noble aim of
a noble ambition. Yes, I believe that there exists under the
superficial covering of everything a particle of eternal truth,
and a detached ray of supreme science. But they are in-
finitely rare — those to whom it has been given to collect and
combine them. Gk)d preserve me, as regards myself, from
the insane pride of believing myself one of these fortunate
minds!"

"Oh, Master!" exclaimed Frank with enthusiasm, "you
have said it. Truth is a noble aim ; to search, this is the begin-
ning; to know, is the end! and I also bum to know; dear
Master," added he, dropping his voice suddenly to a confi-
dential tone, "let me open my heart to you."

** Speak, my friend," said Fonarius, impressively, ** speak
in all confidence."

"I acknowledge to you," replied Frank, with hesitation,
"all the advantages that I owe to your profound studies, but

A Bachelor of Gdtiingen 203

the most admirable, the most precious to my eyes, is to be
able to predict and explain the future."

** It is true, my son, that I sometimes have success in reading
the book of destiny; but, believe me, ignorance is often better
than knowledge; there are terrible drawbacks to the gratifi-
cation of that rash desire."

*' What, then, will be these drawbacks? My father, since
you deign to authorize me to give you that appellation, I
accept them, and if you will initiate me in the mysteries of
necromancy, revealing to me the diverse chances that fate
reserves for me, believe in my gratitude."

At these words Fonarius turned his two piercing little eyes
upon Frank, who was unable to keep from blushing, and an
imperceptible smile passed over the lips of the doctor.

*^ I would have wished you to have renounced the project,"
replied he; **but, since I cannot succeed, I must forewarn
you that my science acts only upon events, and upon facts,
and not upon the sentiment^ and thoughts. Thus, necro-
mancy tells me that you will arrive by my care to a high
fortune, but whether, after arriving there, you will remember
poor Fonarius, that I cannot foresee."

**0h! my good, my excellent Master!" cried Frank; **can
you believe that I will ever forget the service that you will
have rendered me?"

**Then let us proceed, since you wish it," replied Fonarius.
*'I consent, but it grows late. Our operations and our re-
searches have prolonged themselves far into the night, and
on no account can I consent to have you exposed to the dan-
gers of returning alone to your home in the middle of the
night at this season of the year. Accept the hospitality which
I freely offer you. To-morrow morning you shall be free to
resume your daily occupation."

**I accept willingly, dear Master, your kind proposition.
If you will permit me I will await the day here in this cham-
ber."

**Not so, if you please; you are young, you have need of
repose; a whole night entirely without sleep agrees neither
with your age nor organization. With me, who am habitu-
ated to it, it affects neither my regime nor my health. With
your permission, it is in my bedroom that you finish the night,
whilst I await here the return of day."

Without giving his guest time to reply, Fonarius pulled the

204 A Bachelor of GdUingen

cord of a bell which was answered by his old housekeeper.
** Martha," said the doctor, "make a good fire within my
bed-chamber and put some clean linen on my bed. Frank
will take my place there for the night. But go first and find
in the cupboard, of which here is the key, one of those long-
neck bottles, sealed with red, on the second shelf."

After Martha had brought that for which he had asked,
the doctor said, ** Now leave us and go make ready that for
which you were called."

"This," continued he, presenting a glass to Frank, and
removing the cork from the bottle, ** will keep our minds awake
and fortify our stomachs against fatigue. I drink to your
success, my dear neophyte, and wish for your d^but in the
career of honor; you shall soon obtain the doctor's cap, the
object of your ambition."

They touched glasses. Frank, in order to do justice to the
wine of Fonarius, as well as to his cordial hospitality, swal-
lowed in a single draught the golden liquid that had been
poured out for him.

At this moment a violent knocking at the door of the
Cabinet made Frank start.

"What is it now?" said Fonarius, in an angry tone. "Has
Martha forgotten the instructions that I gave her? What
can any one want of me at this hour?"

An old man, whom Frank at once recognized as a confi-
dential servant of his uncle, entered abruptly. "Master
Frank," said he, all out of breath, "hasten to return to the
house; yotir uncle is dying."

"What can be the matter? " said Frank.

"Alas! Master Frank, the gout from which he has suffered
so cruelly for several days has ascended, they say, to his
stomach, and his doctor says he has but a few hours to live."

"So noble a man, so good a relative! " murmured Fonarius,
much affected. "I regret most sincerely, my dear Frank,
the interruption to our conversation, but go; you have not
a moment to lose."

"Go, then," said Frank, turning toward the messenger. "I
will follow you soon."

Then, becoming serene and regarding Fonarius bashfuHy:
" I see how it is," said he; "it is one of those panics to which
the health of my uncle, a little injtired by excesses, has accus-
tomed us. The attack may have b^en more violent this titne;

A Bachelor of Gdttingen 205

but there is no serious danger. Let us continue, I pray you,
our conversation; for I am impatient for knowledge."

Fonarius, more and more surprised, was again about to
commence, when a second messenger entered seeking him
and bewailing:

**Ah! man Dieu! What misfortune! My good Master,
my excellent Master! "

* * Well ? ' ' demanded Frank quickly.

"He is dead."

**Dead, did you say! are you sure of this?"

** Alas! my Master, he died in my arms, after asking vainly
for you several times."

*' My uncle! My dear uncle! " cried Frank, hiding his face
in his hands , * * could I but see thee once more ! Let us hasten . ' '

"Stop, my friend," said Fonarius, "suffering misleads you.
After having neglected to assist at the last moments of a
cherished relative and of whose heritage you are assured,
have you no fear that this tardy emotion will not be attributed
to the base suggestion of a personal interest?"

"What! do you wish, Fonarius, that I abandon my uncle's
house to the rapacity of hired people and to the pillage of
strangers? Who then, if it is not I, will take charge and
render the funeral honors to him who was my second father ?
No, no ! Do not try to keep me ; nothing known will prevent
me from accomplishing a sacred duty."

"Go, then," replied Fonarius, "and may heaven protect
such a worthy son! "

Several days after, Frank, dressed in deep mourning, entered
the Cabinet of Fonarius. " My uncle," said he to the doctor,
"has constituted me his only legatee. I am rich, but I do
not wish to deprive myself of the lessons which you have
promised me nor the advice of your experience. I have con-
ceived vast projects of which I will make you share ; meanwhile
follow me, if you are truly attached to me. Let us leave here,
abandon this hotise and renounce your position. Wc will
live together and my fortune shall be at your disposal."

"It will doubtless cost me something to alter my habits,
and I am too old to begin a new kind of life, but no matter,
it shall not be said that Fonarius has refused anything to his
friend Frank. I am going to arrange immediately for the sale
of my house."

" I will buy it from you, my worthy Fonarius, and from this

2o6 A Bachelor of Gottingen

moment, if you please, you may regard me as your debtor
for the simi of 25,000 florins."

** Be it so, it is agreed; with that I shall be enabled by
means of a small income to recompense the long and faithful
service of my old housekeeper."

**As you please."

Fonarius followed his pupil. Soon, thanks to his instruc-
tions and also to the reputation which he enjoyed among the
influential members of the coimcil, Frank obtained, after a
public examination, a diploma of Doctor. This title, which
made him equal to his Master, for the rank if not for the merit,
altered but little, in truth, the marks of deference and respect
which he had been pleased formerly to accord to him. But
Fonarius, who attached importance only to the reality of the
feelings, perceived little of that change.

Frank was rich enough to live without public employment,
but his ambition had increased with his fortune. The death
of his imcle having left vacant a professorship in one of the
Faculties of Gdttingen, Frank coveted this second heritage,
and after an interim of a year, during which period it was
confided to a poor savant in order to give Frank time to
assume at least the appearance of a man, Fonarius succeeded,
by invoking the memory of his uncle, in having the nephew
named as his successor. The desire to distinguish himself
stimulated the natural taste of Frank for work. Fonarius
served him at the same time as guide in his studies and as a
living repertoire of human knowledge. His merit shone the
more that it was not expected of one of his age. His lessons
were attended by a numerous and choice audience. His name
commenced to attract attention in the world of letters.

Meanwhile Fonarius passed by rapid transition from the
r61e of master to that of emulator and friend, then finally
from the last to privy counselor. Frank, in the intoxication
of his success, remembered little of his old Master except to
utilize to his own profit his knowledge and his credit. The
preoccupation of science and ambition had swept from his
remembrance the 25,000 florins promised in exchange for the
house of Fonarius, and for which the honest doctor had no
other guarantee than the word of the purchaser. One day,
however, Fonarius ventured, after many struggles with him-
self, to present this subject in a humble petition to the new
doctor.

A Bachelor of Gdttingen 207

** Master Frank," said he timidly (for Fonarius had for a
long time contracted the habit of affixing this respectful
appellation to the name of his old pupil), **it is five years
to-day since I have had the honor of aiding you with my
counsel, and I can render to myself the testimony that it has
not been entirely useless."

' *Is that to say that I have failed in what I owe to you?"
replied Frank with dignity.

**I do not say that precisely, Master."

"Are you not treated here as my equal?"

"I feel, as I ought, the honor of my position."

* * Of what, then, finally do you complain ? And why recall the
date and importance of services that you have rendered me?"

** It is, Master, that it is precisely five years since I left my
little home."

*'And what does that imply?"

**It is that," added Fonarius with embarrassment, **it is,
that poor Martha yet awaits the first quarter of the pension
that I ought to pay her upon the 25,000 florins that you have
promised me."

**Do you believe me capable of breaking my word? Is it
only from personal interest that you have determined to
follow me? It is a good time, truly, to think of such a trifle,
when I, myself, am occupied for your future, and our common
fortime! Listen to me, Fonarius! There is at this
moment a vacant chair at Vienna; it is an important post
and it can place an able man in a very high position. You
stand well with the member on whom this position depends.
Ask for me this favor; it will be granted on your recommen-
dation, I am sure of it. Then let us go together and I shall
be able at last to reward you wholly."

The reputation of Frank had already reached the capital of
Austria.' He did not have to wait for his nomination to the
Chair which he had solicited. As soon as it was announced
to him he departed for Vienna in company with Fonarius.
The knowledge which he showed in his elevated sphere of the
professorship, gave a new degree of celebrity to his merit, and
in a little while all Germany cited with admiration the emi-
nent knowledge and eloquence of Doctor Frank.
. His fortime grew with his renown. He was named suc-
cessively to several remunerative sinecures which in some
degree testified to the particular esteem of the government.

2o8 A Bachelor of GdttingeH

Finally, the Dean to the Council University was relieved on
account of his great age, and Frank was named to take his
place.

Fonarius thinking then that the ambition of his old pupil
ought to be satisfied, and that his advice would become
to him, henceforth, useless, thought most seriotisly of taking
leave of Frank in his new dignity; for long since he. had
lamented in secret the growing indifference, and more and
more his haughty manners, in return for his regard.

"Master," stammered Fonarius, trembling with emotion
and perhaps with regret, "you are rich and covered with
honors. For myself, I am growing old, my devotion will
serve you nothing; it is time I thought of retiring."

"I will not permit it, assuredly. For nothing in the world
will I consent to deprive myself of your experience and of your
services, honest Fonarius."

"But, Master, I cannot at my age rest in this precarious
condition."

"Ingrate! dare you call precarious the independent and
honorable position you occupy in my house?"

"If. only," added Fonarius, with a supplicating air, "you
would condescend to remember the 25,000 florins."

"What then ? Will it be that I can never find in you but an
implacable creditor, and you believe me an insolvent debtor.^
I will take care to-day to restore to your hands a sum that will
confirm you in the foolish thought of separating from me."

"But, Master," replied Fonaritis, the tears in his eyes, "you
will not refuse me, at least for old Martha?"

"That woman again! In truth, it is a strange thing, the
obstinacy of some persons in mixing useless things to the pre-
judice of the most important, and in wishing to constrain per-
sons in high rank to divide their preoccupations with these
paltry affairs. I am sorry, my brave Fonarius, to see that you
render me so little justice. Yet a little patience, yet an effort,
and I reach my aim, and I mount the last round of the ladder
of fame! Do you hear that, my venerable sage?

"The Prime Minister," added he, lowering his voice, "is
well used up by age and fatigue; he has esteem for you,
doctor; it is necessary to counsel him to rest. He has
taken me into his affections. The Emperor, they say, sets
some value on my talents. Let us each be active in our own

A Bachelor of GdtttngeH 2tg

way in order to influence him, when the moment shall have
come, to make a plea in my favor before his Majesty."

That very day Fonarius made frequent visits to his^illus-
tnous friend, who loved his simple and honest character as
much as he esteemed his prodigious knowledge. The Minister
often consulted him upon his private affairs as well as upon
the questions of public interest, and Fonarius, serving at the
same time the ambition of Frank and the health of the Min-
ister, determined at last to^ induce the Emperor to agree to
his dismissal and the nomination of his prot^g^.

The last vow of Frank was finally accomplished. Fortune
had conducted him by the hand to the highest seat of honor.
He bid adieu forever to the professorate and quitted his
country home in order to live in the most magnificent palace
in Vienna. The crowd of courtiers, solicitors and personages
of all ranks who crowded the antechambers during the first
days of his installation rendered futile the efforts of Fonarius
to reach the presence of the new Minister. Finally the porter
opened to his incessant supplications, and it was with respectful
fear that the good doctor mounted the rich staircase of the
palace, the grandeur of which he himself had made possible
for Frank.

At the moment when the Hussar of service annotmced
before the Minister the presence of Doctor Fonarius, his Ex-
cellency made sign to two secretaries who were writing tmder
his dictation to retire.

•* Ah, Monseignetir! " cried Fonarius, after they had retired,
** have pity on your old professor, may I not say your friend? "

'* What do you wish of me ? " frigidly demanded the Minister.

**That you give me hospitality. Since you have left me
alone in your late house it has been sold by yotir orders, and
I find myself absolutely without shelter and withoutresources."

••Your exigencies have fatigued my generosity, Master
Fonarius; my bounty has alone encouraged the new folly of
which you are culpable at this moment. I believed at least
that you would be able to comprehend the duties the high
functions with which I am invested exact of me, and the dis-
tance that they have put forever between you and me."

** Heaven preserve me from failing in the respect that I owe
your dignity, but, as your Excellency will deign to observe,
I am a stranger in this city."

"And who is thinking of detaining you?"

2 to A Bachelor of Gottingen

Fonarius, at this cruel observation, essayed to hide a tear
which fell between the deep wrinkles of his cheeks, losing itself
in the gray clusters of his long beard. ** Monseignetir," replied
he, falling on his knees to the Minister, " I have left all in order
to follow you. I have renounced, upon your demand, my
place of professorship and the occupations which were my
sole resource and pleasure. There remains to-day not even
enough to return to Gottingen. My only hope is in you."

** Am I then your banker?"

** Nevertheless, Monseigneur, the 25,000 florins for which
you have given me your word."

** Insolent! If I had the weakness to make that promise
to a miserable necromancer, have you flattered yourself that
the Minister ratifies the engagements extracted from the in-
experience of youth? Depart, unhappy one, and return to
your house and to your diabolical occupation."

"Monseignetir, pity for my age! It is late, the night is
dark, the snow covers the roads!"

** Begone, I tell you, or I shaU call my people."

'* It is useless," replied Fonarius, rising fiercely and looking
at the Minister with his two little piercing eyes; ** since your
Excellency refuses me a shelter in your palace of Vienna, I
shall manage, I see, to remain henceforth in my little house
at G6ttingen." On completing these words, Fonarius seized
the cord of a bell; Frank looked around him confused and
soon realized that he was still in the same place in the Cabinet
of Doctor Fonarius.

** Martha!" cried the doctor to the old housekeeper who
entered, ** reconduct Master Frank to the door of the street;
I am not fool enough to give up my chamber and bed to a
simple Bachelor of G6ttingen."

■>f^^i^-?ife

Y tHe Waters of Sparta s

A Grecian Love Story, by £♦ F»
Benson*

YOUR letter has just come. Anastasi brought it to me as I
was having breakfast, and he looked at it as one looks
at some native product from a far-off conjectured cotmtry.
I gave him the stamps, and they filled him with a tremulous
joy. But as you do not know who Anastasi is, if I am to
answer your letter, I must begin from the beginning.

You ask me why I linger in *'this bankrupt country among
an abandoned populace, who drink resinated wine." You
tell me that the golden days are upon London ; that the little
green chairs in the park are full, that Sarah Bernhardt 's voice
is a more mellow miracle than ever, that you went to Rigoletto
last night, and are going to Faust to-morrow, that Picca-
dilly is gray and shady, and sweet with the smell of flower-
stalls and asphalt, and that a blue mist hangs in Pall Mall,
like the bloom on a plum. Yet I sit here, and I am not, like
Ruth, sick for home. I will tell you why.

The stylograph pen with which I write to you is my only link
with what you insolently call civilization. My English
clothes are all outworn, and I wear a barbarous garb; my
hands and face are dyed tawny brown with those inimitable
cosmetics, sun and air. I am sitting on the edge of the river-
bed of the Eurotas at the comer of a grove of cypresses, tall and
solemn like serge-clad Romish priests, and encrusted with
rough fruit. This has once been the garden round some
Turkish house, for in the middle stands a pile of ruins weathered
and worn. Remembering Browning's **Home thoughts from
abroad," I went and tapped, not with a hoe, but with the end
of my stick, on the moldering plaster of a cornice, and sure

♦From Temple Bar.

213 By the Waters of Sparta

enough, with divine fitness, there dropped out a scorpion with
'*wide angry nippers."

But the garden has long been allowed to run wild, and what
is lovelier than a garden nm wild ? Several ohve trees have
grown up among the cypresses, and wild vines, already <jov-
ered with little hard green globes, loop and twine themselves
among their branches. Here, again, there is a pomegranate —
have you any idea of a pomegranate except as a wrinkled,
knobby lump bought on the quay at Marseilles? — ^with thick
red flowers looking as if they were made of wax. On it, too,
the fruit is forming, and little green burnished pitchers are
beginning to take the place of the flowers.

I sit at the comer of this wild garden, which Nature has
again taken to herself. Above me there is a sky of incredible
blue, in front the stream bed of the Eurotas, a boisterous blue
stream with deep holes to swim in, and across that the olive-
covered plain, rising gently to the hills beyond, covered with
vegetation on their lower slopes, but bare above, showing the
good red earth, and cast in fantastic forms. They remind me
exactly of a scene in a Bible picture book which I used to be
shown on Sunday afternoon; in the foregrotmd the good
Samaritan, with a headgear resembling an 'over-ripe pumpkin,
was ministering to the man who fell among thieves, and in the
background was a row of hills exactly like these.

Just in front of my feet there races by a mill-stream which
joins the river a hundred yards belowat the farm of Anastasi's
father. To my right there rises abed of tall reeds ten feet high,
which talk together with dry pattering tongues, and in the
reeds the cicalas are winding their watches. I lean against the
trunk of a white poplar, and a nightingale sings in the poplar.
Let us move ten yards farther up. Here the mill-stream
comes hurrying out of a cool green tunnel of wild fig trees, the
lair of a tawny spider who has woven his web across the open-
ing, and hangs malignant and busy on a silk suspension
bridge across the middle of the stream. The web oscillates a
little backwards and forwards; for out of the darkness a cool
draught draws down. Looking up into the moist, green cave,
you can see far up a white, uncertain glimmer of foam, where a
rock breaks the stream, and lower down little luminous specks
of gold from the sunlight which filters through the roof, and at
the opening the xmdersides of the strong, five-fingered fig-
leaves are bright from the reflection of the sxm oflEthe water.

By the Waters of Sparta 213

Now and then a tortoise goes paddling down at the bottom of
the stream, and grave, priest-like frogs sit on the edge in readi-
ness to plunge in at your approach.

All down its course delicate clumps of black-stemmed
maiden-hair line the banks ; the tips of their leaves drag and
dabble in the stream, and tremble as the water touches them.
Fresh, juicy elders, with white parasol-like flowers, grow
thick on the banks, and here and there the more sober green of
myrtle leaves pushes up among them. Over the water float
blue-winged dragon flies, and just now a swallow-tail butterfly
settled for a moment on a great yellow thistle close to me. A
couple of goats, one white, cfne black, strayed, no doubt, from
the farm below, crop quickly and anxiously at some young
shoots of hawthorn, like people taking a hurried meal before
going to catch their train.

A hundred yards below stand the gray roofs of the farm. It
has once been a mill, and a wall of masonry still conducts the
mill-stream down a wooden cylinder to the mill-house. There
it empties itself and spreads at will over the broad river-bed,
never, I think, joining the river, but flushing an acre of
ground with a more vivid vegetation. First it waters all those
clumps of pink oleanders which grow, not as they grow in
your well-beloved green tubs in front of French caf^s, with
desolate stalks and a few starved leaves and flowers at the
extreme tips, but in bushes which are one mass of pink
blossom. Then, turning to the left, it gives drink to that row
of poplars and eucalyptus trees, and further on to more
oleanders and a meadow of wild spiraea, which is just begin-
ning to foam into flower. Finally it attends to those great
yellow thistles mixed with spurge, and there I think it comes
to an end, for beyond lies a band of dry shingle, unflushed and
barren. I found among the spurge yesterday the caterpillar
of a spurge hawk-moth, already full-grown, and meditating its
chrysalis change. Homed, red-legged, and spotted with
yellow, it disdained concealment as it sat on the dull red stalks
of the plant. **Soon," it thought, **I shall be safe enough."

The ford across the Eurotas lies just in front of me, and an
hour ago a delightful little drama was acted there. A very
small boy on a very large donkey wished to cross, and drive
over another donkey. The means by which he hoped to effect
this were recondite oaths and a large piece of wood like a
cricket bat, and reaching forward on his donkey he would

314 By the Waters of Sparta

smite the other one with it. All went well till the three
reached mid-stream, but there the other donkey wandered off
the ford into the water, about three feet deep, where it stood
contentedly, for the day was hot, The boy did not wish to
follow it there, but in an ill-considered moment he thought he
could still smite it from the shallow water of the ford. But he
misjudged his distance, the blow fell innocuous, and the
cricket bat flew out of his hand and floated down-stream, and
he had to drive the donkey with strange oaths alone. When
it had cooled itself they proved effectual.

Yesterday I spent at Mistra, a deserted Turkish town lying
on one of the lower ridges of Taygetus, and commanding the
plain. The little street runs steeply up between empty houses
till it reaches the church, where a few ntms live in the precincts.
One was spinning, another feeding her goat with a branch of
acacia, a third drew me water from the well in a bucket of
olive wood. The church itself has a terrace looking out over
the plain, and there, framed between Byzantine columns, I sat
and looked at the fairest view I had ever seen.

A light north wind was blowing, and the olive trees were now
green and now gray, and through them, here and there,
marched grave lines of cypresses. Sparta, clustering on a
little hill some four miles away, gleamed white against the
plain beyond, and far off on the other side of the valley rose
my Bible-picture hills. To the right, and a little behind,
Taygetus climbed and met the sky in snow. Pomegranates
grew in the courtyard below, and somewhere up on the hills a
shepherd was singing, perhaps not very sweetly, but very
pleasantly. Then when the sun sank, and the shadows
marched across the plain, a nun came up to the church door
and beat with a stone upon an iron hoop. That was the
church bell, and one nun left her spinning, and another tied up
the goat, and they went in and said their vespers together.

After dinner last night we had a great excitement. An
itinerant company of players had appeared while I was at
Mistra, and with the consent of the Mayor had erected a rough,
wooden stage outside the caf^, and were to give a performance.
The place was in a ferment, and the excitement rose to fever
heat when the curtain drew up and disclosed a ferocious brig-
and sitting in his cave with several prisoners by him. To
these he made a long speech, and the prisoners begged for
mercy in moving terms. But the brigand was firm, and hav-

By the Waters of Sparta 215

ing taken all their valuables away, he proceeded to bare a
brawny right arm and draw his sword in order to execute
them. At this painful crisis in their lives a young lady in
pink tights and wearing a helmet and sword, whom I con-
fidently believe to have represented a colonel in the Greek
army, rushed on the stage^ and after a terrific conflict with the
brigand, in which she overturned no less than one real table
and two real chairs, slew him, planted her foot on his chest,
and unfurled the Greek flag. The enthusiasm has scarcely
subsided even this morning, and we are going to have the
play again to-night.

In these things alone there seems to one as quietly-minded as
myself sufficient reason for lingering on, though I miss so
many nights of the golden Sarah, and so many days of gray
Piccadilly. But I leave to-morrow for Athens, since the real
reason for my stopping here has ceased to exist. And the real
reason has been a devouring curiosity about Anastasi's love
affairs.

Anastasi and I are old friends: twice he and his mule, a
mouse-colored confidential quadruped, have taken me round
the Peloponnesus, and my interest in his affairs is of long
standing. For has he not stood by me as I ate my lunch on
the Langarda pass, and wept salt tears over the obdurate
refusals of the young lady's father? I shared his sorrow and I
am sharing his joy.

The case was this. Anastasi's father is a wretched, drunken
old man who lives from hand to mouth, and when Anastasi
fell in love with the mayor's daughter, and was audacious
enough to propose to her, contrary to all the laws of Greek
etiquette, Sparta generally sided with the mayor when he
turned Anastasi out of the house and forbade him to speak to
his daughter again . * * If he had five thousand francs , ' ' said the
infuriated dignitary, **I should nof let her marry him."

This was of course pure rhetoric, and everybody quite
rightly interpreted it to mean that if Anastasi had five thous-
and francs that mayor wotild be delighted.

In the beginning it was the mayor's fault. Anastasi's
father rented some land from him, and when Anastasi came to
pay the rent, the mayor would ask him to have a glass of wine
and roll him a cigarette, for Anastasi's deft fingers rolled
cigarettes in a way that was regarded as little short of miracu-
lous in Sparta, and they were considered equal to the best

2i6 By the Waters of Sparta

made-up cigarettes straight from Athens. Anastasi's cigar-
ettes were full and dry, whereas the cigarettes which the mayor
makes himself — I know it to my cost, for he made me one only
this morning — are wet and empty.

So Anastasi sat with the mayor and Theodora, and after the
second glass of wine the mayor usually went to sleep, and
Anastasi made love to Theodora. He is a handsome, straight-
feattu'ed boy, and Theodora and he enjoyed themselves very
much . But the deluge came when he proposed , and the mayor
went back to his wet and empty cigarettes.

I had written to Anastasi before I came here this year,
telling him I should want his mule again for a few trips in the
neighborhood, and expressing a hope that his suit was pros-
pering. He met me at the bridge over the Eurotas when I
arrived, and asked me if he might come and see me that even-
ing. His face was solemn and mysterious, and I waited for
developments. I was sitting at the caf^ after dinner that
night when I heard a whistle from somewhere in the darkness,
which was twice repeated before I looked roimd. Anastasi,
from under the shadow of a pepper tree, was beckoning to me
to come, and I obediently paid for my coffee, and went. He
walked on ahead of me until we were out of the main street,
and then stopped.

**Will you come to my house?" he said, "the old devil" —
he alluded to his father — *4s out, and I want to show you
something."

He would give no further explanations, and we walked on
in silence to the mill. He lit a candle, and asked me to sit
down while he went to the farther comer of the room, and after
some effort took up one of the big flat stones with which it is
paved, dived his hand in, and brought out an old shirt, which
evidently contained something heavy. He put this on a chair
between us, undid it, and disclosed a big brown handkerchief.
This again was untied, and showed a Greek black-ware vase,
the mouth of which was stuffed with newspaper. He took out
the newspaper stopper, and poured onto the brown hand-
kerchief between five hundred and six hundred coins, some
silver, some gold.

There were ten gold coins of Philip, and thirty-four of
Alexander. There were at least two hundred silver Athenian
coins, of the fourth and third centuries, and about a htmdred
more struck under the Arcadian league of Epaminondas.

By the Waters of Sparta 217

There was a gold coin of Tenos, which I think is unique, and
a gold coin of Epidaurus, which I am sure is.

Anastasia watched me as I turned them over.

"What shall I do?" he said.

*'Marry Theodora."

He laughed, showing his white teeth.

**A fortnight ago," he said, **I was digging a ditch into the
vineyard in order to water it from the mill stream. The
water had run for ten minutes, and I went back to close it
again. As I went, I saw, near the comer where those Ameri-
cans dug last year and spoiled two vine trees, a little, black,
shiny thing sticking out of the earth. So I dammed up the
water, and went back to look. And I found this vase. The
old devil was drunk that night, so I hid it in the comer of the
room and waited for you to come. Shall I get five thousand
francs?"

I was not, and I am not, acquainted with the Greek law
about treasure-trove, so in my ignorance I advised Anastasi
to the best of my ability. I put aside the Tenos coin and the
coin from Epidaurus, and certain others which I had
not seen before, and from the rest made a selection which
were worth about four thousand francs market value. Now
there is in Athens an excellent and honorable antiquity
dealer who buys slightly under market value, and sells for
slightly over, and with him I have had many transactions.

So I gave Anastasi a note to him, and packed him off to
Athens next day. He returned yesterday with a receipt from
the Ionian Bank for 3,700 francs. The rest of the coins re-
mained in their cache.

This morning we paid a visit to the mayor, and the upshot
is that Anastasi is betrothed to Theodora.

So my interest is satisfied, and I leave Sparta to-morrow.

I wish you would go to the British Museum for me and
inquire about a gold coin of Tenos. It has on the reverse a
quadriga driven by Nik^, and on the obverse a helmeted head.
If they have it, I should like to know how much they paid for

it; if not, you may tell C that I shall bring them one for

sale on behalf of a friend in a fortnight*s time, and hope to
drive a hard bargain ; also a unique coin of Epidaurus, both in
excellent condition. There will be others as well.

This is why I have stayed at Sparta, and this is partly why I
am coming home at once.

^ »^^

R^eincarnation of
JeHti: The Story of An
Opportunity^ by M* Imlay
Taylor* lUustrations by
Edward Mayer*

HE was only about ten years old, and he was black, with
abundant curly wool that stood up in aggressive tufts.
His face was so black that by contrast the whites of the eyes
and the gleaming white teeth dazzled the observer.

It was a balmy spring morning and he hung on the front
gate whistling almost as sweetly as a robin; his pink striped
calico shirt was soiled and ragged, giving striking glimpses of
the black skin beneath, and his trousers were decorated in
the rear with two conspicuous patches of different colors,
while his black legs and his long flat feet — with the ankles
exactly in the middle — were innocent of shoes and stockings.
A spirited horse passing would arrest his whistling on the
instant and he would swing far out to gaze, for he had the
deeply rooted devotion to horse-flesh that belongs to the
African.

A peddler's cart was coming slowly down the street, the

♦Written for Short Stories.

A Reincarnation of Jehu

219

horse following the peddler, who walked before it shouting
* * Rabbits ! — ^rab — rabbits ! — po — tatoes ! cabbages — cabba —
ges ! ap — ap — apples ! * '

The little darky boy ran out of his gate and surreptitiously
gathered an apple from the rear of the slow-moving vehicle.
He was cracking it between his white teeth with radiant joy
when he heard a voice from the house.

** Yo' Julius Caesar Langhome! Yo' come heah dVeckly!''

Julius Caesar looked longingly at the wagon, and waited to
see a high trap swing by drawn by a fine trotter.

*'Gee whiz!*' he murmured, **wish T hatter
boss like dat sho*!**

** Julius Caesar Langhome, yo'come
heah d'reckly or I'll gib yo' er
lickinM"

And Julius Caesar went.

He found his mother — a sub-
stantial black woman — nearly reach'
to go to the funeral of a deacon ol
the church, which was appointed for
that day at two o'clock. She laid
violent hands on her offspring.

** Yo' come right heah, Julius
Caesar," she said, '*yo' is
gwineter go ter de fun'ral an'
I'se got ter clean yo' up fust.

Her son wailed aloud.

*' I'se gwineter help Jim drive
de buggy ter-day," he sobbed,
**I don' wanter go ter de,
fun'ral!"

**Yo'se gwine," retorted his parent firmly, beginning to
scrub his face and head much as she usually scrubbed the
door knob. '* Didn't I leave yo' behin' befo', an' didn't I
find yo'd et all de watermelon an' de herring, an' put de
cat's tail in de butter — an' den gone drivin' de judge's buggy
off? An' didn't I hatter lick yo' good? Yo'se gwineter de
fun'ral, yo' is!" ,

Julius Caesar wept, but experience had taught him that
resistance was useless, and the only hope was to snatch
victory from defeat.

2iO

A Reincarnation of Jehu

*' Is I gwine in de kerridge ter de boneyard ? " he asked with
carefully concealed eagerness.

"Yo' is sho'," replied Mrs. Langhome, pushing him into
his best suit of shop clothes, which she buttoned with diffi-
culty, for he was growing.

"Glory hallelujah!** said Julius Caesar devoutly.
"Yo'se gwineter ride, an* mind yo' behaves,** said his
mother, as she put a large collar and scarf of vivid purple

over her own black
alpaca frock and
mounted the purple
scoop bonnet of*** the
Society.**

** Yo'se ter behave,**
she continued,* *fo* I'se
gwineter ride in de
kerridge wid Sister
Albanah Clarke and
Sister Queen Victoria
Mack and B*rer Sylla-
bubus Jenkins, an* if I
kotches yo* cuttin* up,
Julius Caesar Lang-
home, ril raise yo*
hide sho*.*'

Julius Caesar offered
no remarks, but he
rolled his eyes around
until only the whites
were in view, and he
breathed deeply be-
hind a huge purple
^ ^ necktie. Mammy

Langhome worked herself painfully into her white cotton
gloves, and scenting her handkerchief with a good douche of
musk, she led forth Julius Caesar, and the two proceeded to the
church, where the funeral carriages were already drawn up in
two long lines on either side of M street. The church steps were
already crowded with the sisters in black alpaca frocks with
large purple collars and the purple bonnets, while the brethren,
in their best black suits, lined the sidewalk. They, too, wore
the insignia of **the Society**: high silk hats, long stoles of

A Reincarnation of Jehu 221

purple and white, and little aprons to match the strings, tied
at the waist behind with fluttering butterfly bows. There
was a band grouped below the standard — a large purple satin
banner lettered and fringed with gold — and one of the mem-
bers kept up a deeply melancholy bum-bum on the big drum.

Mammy Langhome bore proudly down on the assemblage ,
leading her highly polished and neatly attired pickaninny.
But Julius Caesar — though walking meekly at his mother's
side — kept his gaze fastened on the horses, looking for good
ones; and there was longing in his eyes.

His mother ascended the steps, bowing graciously to the
members of her Society.

"Howdy, Sister Clarke, how's yo' feelin' ter-day.^"

**Tl.ank yo', Sister Langhome, Fse bin right po'ly all

winter," replied Sister Clarke, '* but Tse managed ter keep
my color."

** How's de misery in yo' side. Sister Jenkins?"

**It*s powerful bad, Sister Langhome, an' I'se gwineter put
some mo' Wizzard ile on it. I'se bin takin' Hood's Sarsparilly
an' goose grease, but it ain't done no good."

** Julius Caesar — yo' stay right heah! I'se sorry to hear
yo'se so 'flicted. Sister Jenkins; yo'd better try er li'le bit ob
goose grease an' molasses an* brown sugar mixed — dat'U bring
yo' round. Dey do say dat it wuz neglectin* er misery dat
killed Brer Marmaduke Pinkett."

**No, 'twamt de misery in his back," replied Sister Clarke
moumfully;'* he hed de paralysis ob de brain an' vertigo fo'
mo' 'en er year befo* he sawed hisself off dat apple tree/'

222

A Retncariiation of Jehu

*^How'd he
do dat, Sister
Clarke?" in*
(luired another
sister, wiping
the perspira-
tion from the
shining black
face that was
enshrined in
her purple
bonnet.

**He jest
wuz settin' on
de bough dat
he sawed off,"
explained the

elder member, fanning herself; *'an* he fell on de palin* ob

de iron fence; it wouldn't er killed him no ways efhe*d felled

on his head, bekase de paralysis ob de brain meks it kinder

insensibler — de doctor sesso — ^but de palin' run inter him an*

he wuz so po'ly dat he kinder hopped right off'n de perch."
**I heerd dat de

fam'ly too^ on

awful," said Mammy

Langhome, gripping

Caesar firmly.

**Dey did so, but

den dey couldn't hab

expected dat he'd

live long wid all de

miseries dat he had;

an' de fun'ral suttinly

do please 'em. I seen

Mrs. Pinkett gwine

in jest now an' she

looked po'erful proud

an' high stomached."
**Dere's a sight ob

flowers inside an* de

S'ciety suttinly is

A Reificar tuition of Jehu 223

heah in force; dere's twenty-six kerridges an' er buggy,
besides de hearse."

*'It do look well,** sighed Mrs. Langhome, **but I wish d^y
wouldn't die 'long at once so; dere's bin four deaths dis month,
an' dat's two dollars cl'ar out."

**Dat's so, an' jest after de expense ob de new bonnets,"
admitted Sister Clarke, in a melancholy tone.

*' Ladies," said Brother Jenkins, with a low bow, '*de
sar vices is erbout ter commence, an* yo' will be pleased ter
view de corpse an' take yo' seats."

The interior of the church was thick with purple bonnets
and musk, and the coffin was well covered with large wreaths
of everlastings with appropriate mottoes. There were doves,
gates-ajar, anchors, hearts, sheaves of wheat, and a profusion
of long purple streamers. The rustle of seating the members
subsided, the musk arose and the palm-leaf fans waved; the
prayers were long and powerful, and the sermon longer.

But to Julius Caesar Langhome the discourse was stale,
flat and unprofitable; he writhed in body and rebelled in
spirit, and his outgrown trousers made life a misery. He
heard quite plainly the occasional stamp of a horse's hoof,
the shifting of the carriages, and now and then the whirl of
swiftly passing wheels. Mammy Langhome nodded, but
Sister Clarke, who sat on his other side, was vigilant; escape
was impossible, and he joined in the closing hymn with all the
power of his youthful lungs. He was letting off steam.

Then came the slow departure from the church, the coffin
and its bearers first, followed by the long file of aproned
brethren and at last the purple bonnets. Julius Caesar saw
little Topsy Thompkins across the aisle and ran his tongue
out at her, which caused her to let off a shrill squeal of terror,
but the disturbance was immediately suppressed, and the arch
offender looked as innocent as an ebony cherub.

The carriages had formed in a continuous line stretching
down two blocks, and they moved slowly up after the hearse
while the master of ceremonies bustled about seating the
ladies ; the gentlemen were to go afoot behind the deep bum-
bum of the drum. But in the flurry of seating such a large
number in the carriages, mistakes were inevitable, and,
to their indignant surprise, Brother Syllabubus Jenkins,
Sister Clarke, Sister Mack and Sister Langhome found them-
selves in the second carriage from the last, when their rank

224

A Reincarnation of Jehu

as Society members entitled them to the second carriage from
the mourners. They were seated, and Julius Caesar had been

put on the box beside the
coachman, before they realized
their humiliating position.
Then a dispute arose. The
procession had not yet started,
the master of ceremonies,
George Washington Fairfax,
was running up and down the
sidewalk, the imdertaker [was

r

bringing out more wreaths, and
the drum was only booming in
a spasmodic way at the head of
the line.

Mammy Langhome looked
indignantly at her companions.
**I ain't gwineter play tail-
piece ter dis y ere fun 'ral!'* she

said. " Tse gwineter hab my place. Where's B'rer Fairfax? "
** He's gwineter keep us heah bekase he's done put dat Miss

Boaniah Smith in de fust kerridge; he's courtin' her an' I

'low he'll regret it, "said

Miss Clarke scornfully;

** she's jest one ob dem

yaller gals wid mo airs

den is good fo' 'er."
"I ain't come heah ter

dis fun'ral, sisters, ter mek

no disturbance," said

Brother Syllabubus

solemnly, **but I ain't

gwineter let dat big-fish,

bow-legged nigger run me

down whar I don' b'long.

Yo' Jim Fudge," he added

to the driver, *'yo' jest go

right outer heah an' git
'right in ahead ob de

hearse. I reckon I'se

gwineter show 'em how ter treat dese ladies, I is!"
But the coachman entertained doubts ; the figure pf firptber

A Reincarnation of Jehu

225

George Washington Fairfax, in a shiny suit of black and a
purple apron, filled his soul with awe.

*'Heah, yo* li*le" nigger, yo* hoi' dem reins,** said Jim to
Caesar, *'an* TU go an' see de gentleman — an* min* yo* hoi*
*em; dat nigh hoss is er po'erful critter ter run ter er fun'ral.**

The eyes of Julius Caesar gleamed as he took the reins ; life
ceased to be a dreary show to him. From his high seat he
looked over the tops of twenty-four carriages and saw the
hearse, the long double file of the brethren waiting for the
signal to start, the fluttering folds of the purple banner. The
pickaninny gazed joyfidly at the horses, two thin, long-eared,
hammer headed sorrels, with their noses stretched out toward
their stable only seven blocks away. Inside the carriage the
roar of a dispute rose ; it was wafted up to CaBsar*s ears, but he
heard it not ; the reins were in his itching fingers, the joy of mas-
tery leaped into his soul. He spit on his hands, he straightened
himself in his seat, his eyes rolled, he gripped the reins firmly.

**Git up!** he cried, and gave the nigh horse a crack with
the whip.

There was a plunge and a kick, a shriek from within, and
Caesar turned the carriage out of the line.
^'** Hoop-la!** he cried, cracking his whip in the air; ** ain't I

gwineter show *em whar ter put my Ma!" and he drove
madly up the street.

The lean sorrels smelled their oats only a few blocks away ;
they laid their ears back flat and clattered on. The other

336 A Reincarnation of Jehu

horses, tame enough as a rule, started and phinged as the
carriage rushed past; the hearse horses made a mad dash
for the pavement and were caught with diflSculty, the drum-
mer fled from his post to the protection of the tree-box, and
the brethren, ranged before across the street from side
to side, broke up and scattered. But on clattered the
sorrels, and Julius Cassar, in the frenzy of success, stood up
and shouted, cracking his whip. A chorus of screams issued
from the interior of the carriage, while many of the other
sisters went into hysterics, and pandemonitmi reigned. Two
of the other coaches dashed out of line, a trumpeter was
bowled over by the wheels of one vehicle, and clatter, gallop,
bang — on came the Langhome carriage in its mad career.

A milk wagon standing peaceftdly at the curb offered an
enticing wheel, and the sorrels lurched aside. Crack! the
milk cans flew, the tame old horse snorted and started down
upon the rallying members of the Society, and cast milk and
confusion in his wake. But on drove Julius Caesar — ^it was a
truly Roman triumph, with his victims in the chariot. He
had scattered the file of the gentlemen, he had overturned
the band, sent the hearse to the sidewalk, and now, clearing
the demoralized procession, he started on a clean stretch
down Massachusetts avenue toward the P street bridge. But
the sorrels had other intentions. The stables were nearer
than the bridge and they swerved — swerved so suddenly that
the youthful Jehu lost his head and tugged too hard on the
left rein, and the carriage, turning very short, reeled, toppled
over, and there was a confused mass of purple bonnets, splin-
tered wheels and kicking horses'

But Julius Caesar fled. Some deep premonitions of a
retribution close at hand nerved him to a flight that eluded
even the policemen and irate gentlemen in purple aprons.

At a late hour that night a committee of the members of
the Society called upon Sister Langhome to offer condolences
for her bruised head and to remonstrate with her about her
unrtdy boy. She heard them with patience, but her ample
bosom rose and fell with suppressed emotion.
f ^Brother George Washington Fairfax felt called upon to tell
her that the Society would have to fine her for bringing
Julius Caesar to the funeral.lT Ten bonnets had been ruined,
several dresses^spotted[^with milk, and the feelings of the
Society had suffered beyond repair.

A Reincarnation of Jehu

227

**I ain't sayin* dat yo' don' try ter do yo' duty, Sister
Langhome," said Brother Fairfax, **an' I'se glad dat de
Society is willin' to oberlook de whole matter providin' dat
yo' 'monstrate wid de chile an' pays yo' fines."

**I'se er pore woman, Br'er Fairfax," replied Manrniy
Langhome, "but I reckon I pays my dues. I ain't sayin'
noffin 'bout yudder folks an' dere chil'un, an' I'd scorn ter

mention dat time yo' hatter send yo' boy, Chawles Augustus
ter de Reform School — ^an' I ain't sayin' dat it done 'em
enny good dat I ever heerd on. I specks I'se able ter take
care of dat chile when he comes heah."

"Ain't he heah?" asked Brother Fairfax, wiping the per-
spiration from his glistening bald head and smothering his
wrath;"mebbe he'sgwineter de House ob Correction ; mebbe — "

'* No, he ain't," interrupted Mammy Langhome, with a stem
look. ** I ain't in no need ob enny House ob Correction. I'se
gwineter meet dat boy," she added, **an' I'se gwineter — "

A small black figure lurking in the shadows of the open
window, bent forward to listen to the voice of the charmer.

'* I'se gwineter meet 'im wid de coal shovel, Br'er Fairfax,"
Mammy said, "an' I 'low yo' might foller my 'xample —
Dere — I hear er noise now — yo', Julius Caesar — "

But Julius Caesar had fled.

HAT tHe Moon Gave :

A Sketch by T. S. B.*

THE little town was qtiiet as a child's sleep as we came out
together into the deserted streets. Theeveninghad been
so ftdfilled with a pleasant gayety that silence was perhapsnat-
ural betwixt us twoforaspace. Thenight'sstillness,thewind's
faint murmur among the trees of the little gardens, were a
little strange to us after the music and laughter to which the
last few hours had sped so swiftly. Moreover — as I suddenly
realized — although I had been much in her company of late,
and she forever in my thoughts, this was the first occasion
upon which it had been my good fortime to have her to
myself. It is true we had wandered apart from the others at
times, but never had I had such a sense of possessing her as
the quiet country night now gave to me. I quickly imder-
stood the reasons for my silence, and, realizing them, resolved
to break it. But the resolve was vain. I still walked silently
at her side; and she, too, had no words.

We came at last to where another street opened away at
right angles to that which we were traversing. It had
rained earlier in the day, and the scanty street-lamps showed
a few small pools still standing in the roadway. A single
policeman came towards us on the pavement at a distance
of a few score yards; otherwise there was no sign of life.
The young moon was rising over the hills that one saw
beyond the further end of the street.

To my amazement my companion stepped from my side,
and advanced a few paces towards the policeman. Then she
stood upon the pavement and bowed vigorously to some
invisible personage. She had turned before I had recovered
from my bewilderment. **The new moon!" she cried.
"Have you forgotten? Seven bows, and then wish for the
thing you chiefly desire in all the world."

♦From BlackiandiWhite.

What the Moan Gave 229

**I had forgotten," I said. "But you also do not remem-
ber.** I touched my pince-nez, ** I have looked at it through
glass already. I take it I can hardly wish after that?**

She answered with a shade of disappointment in her voice.
**No,'* she said, **I*m afraid you hardly can.'*

**And you cannot wish for me?** I said.

"One can't wish twice,*' she said. "You must wish for
the thing you desire most in all the world. I have already
done that.**

"It is my usual luck!** I said resignedly. Then, "The
policeman is likely to be curious if v/e stay longer. Let us
set on our way."

The way, of course, was the longest open to us, though there
was little enough reason to be discovered why two who
had so little to say, should not go directly, for the
hour was late and it was still a trifle wet under foot. We
had left the yotmg moon behind us now, and it was long
before we came to where, as the road descends, the steep hill
opposite looks down upon you like a wall, with the great
yellow disk of the town-clock looking over it, as it were, like
the same moon at its full. Here there were some few people
afoot, but we passed on and turned away again into a road
more quiet than any by which we had come hitherto. I was
still very silent, because I greatly desired to find speech, and
could think of nothing it was possible to say, except one thing,
that seemed to me imutterable. I grew angry with myself,
for she had a pretty gift of conversation, and I had heard her
speak of a certain nameless male who could not talk as she
would have a man talk on occasion, with an unrestrained
vivacity that made me shudder in the remembrance, for the
sake of what she must be thinking of me at this moment.
So we went on in a stupid silence until we had come to the
gate of the garden she made fragrant by walking in some-
times.

"Good night!" she said, closing the gate behind her, but
not yet retreating.

"Good night!" I said, looking with longing at the little
pale face that glimmered so mystically in the darkness.
**It will soon be good-by!"

" I am sorry,'* she said. " I am sorry that you did not get
your wish."

" Oh, the moon,** I answered. " I had forgotten. And you

330 What the Moon Gave

could not wish on my behalf. But you had your wish, and
I — ^had just my luck."

"Is it so bad?" she asked. ''To tell the truth," said I,
" 'tis that I am wondering about at this moment, and you are
the person who can tell me. What was your wish when you
bowed to the little moon just now?"

" But you must keep your wish a secret," she answered.

"I will tell no one," I said. "But shall we make an
exchange of confidences? If I had wished — "

"And you didn't?" says she.

"Not to the moon," said I. "To tell the truth, I doubt
her capacity to grant me my desire ; for if I had prayed to her
I should have asked for what you alone can give. I want
your love, sweetheart." She did not answer. "How is it
with my luck ? " I added. The gate was between us. " There
is no need to tell me," I said. "It shall be good night and
good-by together, then."

But my dear lady laughed softly, and in a moment the gate
stood open again and I was at her side, for her voice told me
I need no longer fear the influence of moon or stars.

"And your wish?" I said presently.

She answered with another question: "Was ever any
prayer so quickly granted?" she said.

BRAPHINA: A Tale of the
Franco-German War, by Andrew
W. Arnold*

HALF-WAY between Soissons and Rheims, on a good map,
you will see marked the little village of Marigny-les-
Tours. It was there that I, Etienne Meynard, was bom, and
where my father — aye, and his father before him — carried on
the business of a blacksmith. Whether he had had some
white wine or not — and my brawny, jovial farther did not ob-
ject to it — ^no man could shoe a horse as well or as quickly
or make a wheel-tire as accurately as he.
.^Nearly all of the land in the district belonged to the great
family of the St. Claires, who lived in the chateau overlooking
the hamlet.

Monsieur St. Claire had of late years been a confirmed
invalid; but his wife, who was an Italian, was a very energetic
and kind-hearted woman, and beloved by all the coimtry-side.
No man could have looked after the estate better than she
did. They were a very rich family, for the land produced
wine of the finest quality, which was sent off to Rheims and
Epemay; and, moreover, the eldest son was a partner in a
large Champagne house. They had, besides, two daughters
and another son, named Hubert. The latter and I were foster-
brothers. As a child he had been rather delicate. The doctor
said madame pampered him too much, and that he should
be more in the open air; consequently they often sent down
for me to go up to the chateau to play with him.

Ah! what snowballing we had in the winter; and, when the
bright spring came, what birds* nests we took, as we rambled
about the beautiful park together! So it came to pass that,
although our relative positions were so different, we two
became almost like real brothers. But at last the time came
for him to go to school, and then — as he was going into the
army — ^to St. Cyr ; and we only saw each other in the holidays.

♦From Chambers's Journal.

232 Seraphina

It happened one day, just after he had got his commission,
that we went bathing. Hubert remained in the water longer
than I, and I was nearly dressed when he was seized with
cramps. I went at once to his assistance, and brought him to
land just in time to save him. I was doing what I could to
restore him to consciousness when his father and mother
luckily drove up. Hubert was placed in the carriage, and
servants sent in all directions for the doctor. Nothing could
exceed the gratitude of his parents. Our little cottage and
the forge, which belonged to the St. Claires, was given, as it
stood, to my father; and my sister Josephine was made a
dairymaid at the chateau. They wished to have me grandly
educated; but my father thought it better for me to remain
with him and help him in his business.

When madame came from Italy she brought with her an
Italian maid who was very handsome, and she married
Jacques Marly, the steward, who lived in a beautiful cottage
just outside the village on the road to Fismes. There were
queer stories about her, and she was said to have had a horrible
temper. However, Marly was only married about a year, as
his wife died soon after giving birth to Seraphina. The latter
and I grew up together, and she always showed a preference
for me over all the other lads of the village. Seraphina was
now sixteen, and I was two years older.

One fine June day — wp two always went about together
when we could — she and I went fishing in the Arditre. Under
the shade of a hawthorn-bush that was then in full bloom we
sat down side by side, with the meadow-sweet around us. I
threw my line into the little stream, and we waited patiently
for a bite. The insects buzzed, and the bees hummed as they
scrambled into the foxgloves on the bank; but never a fish,
though we could see plenty of them, came to bite. One old
roach came and had a look at the worm, but superciliously
swam away again, and I fancy he told the young ones not to
go near it.

** There's too much sun, Etienne," said Seraphina.

"No; they are frightened at your eyes,*' I replied; **they
shine too bright. Ah, Fina! if you were only at the end of
the hook they would come in dozens to see you, because you
are so beautiful."

**But the other day you said Suzanne Blanc's eyes were
beautiful," she replied.

Seraphina 233

**So they are; but not to be compared to yours."

** Why do you think I am so lovely? '* she answered, placing
her hand on my shoulder.

** Because I can't help it, and because I love you," I replied;
and as she was so close I kissed her.

** And I love you, too," she said, returning my kiss; **and
when we grow up we will be married."

** But what will your father say ? " I asked.

**0h, I can do what I like with him," she replied. **But
what will your parents say?"

** Whatever they say," I answered, **I will marry you, my
darling." And so we became betrothed, and considered our-
selves the happiest people in the world. But at the same time
my parents did not really like Seraphina; but I would have
her, and the beautiful girl would not, she said, marry any one
else, and so they had to agree to it. Besides, old Marly was
known to have saved up a great deal of money, and my mother
was rather influenced by that, for she was a very saving
woman. It was a good thing she was, for my father, who had
been a sergeant-farrier in the Dragoons, had the careless,
happy-go-lucky ideas of a soldier. He loved to sit smoking
*and drinking at the "Faisan d*Or," and he would have spent
the bulk of his money there but for his thrifty wife. As I
thought upon it I could hardly believe my good fortune when
Seraphina promised to be mine, for she was far and away
the most beautiful girl in the whole district ; she even promised
to surpass her mother. She had, so folks said, the same sharp-
cut features, the same brilliant dark eyes and splendid figure;
and the bloom of health and youth showed through her olive
complexion, reminding one of some of the Italian pictures up
at the chateau. Seraphina was no favorite among the other
girls, not only because of her looks, but because she inherited,
if the truth must be told, some of her mother's temper. But
I was young then, and I did not think of that. Those eyes,
that had been flashing a moment before, shone with a warm,
caressing glance, when I approached, that filled me with
delight and love.

This was in May, 1868, and the time had now come for me
to serve my three years in the army. There were three or
four other lads who had to go at the same time ; and all the
village turned out to see us off. Some of the mothers cried

234 Seraphina

bitterly, as if their sons would never come back; and, in fact,
some of them did not.

** Good-bye, my darling Etienne, " cried Seraphina, throwing
her arms round my neck as she pressed her soft cheek against
my own and covered me with kisses. **You will be back in
three years. I shall be a fine girl then.'*

** You are now," I returned, vainly trying to keep down the
moisture that would swell into my eyes.

**And then, when you come back, we will be married, and
won't we be happy! Keep up your courage. I will write,
my darling, and tell you every single thing that goes on."

I could not trust myself to answer; but, pressing her once
more to my breast, and kissing my father and mother, my
sister and little brother, I went after the others, who had got
some way in front. None of us said much at first; but when
we came to the top of a slight incline we stood and waved
our tricolor-decked hats to our families, who were standing
in a group to see the last of us. But we were all young and
full of hope, and our spirits soon returned. Besides, having
more money than we were used to, we stopped at the inns on
our way; and, partly out of bravado and partly to hide our
real sorrow, we took more than we ought to have taken.
Consequently we were all three-parts drunk when we reached
our destination.

Hubert St. Claire would have liked to go into some expen-
sive cavalry regiment; but his mother did not wish him to
do so, because his uncle commanded a regiment of chasseurs
A pied, whose dep6t was at Epemay. So Hubert got a com-
mission in that regiment. Most of the men in our district
served in the regiments quartered at Rheims or Soissons; but,
partly because I was a tall, strapping lad (for they were finer
men in the chasseurs than in the line), and partly through
Monsieur St. Claire's influence, I joined his regiment, and
became Hubert's servant.

I took to soldiering naturally; I suppose I inherited my
father's reckless, dare-devil character. I had more money
than most of my comrades, for Hubert St. Claire was very
kind to me in that respect; and, as I spent it freely, I soon
became a favorite.'^But at the same time, as I was quick and
paid assiduous attention to my duties, I also earned the appro-
bation of my officers.

Seraphina was as good as her word in writing to me. She

Seraphina 235

seemed to find in doing so a vent for her pent-up feelings;
and no one ever received more passionate love-letters during
the first few months of my sojourn at Epemay than I did.
She was an odd girl. I realized this more now that we were
separated. Her peculiar character came partly from her
father as well as her mother, for the former was a very serious,
taciturn man, in many respects far above his station. He
seldom mixed much with those in the village, remaining in
his pretty cottage, reading the numerous books he had got;
but for all that he was a good steward and looked sharply
after the interests of the St. Claires, driving a bargain as close
for them as he would for himself.

Having little to do, Seraphina spent a great deal of her
time in reading romantic love-stories and memoirs. In fact,
she did not hesitate to borrow from the latter. "Adieu, my
love, my darling!" she wrote to me in a letter soon after we
had parted. "What inquietudes do I not suffer from thy
absence ! I kiss you in my sleep as I dream of you, for I love
you, dearest Etienne; I love you as no one ever loved before.**
All this ardor naturally filled me with delight, and I thought
it very fine writing, for I did not know then that she was
simply copying the intercepted billets-doux of Pauline Bona-
parte. But as time went on my fianc^e*s epistles became
cooler.

I had served eighteen months when she told me that a new
schoolmaster had arrived in the village, who was young and
very handsome, and who, curiously enough, had served in
my regiment; and, to my disgust, most of her letters from
that time were filled up with the doings and sayings of this
fellow. Soon after that I had a letter from my sister Joseph-
ine. She told that she was going to be married to Madame
St. Claire's coachman; and she also informed me that the
new schoolmaster, whose name was Felix Barcferes, was very
often seen with Seraphina. This, coupled with what I could
guess from my fiancee's epistles, filled me with rage and
jealousy, and I wrote at once to Seraphina. She never
answered me; but, from all accounts, she seemed to pay
little heed to my remonstrances. In the following June I got
a short furlough to attend my sister's wedding.

Seraphina received me kindly, but with none of that
warmth which from her promises two years ago I considered
I had a right to expect. I had left her a slight and beautiful

236 Seraphina

girl; she was now a ftiUy developed woman, and looked more
than her age. I was intoxicated by her ravishing beauty,
and in my heart I almost pardoned the schoolmaster for mak-
ing love to her, for I did not tmderstand how any one could
help it; but for all that I vowed on the first opportimity to
have it out with him.

The wedding took place the next day ; it was quite a grand
affair, and all the village was en fete. The St. Claires gave
Josephine a handsome dot, and Madame herself with the yoimg
ladies actually came down to the breakfast, and partook of
the white soup which, in Champagne, is always a great feature
at a wedding; and in the afternoon we all danced in the park.
I expected to see Barc^res; but he prudently kept out of my
way. Unfortunately it came on to rain in the evening, so we
went back to the cottage. My father and the bridegroom's
father fotmd they had both served in Africa, and they took
glass after glass of the good wine that Madame St. Claire
kindly provided, drinking to the health of their old comrades,
so that after a while they could not stand. Then the village
Musical Society commenced to play; but, as they were all
drunk, they made so much noise that Seraphina — ^who had
lately found out that she had a fine voice, and consequently
wished to sing — got angry, and I ordered them to cease.
This ended in a general m^Ue, in which some of their instru-
ments were broken, and it was only stopped by the joint
efforts of the curi and the doctor. After Seraphina had stmg,
the bridegroom's cousin, who was in the Zouaves, gave us a
song that made the girls blush; and as he would not desist,
he and I had a fight in which I nearly killed him; so that the
day that had begun so auspiciously ended in an orgy; but
for all that the villagers looked back on it as one of the hap-
piest in their lives.

The following morning I asked Seraphina why she had not
written to me so frequently.

'* Well,*' she answered, "you wrote so seldom to me; and —
besides — you can't write like — "

**That fool of a schoolmaster," I replied.

**Yes, you are right there. He can write. Why, he actu-
ally had an article in Le Petit Courier entitled the Spring-
time in the Woods, all about "

**0h, yes, I know," I exclaimed savagely, **all about the

Seraphina 237

confounded birds. Bah, quel blague! He's as blind as a bat
to begin with, and cannot tell a thrush from a linnet."

"And not only that,"she added, seeming to enjoy my rising
anger and paying no attention to what I said. **he can write
poetry too. He has written me a lovely poem, ]fetoile du
Nuit. Now listen to this,** she continued, taking a paper
from her breast and seating herself on the comer of the table,
swinging her little foot to and fro.

"Let me see it,** I said, trying to take it from her.

"No, no I you keep back and 1*11 read it to you.
"6toileduNuit"

' * What nonsense 1 * * I interposed.

" Is it ? You have not heard it yet. Anyway, I am certain
you could not write as good.*'

Then she commenced again:

"Etoile du Nuit I dans les"

But I could not stand any more; and, snatching up my
shako, I darted ofiE to settle accotmts with Barc^res.

He was a tall, delicate-looking man with glasses, and had
rather long hair and a sallow face. My appearance seemed
to give him anything but pleasure.

"What do you want?'* he asked nervously, keeping the
door ajar.

"1*11 tell you when I'm inside,*' I replied. "Now, look
here,*' I continued, after he had reluctantly permitted me to
enter, "I was betrothed to Seraphina Marly long before you
ever came here.*'

" But," he interposed, " I suppose a girl is allowed to change
her mind if she likes. Ovid says "

"Who the mischief is Ovid? ** I replied, thinking he meant
some one in the village, though I have learned since that he
was a Latin poet. A smile of contempt crept over his pale
countenance, which made me more angry than ever. " I give
you fair warning, you dog,'* I continued, bringing my fist down
on the table, "if you get making love to her behind my back,
or writing any more of your infernal poetry, I will break every
bone in your body.** The smile had left his face now, and he
stood trembling, as white as a sheet.

The following day I had to start very early, as I had to
walk two leagues to Fismes, which was the nearest station.
I resolved to see Seraphina ere I went. Marly*s cottage, as
I have said, stood by itself a little back from the road at the

238 Seraphina

end of the village, and in the porch was a wicker cage which
still contained a blackbird I had given his daughter. Ser-
aphina, I knew, would still be sleeping, so I threw some
pebbles against her window; but this had no effect. There
was a water-butt just handy; so, clambering on to that, I
tapped at the window with my bayonet, and in a moment she
appeared.

** What, Etiennel" she exclaimed, " is it you, and must you
really go so early ? " ? "

**I must, my love," I answered; "I cannot help myself.
But I shall be back in a year, and then what a wedding we
will have!"

** Kiss me, mon ch&ri,'' she cried, leaning out of the window.
By^my standing on tiptoe she was just able to throw her
rounded arms about my neck, her thick black hair falling
in clusters on my shoulder as she pressed her warm lips against
my own.

Reluctantly I let her go and jumped to the ground.

** Adieu!" she cried. **Take this;" and, leaning out, she
picked a piece of honeysuckle within her reach and threw it
to me. I picked it up, kissed it, and hurried off ; but I turned
once more to gaze upon her, and the picture she^ presented
as she stoodfat the flower-framed window, with, her raven
tresses on her shoulders, and the first crimson blush of the
early dawn falling upon her, remained in my heart for many
a day. I little thought then tmder what circimistances our
next meeting wotdd take place.

All the world knows now how a dispute between France
and Prussia arose in June, 1870. We soldiers knew little
about the merits of the case, and cared less; but the chance
of seeing some service filled us with pleasure. Fully a week
before war was actually declared the reserves began to pour
in. Going across the barrack-square, to my surprise I saw
Barcferes. I had forgotten that he belonged to the chasseurs
d> pud. His appearance gave me tmbounded delight, and I
went off at once to Hubert St. Claire.

*'My lieutenant," I said, '*I have a favor to ask of you."

''What is it?" he replied.

**That reservist Barcferes may be appointed to my squad;"
for I had recently been made a corporal.

Seraphina 239

Hubert St. Claire knew all about my love-afiair, and a
smile crossed his face as he guessed the reason.

**A11 right," he answered. **I will speak to my uncle the
colonel ; * ' and it ended in the schoolmaster being placed under
my orders.

It is poss ble for an unscrupulous sous-officier to make the
life of any private a perfect burden to him on a very small
pretext. He can get a soldier sent to the consigne; but though
I had, of course, no intention of behaving unfairly to the man
whom fortune had placed in my power, I resolved that if it ever
came to any fighting, he should have as good a chance of being
hit as I had myself. When Barc^res found out how he was
situated, his dreamy eyes had a frightened, startled look in
them that highly amused me. It enabled me to judge his
character pretty accurately, and I reckoned he would have
given all he had to be back at Marigny once more.

In the highest spirits we left Epemay at the end of July for
ChMons. We thought that when we got there we should go
on to Metz; but we were informed that Strasburg was our
destination. When we arrived at Nancy, so great was the
confusion and lack of organization that, as the whole line was
blocked, we were detained, and started to march to the fron-
tier. This confusion soon became worse. We no sooner
received an order to march to one place than we received a
fresh one to go somewhere else. But on the ist of August
we found ourselves at Niedebronn, on the road to Bitche,
where De Failly had his headquarters.

In spite of the hard work this marching and countermarch-
ing entailed, we were all, from the colonel downwards, full of
hope. I can truly say that at the time the idea of defeat never
once entered our heads; and we reckoned that when we got
into Germany we should be amply compensated for all our
trials. The cotmtry-people welcomed us warmly. At first
we had plenty to eat, and it was only as we got nearer the
frontier that provisions began to become scarce. This arose
from other regiments having gone before us and taken the
bulk of them. I enjoyed the life. Round the camp-fire of a
night Sergeant Bondy, who wore on his breast the Cross of
the Legion of Honor and many medals, told us stories of his
campaigns, and we had no doubt about the result of the
coming one.

We had started for Bitche on the morning of the 3d of

240 Seraphina

August, when we were suddenly ordered to go to Weissenburg,
where General Abel Douay was in command. Not far from
Weissenburg we came to the house of a man who, we soon
found, was mad. He had some most beautiful white chickens.
We had had really nothing to eat all day, and we quickly
wrung their necks; but the worst of it was that there were
only a score of them, and that did not go far among a half-
famished battalion. However, I and two comrades got an
old rooster between us, and that was the last good meal I had
for a long time. I laugh now when I think of the unfortunate
owner, who toM us these chickens were ** sacred** birds, and
were given to him by the Emperor of China; and he prophesied
that .all manner of evil would fall on us for our sacrilegious
proceedings. Leaving the poor man tearing his hair, we com-
tinued our march to Weissenburg. We arrived late in the
evening, and found that we belonged to the First Brigade,
which was led by General Pelletier de Montmarie of the 2d
Infantry Division, under General Abel Douay of the First
Corps, which was commanded by MacMahon.

The chateau of Geisburg, which overlooks Weissenburg,
was occupied by one battalion of the 74th, and as the little
town was crammed full of troops, comprising the other bat-
talion of the 74th, with Zouaves and Turcos, we had to make
the best of our little tents d'abri. In the ordinary way this
would not have mattered; but the weather, which had been
very close and sultry all day, broke up, and in the night a
torrential shower of rain fell, which, though it cleared the air,
drenched us all to the skin.

The following morning, after we had had our caf^ — but,
alas! nothing to eat — we waited to be inspected by General
Montmarie, who complimented our colonel highly on the state
of the regiment. As soon as the inspection was over, my
company was sent down to the station to bring up provisions
and, if possible, some cattle for the battalion. Our cavalry
had reconnoitred the previous day, and reported that the
enemy were in no great strength.

We French little dreamt — and we had not altogether more
than eight thousand men — that within almost a league we had
opposed to us fully forty thousand Germans, composed of two
corps of Bavarians under Von der Tann and Von Hartmann,
Kirchbarch with the 5th Corps of Poseners, and the Hessians
of the nth under Von Bose — in fact, nearly the whole of the

Seraphina 241

Third Army Corps under the Crown-Prince. In happy
ignorance of what was in store for tis, we went gaily along,
only too pleased to think that at last we were going to get
something to put in our stomachs. We had reached the
bottom of the hill, and were near the bridge that crosses the
little river Lauter, which runs through the valley, when we
heard the stirring rattle of the side-drums, and the next mo-
ment we saw the ist Regiment of Turcos advancing at the
double toward us, so we stood aside to allow them to pass.
I had never seen these men before. The whites of their eyes
were more apparent from their ebony skins; and, with their
thick lips and dare-devil bearing, I thought I wotdd rather
have them for friends than foes. They might have been going
to a review, as they laughed together in guttural tones.
Suddenly we saw aides-de-camp tearing about. There was
evidently something going to take place; but we had not the
slightest glimmering of what it could be. Some said the
Prussians were on our flank, and others that they were just
in front, and we were going to attack them; but we laughed
at this and pressed on to get the stores we needed so much.

As soon as the Turcos had gone past we fell in behind them.
We had just reached the station when a battery of artillery
came tearing along. ' * Houp-lhl * ' shouted the drivers as they
pulled up, nearly bringing their horses on their hatmches, and
at once they began to tmlimber the guns on some rising ground
a little to our rear. Just then the shells from the German
batteries at Schweigen came whistUng through the air. It
was the first time I had ever heard a live shell, and I confess
I did not much like the sharp whistle of them. The tocsin
sounded in the town, sending its lugubrious tones down the
vale. The station, we fotmd, was held by one battalion of
the Turcos, the others having taken up positions farther on
among the hops. Our artillery at once opened fire on our
foes in the Bienwald, which is a continuation of the chain of
wooded hills leading to the Black Forest.

We could find no cattle; but the sub-lieutenant, who had
only just joined our regiment from St. Cyr, ordered us to com-
mence at once unloading some rice from the trucks. The
shells now began to fall faster and faster around us; and after
a while the btillets from our hidden foes commenced to pitter-
patter on the wall of the goods-shed, causing us young soldiers
involuntarily to duck our heads. We had filled one cart, and

242 Seraphina

the Turcos had just opened fire, when an officer on the staff
of General Pell6 tore up.

"What on earth are you doing?'* he shouted to our lieu-
tenant; and he ordered us at once to desist from our work
and to take our place beside our dusky friends.

'*Now, mes enfants,'' said Sergeant Bondy gaily, **le bal
commence. You will see how we shall set these beer-swilling
Prussians the tune they are to dance to. Parbleul they will
remember it.*'

None of us doubted the veteran's assertion for a moment;
but I have often thought of his words since, and when I do I
hardly know whether to smile or to swear.

With alacrity we commenced to carry out the order of the
officer. For my part, it was just what I wanted, as I did not
care for being shot at without replying; so I, with some others,
clambered on to a coal-truck and commenced to fire at our
foes — ^whom we could now see distinctly in sky-blue imiforms
and crested helmets, and who, we learnt, were Bavarians —
issuing from the woods to attack us under cover of the fire of
their terrible artillery. So thick did the shells fall aroimd us
that our own ,gunners were, after losing their commander,
compelled to retreat and take up a position more to the rear.*
The worst of it was, that from that point — their gims being
merely four-pounders — they could not reply at all to the Ger-
man artillery; still, from their new position they sent shell
after shell into the advancing infantry. My spirits rose as
the fighting progressed; and, carried away by the excitement,
I forgot all sense of danger.

The Turcos fought splendidly ; they needed no encourage-
ment. It was more a case of their officers holding them in,
or they wotdd have rushed forward to meet their foes. In
the midst of the battle a train with reinforcements from our
8th Corps at Strasburg actually came steaming slowly into
the station, the men jumping from the carriages and joining
eagerly in the fray. The Bavarians were not three hundred
metres from us when a shell, which happily did not explode,
struck the wheel of the truck I was in and threw me and some
others down in a heap. It was indeed lucky it did not burst,
for at the same moment another shell struck a telegraph-post

♦Thus verifying the maxim of Napoleon that "it is impossible to
make artillery fire on masses of infantry if they themselves are at-
tacked by artillery. They will either turn their fire on the opposing
batteries, or, if outranged, they will retreat."

Seraphina 243

and burst almost over where we were standing. Springing
up, I got into another truck and commenced firing again.
Our foes had got within two hundred metres of us now; but
our fire, especially from some of the Turcos among the hops,
which took them on the flank, was so deadly that they fell
back, in spite of the endeavors of their officers. But it was
only for a moment, for they soon received heavy reinforce-
ments. A wagon full of forage, next to the one I was standing
in, caught fire, and the heat obliged us to evacuate it. At
that moment I caught sight of Barc^res cowering under the
very wagon that was aUght.

** Come out, you infernal coward!** I cried; and I compelled
him to take up a position with me behind some casks, where,
kneeling down, we were able to fire with a certain amount of
safety. But no mortal men could stand the fire to which we
were submitted. To give an idea of what that fire was like,
I may state that no less than thirty guns, posted on the
heights of Schweigen, concentrated their efforts on that little
station, and consequently the shells fell right into the very
midst of us. Under cover of this the Bavarians attacked us
once more, and fought their way into the station itself. Some
of them rushed at our Uttle group. I shot one, and as another
sprang on the casks to get at us I ran my bayonet through
his chest. Good heavens! it makes me shudder now as I
remember his face as he fell back. The goods-sheds behind
us was in ruins, a^'^ the stationmaster's house was in a blaze.
"Come on," cried Sergeant Bondy; " it's all up."
The sergeant may be aUve now for all I know; but these
were the last words I ever heard him speak, for at that moment
he sprang into the air and fell behind some cases. A regular
panic seized us. Fear is very contagious. Every man ran,
right and left, many throwing away their rifles to run faster.
Seeing the lieutenant making off towards Altenstadt, I and
what few of us remained followed him. Nor did we stop till
we got there, and then, to our joy, we heard some of our own
men, who were posted in a pretty little cottage covered with
roses, with a garden in front, facing a road, shout to us to
make haste. At the window of the cottage I saw Hubert St.
Claire. When I regained my breath I took up my position
behind a wall with my comrades.

All this time the battle was raging fiercely, the Prussians

244 Seraphina

attacking the Chateau of Gniesberg with the King's Grena-
diers, tinder cover of their batteries at St. Paul's. But we
had enough to occupy our attention. The Bavarians, having
driven us out of the station, began to follow up their advantage
and opened fire on the village we held. They drove us from
some houses to the left, and then their infernal shells began
to fall among us once more. Two, one after another, fell
right on the house, and set it on fire. At that moment the
adjutant, who was close to me, was hit; but I caught him up
and carried him behind the cottage. I had just done this
when our men came rushing from the burning building; and
among them, to my surprise, I saw a tall, fair-haired, very
beautiful girl. Her blue eyes were wild with terror. I
chanced to be the nearest to her.

*'0h, save my father!" she cried, clutching hold of my
arm. "He's ill, and can't help himself." I could not resist
her imploring glance, and, dropping my gun, I rushed up-
stairs. Through the blinding smoke I saw a figure on the bed,
and in another moment, though I was half -suffocated by the
smoke and my eyes were full of water, I brought him safely
to- his daughter. I was amply compensated by the look of
gratitude she gave me. When I had placed him in a summer-
house she caught hold of my hands and kissed them. I would
have liked to remain, but I dared not. I had hardly taken
my place again behind the wall when a dense column of light-
blue figures was seen coming up the road opposite. We
poured a withering fire into them, and I think we could have
driven them back ; but a cry arose that we were taken in the
rear, and a regular sauve-qui-peut followed. Hubert St. Claire
and I were about the last to leave. At that moment I caught
sight of some beehives. Our foes had just reached the low
wall, when, catching up a huge stone, I threw it at the hives
and knocked one of them over.

** Bravo!" shouted my lieutenant; *'that will stop the
devils. Sacr4 bleu! you deserve a commission for that."

A mitrailleuse could hardly have been more effective. The
oncoming Germans went right into the midst of the infuriated
little creatures. These Bavarians did not fear bullets; but
they did not bargain for bees, and retired so hastily that
Hubert and I and some others easily made good our retreat.

There was a field at the back of the houses. Our men were
nmning across it as fast as they could to get refuge among

Seraphina 245

some hops, when suddenly some cavalry — the famous Black
Brunswickers — appeared on our left, and commenced cutting
down the fugitives, and scattering them right and left. Luck-
ily there was a wood to our right, and Hubert St. Claire at
once made for it, and I followed. Just in front of us I saw
Felix Barc^res; he was not really very strong, and we soon
passed him and reached the wood in safety. We had hardly
done so, when, just as I was putting a cartridge in my gtm,
I saw a horseman make for the wretched schoolmaster, and,
leaning over the saddle, give him a slash on the shotdder that
sent him to the grotmd; but he scrambled up again. His op-
ponent wheeled round with the intention of despatching him;
but a bullet from my chassepot caused the former to fall for-
ward over his horse, and in another moment Barcferes, breath-
less and pallid with fright, had joined us.

** You owe your life to Meynard," said Hubert St. Claire.

Barcferes made no answer. I was piqued at his ingratitude,
and I had it on my lips to tell him he might inform Seraphina
of what had taken place ; but the poor man was such an abject
coward, and seemed so dazed, that I held my tongue. A good
many reached the wood; and, tmder cover of this shelter, we
poured such a fire into the Black Hussars that they were only
too glad to make off with some prisoners. All this time the
fighting continued. Now, it was a very long time since we
had got a good meal, and most of us had had enough fighting;
but suddenly we heard the ** assembly** ring out behind us;
and, making our way through the wood, we found ourselves
among the Zouaves. At that moment an aide-de-camp
arrived, and he ordered us all to advance through some hops
in the direction of Geisberg.

** Who goes there?** suddenly shouted one of our tirailleurs.
The reply was a volley from some unseen foes, and the next
moment they were on us. I can give little description of what
followed. I remember the cracking of hop-poles, the stabbing
and the fighting in the confined place, the shouting of the
officers, and the swearing of the men; but at the very begin-
ning I received one blow on my right shoulder and another
on the head that sent me senseless to the ground.

When I regained consciousness I found myself in bed in a
small room. The sun was setting, tinting the ceiling with
crimson. I must have been roused from my torpor by the
clank of a bucket-handle. Two of our medicine-majors in

246 Serapkina

canvas night-shirts, with a chemist-assistant, were close to
me. On a wash-stand was a leg they had just taken off.

** Pitch that blood out of the window, and look sharp about
it," said the senior surgeon to the assistant. I was seized
with a horrible fear. I thought my turn was coming; but I
had my fright for nothing, as they were going to turn their
attention to a man who, from his large beard, must have been
a sapper.

*' Oh, let me die in peace! *' murmured the poor wretch.

But the elder surgeon paid no attention to his request, and
told the assistant to get the tourniquet and the lint. "It
will be something to boast of if we succeed,** hfe said.

** But there is no chance of that,** whispered his junior, who
was standing by the window counting the drops of chloroform
as they fell on a sponge.

Probably it was the fumes of the drug that sent me to
sleep again, for I remember nothing more. How long I
remained in that state I cannot tell ; but I gradually became
conscious of a beautiful girl standing beside me.

' ' Seraphina ! * * I murmured, * * is that you ? * *

**No,** replied a gentle voice, **it*s not Seraphina. Don*t
you remember me ? You saved my father the other day from
the fire. But you must take this now; it will do you good."

My right arm was strapped to my side, my head enveloped
in bandages, and I was perfectly helpless. I looked at the
girl, and then I recognized her. Stooping over me, she potured
some bouillon and brandy down my throat, which made me
feel better at once.

** You are kind,** I said, taking her hand. **Tell me where
I am, and how I came here.**

** I saw you in a cart with some other wotmded men, and I
told my father, who sent me out for you, and I had you
brought here. Our own doctor in the town is attending you.
You must not talk any more now. I will come again soon."

In the same room there were three others who were wounded.
There had been four; but one, the poor sapper whose voice
I had heard, was lying dead in his bed, with a sheet over his
face.

My benefactor's name was Dietzmann, and his daughter's
name was Marie. Under the latter*s kind nursing I soon
began to recover. As I was a prisoner, arid found myself in
such good quarters, I was in no hurry to get up; and I did not

Seraphina 247

do so till nearly three weeks had gone by, and then I went
and sat with my host.

The house we were in belonged to him. The tenants had
fled; and, his own being burnt, he had taken refuge in it.
Nothing could exceed Monsieur Dietzmann*s kindness to me
nor the attention of his beautiful daughter. I told them my
history, and they told me theirs.

**It is strange you should be a blacksmith," he remarked.
"I also was a smith; but I gradually worked my way up,
and now my son manages my ironworks in Strasburg."

It was evident that Monsieur Dietzmann was fairly well-to-
do; but he had no pride, nor did he boast of his commercial
success. He was a martyr to gout, and one of these attacks
had, tmfortunately for him, just come on a few days before
the battle of Weissenburg. For the time being he was per-
fectly helpless. The doctors could do little to assuage the
pain. He used to say, with a laugh, that swearing gave him
as much relief as anything. Now, however, he had nearly
recovered. His son's fate in Strasburg was his chief anxiety.
I never knew any one more entertaining, and he had, more-
over, a keen sense of humor. As he sat up smoking in bed,
and playing cards with his daughter and me, one might have
thought that he had had no troubles. Much to my regret,
the time came at last for my departure.

** Good-bye, my dear fellow,'* said my kind host, wringing
my hand. **You must come and see us when you return;
and if you ever want help, let me know."

Marie came downstairs to see me off. **I can never," I
said, ** thank you enough, ma'm'selle,"

**Don't call me ma*m*selle," she said; *'call me Marie."

"Well, Marie, I shall always remember you. When I car-
ried your father out from the fire you kissed my hand; may
I now kiss your lips?"

** Oh, yes," she said frankly, with a rosy blush ; and I kissed
her again and again. The tears came to my eyes, and hers,
too, were moist, as I turned away to conceal my emotion.

It was a horrible journey to Frankfort ; but the Dietzmanns
had filled my pockets with provisions and tobacco, so I was
better off than many. From Frankfort I was sent to Magde-
burg, where I remained till I was liberated. My family sent
me a little money ; but the dreary weeks passed only too slowly
in spite of the small comforts I was able to buy. I wrote a

248 Seraphina

letter to my kind friends at Weissenburg, and Marie sent me
a long one in return, telling me that her father was now able
to get about, and her brother was safe in Strasburg, though
the ironworks had been a little damaged by the bombardment.
I wrote, of course, to Seraphina as often as I could. To my
chagrin, I received no reply; but as I thought she never re-
ceived my letters it did not trouble me much at first.

It was towards the middle of Octoberthat I received a letter
from my sister Josephine. Hubert St. Claire had escaped
from Weissenburg; but he had been so badly wounded at the
battle of Beaumont that he was incapable of serving any more,
and had rettimed to the ch&teau. This was bad news; but
it was nothing to what followed. Barc^res, too, had escaped,
and returned to the village with his arm in a sling. According
to his own accotmt, he had performed prodigies of valor, and
it was only his wound that prevented his enlisting again.
Seraphina believed all this, and she showed her commiseration
for Barc^res by allowing him to make love to her in the most
open way.

This intelligence threw me into a paroxysm of rage and
jealousy. I felt like a wild beast in a cage. Some comrades
had succeeded in escaping, and my first impulse was to try
and do the same. But I had no knowledge of the language,
and little money, and I knew that in case of failure I should
be shot. It was not that I feared that risk so much, but I
wanted to live. Wherever Barc^res might be, I would find
him. I wished to live, if it was only to thrash him within
an inch of his life. For many days I brooded over my wrongs.
I had no doubt that Seraphina and her lover would get far
away ere my return; nor did I see how I could prevent them.
Then suddenly I thought of Hubert St. Claire, and I wrote
to him imploring him to use his influence to make Barcferes
continue his service. I was successful. The lieutenant saw
the Mayor of the district, and within a fortnight after the
despatch of my letter my cowardly rival was on his way to
Dijon, though his departure was a good deal hastened by
Gambetta*s agent, who had hit on a very happy plan of com-
pelling numerous young men to fight for their country who
wanted to escape doing so. Under the heading of **Poltrons,"
a list was stuck on the church door of those who would not
serve. Barcferes, knowing what Seraphina would think of
him if his name appeared on the dreaded list, accordingly

Seraphina 249

thought it best to join again, and in November he set off with
some others for Dijon.

It was only in driblets that the Germans allowed their
prisoners to return. I considered myself forttmate that I was
able to do so in the following May. It was raining hard when
I arrived one evening at Fismes, determined to see Seraphina.
Through the soaking rain and the gathering darkness I hurried
on to Marigny, and at length the spire of the old church came
in sight, and soon afterwards the steward's cottage. Anxious
to know my fate, with a trembling hand I knocked at the door.
It was nearly nine; but the light inside showed that the
inmates had not yet gone to bed.

**What, Etienne! It is really you?" exclaimed Jacques
Marly, as he cautiously opened the door.

**Yes," I answered, bursting into the room. "Seraphina,
my love, my darling — '*

But the look on the girl's face as she rose from the supper-
table made me pause.

''Why do you come here?" she said fiercely, and her
splendid eyes flashed with anger. *'Did you not get my
letter?"

*' What letter?" I replied, my heart sinking within me.

''The letter in which I told you that I loved Felix Barc^res,
and would marry no one else."

" Mon Dieu! " I exclaimed, " to think that you shotdd care
for such an arrant coward "

" It's a lie," she broke in. " Even if it were true, he is dead
now," and I saw the tears come to her eyes.

"Dead?" I cried.

"Yes, dead; and you and that Hubert St. Claire killed
him." She was gradually working herself up, and cared
nothing for what she said. "Don't try to deny it; you got
the captain to send him off. It was he who hounded him
out of the village to join Bourbaki. It was owing to you two
that he died like a dog in the snow." She was so carried away
by her passion that for a moment she stood perfectly speech-
less, holding on to a chair with a heaving bosom and flashing
eyes.

"Listen," I replied.

" But I won't listen. Stand off," she cried as I approached.

" But you shall! " I returned, fast losing control of myself
as my anger rose.

250 Seraphina

''Shall I?" she exclaimed; ** then take that." And at the
moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she had snatched a knife
from the table and made a lunge at my breast. I reeled under
the force of the blow, but the fragile blade broke at the
handle as it struck on the thick leather case I wore over my
heart, which actually contained her own treasured love-
letters. Overcome by her emotion, the infuriated girl would
have fallen but for her father, who caught her in his arms.

**Mon Dieu!** he cried, wringing his hands as he half -led,
half -carried her to a sofa. '' Mon Dieu, elle est follef elle est
follef* I quickly regained my composure, and assisted him
by pouring cold water on the pallid face of his unconscious
daughter. But with all our care it was some time before we
could bring her to, and then she remained in a half -dazed
state and quite oblivious to what was going on arotmd her.

*'0 ciel,** cried the old steward in an agonized tone, **that
it should ever have come to this! I always felt imcertain
about her. I always told her to govern her temper. I am
ruined. I am ruined;" and the tears trickled fast down the
old man's cheeks.

*'Have no fear for me," I said. **I love her even now.
For her sake, for your sake, we must let no one know of this."

** You are kind," he said; "but she shall go into a convent.
It is best for her; it is best for all."

I saw I could do no good; and, hardly knowing what I was
about, I left him.

As I stood in the pelting rain, it all seemed like a horrible
dream. There was a brook on the other side, now turned into
a swollen stream, and as I listened to the wild rush of the
waters I felt half -inclined to throw myself into it; but the
sound of the church clock striking ten brought me to myself,
and I hurried up the deserted street to my own home.

'*Etienne!" exclaimed my father; and in a moment my
mother and all came hurrying down to welcome me, for they
had gone to bed long before.

** You are pale," said my mother; **those Prussian brutes
have not given you enough to eat."

**0h, yes," I answered, ''they treated us fairly well."

"You have seen Seraphina? " she replied, with the intuitive
quickness of a woman.

"Yes," I replied; "we are no longer betrothed."

"A good thing, too," said my father.

Seraphina 251

**Yes, a very good thing," repeated my mother angrily.
**A nice life that diable aux jupes would have led you. I
never liked her, only you would have your own way."

I feared they wotild notice the rent in my coat where the
blade had torn it a little; so, pleading fatigue, I went upstairs.

I did not see Seraphina about the next day; but I met her
father. He was still full of the idea of placing his daughter
in a convent. I knew what the threat of such a horrible fate
would be to a girl like Seraphina, and for my part I was not
the least stuprised when I heard the next day that she was
missing. Even her father had no knowledge of her where-
abouts.

The months passed very wearily for me. I helped my
father in his work; but I took no interest in anything, not
even when the merry vintage-time came round. My mother
urged me to marry, which I would have done if I could; but,
as it happened, all the girls in our village were very plain,
and it is an awful thing to marry an ugly woman — though
beauty, of course, is not everything. I had found that out,
to my cost, with Seraphina. The fact of it was, I had burnt
my fingers so severely — mon affaire du caur had been such a
failure — ^that I looked upon all women with suspicion. But
there was one exception, and this was Marie Dietzmann. I
could not help often recalling her kind and beautiful
face. It came before me at the most unexpected times. I
could not make myself believe that there could be anything
false in that comely and gentle girl.

Hubert St. Claire had now qtiite recovered from his wound,
rejoined his regiment, and become a captain. It was resolved
by the colonel and officers of my old regiment to erect a
memorial at Weissenburg to all those who had fallen in that
battle. Hubert St. Claire was one of the officers who were
deputed to see about this. The Germans had no objection,
any more than we had to their putting up memorials in our
country.

It was one of those bright, frosty days in January, 1872,
when I received a note from Captain St. Claire that he wanted
to see me up at the chateau.

'* Etienne," he said, "I have just returned from Alsace, and
have something to tell you. I have a letter for you from
Monsieur Dietzmann, and no end of pretty messages to give

252 Seraphina

you from his daughter. Now, if I were you," he added, **I
should go and see them. I should not brood over Seraphina
any more. There are plenty of other birds in the wood, my
boy. Old Dietzmann is very nice; and as for his daughter —
well, I was half-inclined to make love to her myself, only I
did not want to poach on your preserves. Ma foil she is one
of the prettiest and nicest girls I ever met.'*

'*I know she is," I replied; **but she is too high up in the
world for me. She would hardly like to take a fellow in my
position."

"Well, all I say is," returned my friend, slapping me on the
shoulder, **you go and see for yourself. It is regular folly
remaining here. You are naturally energetic; it is foolish for
you to waste your life in this place. Why, rather than do that,
you had better rejoin the regiment, and wait fora commission."

In the letter which the captain had given me from Monsieur
Dietzmann, the latter asked me to come and see him; and
in a postscript he assured me his daughter had not forgotten
me and would be equally pleased. This postscript decided
me. I pictured the beautiful girl as I had last seen her, with
the tears welling into her soft blue eyes as she wished me
good-bye; and the following day I started for Weissenburg.

When at lastTarrived at the house, I found M. Dietzmann
at home; but his daughter was out. He greeted me very
warmly, and upbraided me for not coming to see him before.
*'I have learnt all about you," he said, **from Captain St.
Claire. You know, we Alsatians have the option of
remaining here and becoming Germans, or of leaving.
I am determined to go. You remember I told you
about my ironworks in Strasburg, which I manage
with the help of my son. Of course I have lost severely by
the war; but the same cause that has half -ruined me has
injured others. Carl is an energetic, clever lad, and he has
just heard of a business at Chartres. It appears that both the
partners were killed in the war, and we can buy it very cheap.
It is in the middle of a great agricidtural district, and they
require a number of agrictdtural implements. My son has
gone there now, and will be back in a day or two. If he
thinks well of the affair we shall conclude matters at once.
My health is fairly good now, thank Heaven ! and I thought
that if you liked to join us, as you have all the required prac-
tical knowledge, it would be a good thing for you."

Seraphina 253

**It wotdd indeed. I should like to do so,'* I answered
eagerly; '*but where is the money to come from?"

** Your friend the captain is going to make that all right,"
replied the old man.

I coidd hardly believe my ears. Hubert had never even
hinted at the kindness his family intended to do me. My
good forttme seemed too great. I was quite overcome with
gratitude.

"WeU, you did him a service once," said my host. "You
rescued him from the water, just as you rescued me from the
fire; so we are both indebted to you."

"And how is Ma'm'selle Dietzmann?" I asked.

"Oh, she is well enough. She has had two offers of mar-
riage since you saw her; but she refused them. I fancy," he
continued, with a smile, "she likes somebody else better."

The way he said tiiis made my heart beat a thousand to
the minute.

"Do you mean," I asked anxiously, rising from my seat —
"do you fancy that it is I who have had the good forttme to
please her?"

"Hark!" he said, "I think I hear her. You will soon be
able to judge for yourself."

The next moment the beautiftd girl was standing in the
doorway.

"Ah! and so, M. Meynard, you have really come to see us,
have you?" she said, her soft blue eyes brightening with
pleasure. " I know you are a plucky fellow," she continued,
in a quizzing manner; "but as for your memory" — with a
pout — "well, elle n* exists pas; and as for your heart — but I
won't be cruel, as you have really come."

I always thought her pretty, but now as she stood there,
with the warm flush on her dimpled cheeks that her walk in
the snow had given her, she looked perfectly lovely.

"I admit, ma'm'selle," I answered, **I deserve all the hard
things you say ; but you must forgive me. We will be friends
now; and I will try to make up for all my past forgetftdness."
And I think in this I very soon succeeded.

The weather was too severe for Monsieur Dietzmann to go
about very much; but Marie and I were able to take long
walks together. It wotdd have been difficult to find two girls
more different in character than Marie and Seraphina. I had

254 Seraphina

seen the former under very trying circumstances. She was
anxious and thoughtful then; now I foimd that she was
naturally a very merry girl, and gifted with that rare quality
in woman: a keen sense of humor. Moreover, she prided
herself on her knowledge of domestic affairs. On the other
hand, I rarely remembered Seraphina, except as a child, ever
laughing; and I knew that she considered all household mat-
ters as beneath her notice. Old Marly would often scold her
for reading novels and letting things shift for themselves.

Carl Dietzmann arrived two days after my arrival. He
and I were friends at once. He was, as his father had said, a
quick, energetic yoimg fellow; and as he gave a very glowing
account of the business at Chartres, Monsieur Dietzmann
determined to take it and remove there the following March.

As one who had taken part in the battle of Weissenburg, it
was highly interesting for me to (explore the surroimding
cotmtry, more especially in the company of Marie.

"You have not been up the Giesburg^yet?" she said, one
frosty morning.

"No; let us go. I want to see the effect of the Prussian
shells on the chateau."

The view from the top was splendid. Beneath us we saw
the little town, with the Lauter running through it, and the
Bienwald on the other side of the valley. The blackened
walls of many of the houses still remained; the church was a
mass of ruins, but the reparation of the station was just being
begun.

"It was a fearful time," said my companion thoughtftdly,
as she gazed over the distant hills, covered with their mantle
of snow.

"Yes," I answered; "but it brought meluckat any rate."

"In what way?" she asked, looking at me in surprise.
"Was it lucky to be so badly wounded?"

We were standing side by side looking over a low wall.

"Yes," I replied. "But for that I should never have
known you. I would run the same risk to-morrow; because,
Marie" — and as I spoke I took her little hand in mine — "I
love you."

She blushed deeply, but did not move. "Do you really
love me?" she said softly.

" Yes, I swear it," I exclaimed, still holding her hand. Her

Seraphina 255

soft eyes gave her answer, and her lips returned the warm
kisses that I showered upon her.

*' Well, let us go down and see father," she said.

So, on that ground soaked with the blood of the heroic
74th, we plighted our troth.

"Now, you go in,'* said Marie, as we neared the house.
** You go and ask father."

"No; but you come, too," I replied, for I felt somehow
uncommonly nervous.

"Well, I'll follow."

Her good father was seated at the fire reading the paper,
which he put down as I entered.

"Yes, my friend," replied the old gentleman when I asked
his consent to our marriage. '* I give it readily. You are a
lucky fellow, though "

"I know that," I interposed.

" Because Marie has been a good daughter; and," he added
sententiously, as though it were quite a new and original idea
of his own, "a good daughter makes a good wife."

Our wedding took place a month afterwards, and Hubert
St. Claire, to whom I owed so much already, conferred another
favor upon me by coming to it.

The business at Chartres, from the very commencement,
was a success. My father-in-law, though he was mostly in
the bureau, kept his eye on everything. I was always in the
f oimdry . I worked hard ; for, now that I was married, I had
something to live for.

It was about four years after my marriage, and I had just
paid off the last of the loan which the kindly St. Claires had
advanced me to put into the business, when I received a Figaro
addressed in Hubert's handwriting. I read it all through
without seeing anything that interested me partictdarly, and
I wondered why he had sent it.

"Let me look, Etienne," said Marie, placing our yotmgest
child on the grotmd. **I understand now," she continued.
"Listen! 'Opera Comique. Trovatore. Grand d^but de
Ma'm'selle Seraphina Marlini.'"

Glancing over her shotdder, I eagerly read of the success of
my old fiancee, who seemed to have taken the city by storm.
To me it did seem extraordinary to read the eulogies showered
on her, for I only thought of her as a peasant girl.

The next post brought a letter from my foster-brother, who

256 Seraphina

had been at the opera on that occasion, and who had at once
set to work to find out all about the (U-fUtante, whose identity
he had guessed at once. And this is what he learnt: After
leaving our village so mysteriously, Seraphina had made her
way to Italy, where her mother's relatives resided. An uncle,
a good musician, had at once gauged her capabilities, and
after two years ; study she came out at Florence, and finally
at La Scala, Milan. Soon after that, on the Riviera, she had
made the acquaintance of and married an enormously rich
Russiah prince; but the excitement of the foot-lights, the love
of applause, and the unbounded flattery that her voice and
looks entitled her to were far too strong to make her give up
her operatic engagements, so she continued to sing, and
eventually made her way to Paris.

Now, Marie had never had a holiday since we were married.
As for me, I was far too happy and contented with my lot to
want one; but Marie became very excited when she heard of
the startling success of my late fiancee,

'*Etienne," she exclaimed, "I cannot control my curiosity.
I must see her, I must hear her; besides, I have never been
to Paris, so do let us go.*'

The evening we saw Seraphina she appeared in Meyerbeer's
L'Etoile du Nord. To tell the truth, once I found myself
inside the house I think I became quite as excited as Marie
herself; and when Seraphina came on to the stage, smothered
in diamonds, such was her beauty and so fine was the quality
of her voice that I joined as eagerly as any one in the rapturous
applause that greeted her. In the aria with the two flutes
she simply brought down the house and carried all before her.
It was, indeed, a veritable triumph. But for all that, as I
gazed at the beautiful woman, I did not envy the Russian
prince, for I knew the diabolical temper that dwelt in that
breast beneath all those glittering stones.

* * And only to think, Etienne, ' ' said Marie, as we were leaving,
with the applause still ringing in our ears, **that you might
have married her. I never saw any one so lovely. I never
heard such a voice."

"Yes, she has a fine voice, ma ch&rie,'* I answered; but I
added, with a kiss, " I know one who is as pretty, and I know
a voice that is sweeter."

HE. Face in the Croivd:

The Love Story of a Princess, by
Helen Sherman Griffith. Illus-
trations by Mabel L. Humphrey*
^ .» ^ ^

THE express from Janhaus was due at Hofheim at 12.40
P. M. A good many passengers stood on the platform
waiting to take the train, but their countenances expressed
nothing beyond the usual anxieties of traveling; was all their
luggage properly ticketed and had they by any chance missed
the train? — this last generally the speculation of old women
whom the station clock failed to convince that they had ten
minutes yet to wait.

♦Written for Short Stories.

2$S The Face in the Crowd

But about the official end of the station — ^the superintend-
ent's office, ticket and telegraph desks, even the porters'
bench — ^there was a low btizz of subdued excitement. For
they knew (and were all the more elated that they had kept
their secret, and the general public did not know) that a
Princess was arriving by the train now almost due ; a Princess
of the realm of Janhausland. What mattered it if the realm
measured only some scores of square miles ? It was niled by a
king and his daughters were royal princesses.

And it was the royal whim of one of the daughters to travel
incognito with her maid — ^to travel as an ordinary voyageur.
She was, indeed, a passenger upon the express from Janhaus
due at Hofheim at 1 2.40 P. M. Therefore there was a buzz of
subdued excitement among the railroad officials at the Hof-
heim station, the while the passengers waited placidly or im-
patiently according to the condition of their spleen.

Twelve-forty arrived, and so did the train, with a grand
clatter of pimctuality. The passengers to get on crowded
about the doors of the emptying compartments intent only
upon securing good seats. The superintendent and his second,
together with several clerks and all the porters, gathered
obsequiously about the carriage which it had been given them
to understand Her Royal Highness, Princess 01 ga, was to
occupy. The doors of the various compartments were thrown
open by the innocent guards, who did not know that they were
carrying a princess, and a young lady stepped forth. She
was tall and slender and moved with the noteworthy grace
of health and high breeding. Her veiled features suggested
youth and beauty of a piquant order. Her toilette was of a
Parisian perfection. She was followed by a Gretchen-looking
maid, laden with bags and rugs. Of these the maid was imme-
diately relieved by the double line of porters, and a little pro-
cession was formed, headed by the superintendent and the
royal passenger. That yoimg person appeared to be enjoying
herself hugely.

By this time it had got whispered about among the crowd
who she was. The arrived travelers ceased to curse the delin-
quent porters and crowded forward, carrying their own lug-
gage, while the departing passengers craned disappointed
necks out of windows to catch a glimpse of passing royalty.
And the guards of the train vowed at each compartment at
which they were feed (most of the passengers were totiring

The Face in the Crowd 259

Americans) that that was the very compartment which had
been occupied by the Princess.

The short distance across the station platform was covered
in a blaze of glory, and the beautiful young woman was handed
obsequiously into a waiting landau.

**To the Grand Hotel," said the young woman in a voice
so soft and low that the superintendent, who was young and
ardent, blushed at the sound of it.

He bowed low and assured Her Royal Highness that the coach-
man had had his orders and everything was in readiness; that,
indeed, the whole town was at her disposal. And the carriage
drove off with a flourish.

II.

The Janhaus express, so called because Janhaus was the
capital of Janhausland, in reality started from Schloss-baden,
quite at the eastern boundary of the little kingdom and near
which the feudal towers of the royal country-seat frowned
down upon the frontier.

In the sole occupancy of a smoking compartment of this
train lolled a young American, Richard Bretherton by name,
co-heir with his sister Marian to the multi-millions of his father,
late of the Standard Oil Company. He was to meet his sister
at Janhaus, or rather she was to join him there, en route for
Paris and thence to America.

Bretherton was feeling generally out of sorts. He had
fallen in love with a face and had not been able to find the
owner of it. It had happened the summer before, at a band
concert on the beach at Ostend. He was glancing over the
throng when his eyes were caught by a face of remarkable
beauty. As he gazed, spell-bound, the eyes of the woman,
as if drawn by a magnetic current, turned and sought his.
During that second of their meeting glance her cheeks had
flushed, her lips parted and an expression flashed from her
hazel eyes that thrilled Bretherton's soul. His instinct was
to move forward to her side, but the music ceased, there was a
general scattering of the crowd and the face disappeared.

In vain Bretherton haunted the hotels, streets and public
places of Ostend. He never saw the face again. He lost
interest in his summer plans and abandoned his route of
travel in order to visit systematically the various Continental
summer outing places. He refused to go back to America

a6o The Face in the Crowd

in the fall (for he was sure that the face in the crowd was
not American), but journeyed from one prominent city of
Europe to another, always searching, searching.

His sister became honestly anxious about him at length
and joined him, as keen in the hunt as himself, though, never
having seen the face, she could only help him by pointing
out every pretty girl that she saw. But the pretty face was
never the right one and the sight of beauty only seemed to
aggravate the case — for Marian had come to class her brother's
desire as a malady and feared for his sanity.

Finally she extorted from him a promise that if by a certain
date in the spring his hunt was still unfruitful, he would go
back to America with Marian. With this understanding, the
■ brother and sister separated and went their several ways.

The winter passed and the tenth of April approached, the
appointed date of their sailing. Heart-heavy and disap-
pointed, Bretherton was on his way to join his sister in fulfill-
ment of his promise. His search had been thorough and
unsuccessful.

It chanced that the relative whereabouts of the brother
and sister at the time made Janhaus the most convenient
meeting place, so that was why Richard Bretherton was
lolling moodily in the smoking compartment of a first-class
carriage in the Janhaus express.

The train had stopped at a picturesque village some five
miles short of Janhaus. Bretherton saw a young lady alight
from a compartment next his and, followed by a maid, walk
back to the end of the platform, from which spread an ex-
tensive view. Bretherton looked idly at first, then with sud-
denly aroused interest. The girl's face was hidden from him,
but there was something familiar about the graceful, alert
bearing. With an eag:er ejaculation, he jumped out of the
car and walked swiftly down the platform in pursuit.

The railroad was single-tracked at this part, thus affording
exit on either side of the carriages. A coach and foiu* drove
up to the platform on the other side of the platform as Breth-
erton left his seat, the footmen carried an assortment of traps
to the train , a young lady alighted from the coach, her
maid climbed down from the rumble and with many expres-
sions of farewell, entered the empty carriage which an obse-
quious footman had thrown open. She noticed that there
was other luggage in the compartment and marveled, when

The Face in the Crowd a6i

the train pulled out, that their owner did not appear to claim
them. They were not a man's things, so she could not
suppose their possessor in the smoking carriage. A cursory
investigation revealed the fact that they were the traveling
bags of Her Royal Highness, Olga of Janhausland.

A temptation came to Marian Bretherton. Suppose she
play Princess? No ^ltimate harm could come of the prank
and she had always wanted to know what it felt like. There
was a change of guard at Janhaus and the mistaken identity
was not discovered. Her compostire was somewhat shaken
by Richard's failing to join her at Janhaus, but she supposed
he would come on to Hofheim and proceeded, under the guise
of incognito royalty, to that city, where she was magnificently
received, as we have seen, in all good faith.

III.

Bretherton fairly ran down the platform, with no idea in
his mind save the fact that before him was the woman for
whom he had scoured a continent.

What he should say to her — how explain his speaking at
all — ^had not occurred to him. He simply uttered the one
thought of his mind as, with panting breath (as much from
sheer joy as running) and bared head, he gained her side and
gasped ecstatically:

"At last I have found you I"

The young woman stopped short and faced him, astonish-
ment and outraged dignity expressed in every Une of her
lovely, girlish countenance.

''Sir/*' she cried, drawing herself back haughtily.

As her glance met his there was a perceptible faltering. A
distinct blush tinged her cheeks. But she preserved her
hauteur.

"By what right do you presume to address me?" she de-
manded. "Not only to address me at all, but in such familiar
terms?"

** Beauteous lady, I have no right save that of love. I "

**Altesser' murmured the maid to her mistress, in stifled
horror.

At that single word Bretherton withered.

"A thousand, million pardons. Your Highness," he ex-
claimed. "That is," he added with sudden audaciousness,
"if it be true."

i6i

The Face in the Crowd

The Face in the Crowd 263

His head was bowed humbly, but he flashed a side glance
at the imperial, slender figure beside him.

**I am Olga of Janhausland," she replied, with magnificent
simplicity, at the same time motioning her shocked attendant
into the background.

Then she smiled, suddenly, archly, irresistibly, and held
out her hand«

"But I am traveling incognito,'* she said softly.

"Then you remember that afternoon last August? The
band concert on the beach at Ostend?" Bretherton asked
impulsively. "I have been looking for you ever since."

'' Altesser' cried the maid again, daring in her agitation to
touch her mistress upon the arm. "The train goes!"

Go the train certainly did, without them, gliding deliber-
ately and with ever increasing speed into the distance with no
backward glance for the deserted Princess.

"What shall we do?** she cried aghast.

Bretherton consulted his time-table which proved con-
soling. A train for Janhaus would pass shortly, which made
connection with a local train for Hofheim. Not much time
would be lost and Bretherton was inclined to the faith that
Dame Forttine was on his side. They concluded not to con-
fide their dilemma to the station agent and returned to the
end of the platform, the maid discreetly behind.

"I have searched the world for you," said Bretherton,
taking up the thread of their broken discourse. "Where
have you been?"

"I know," replied the Princess, then corrected herself
hastily. "I mean — I have stayed at home all winter. The
Court was in motiming for a great uncle. He was an odious
old man, but Court etiquette had to be observed. Oh," she
added impatiently, "how I hate hypocrisy I"

Bretherton looked up with a gleam of hope in his eyes.

"That is why you are traveling incognito?"

"Yes. I wanted to see what it would feel like to be an
inditndttal. "

"Then why not give it all up? Marry me and become an
honored, respected American lady, with a mind and will of
your own. I love you and I want you for my wife. Oh,
my darling, how I want you I"

. *^He stepped back and faced her, his arms held rigidly to his
sides as if he feared they would move of themselves to take

a 64 The Face in the Crowd

her in their embrace. The Princess Olga looked at him
steadily, femininely repressing her real sentiment.

'* How can you love me when you have only seen me once? "
she asked soberly.

**What matters it when love comes; after years or at the
first glance? The more quickly kindled spark bums the
more ardently. You do not doubt that I love you?"

;E ven her royal dignity cotild not cope with this direct
challenge.

'* How can I when — when you look like that? " she faltered
with averted eyes.

"Then you will be my wife?"

The mischief in her overcame the Princess's fears.

**This is so sudden, " she murmured, and they both laughed.

"Do you Americans always propose in this headlong
fashion?" she asked.

Her sh)niess and hauteur had both left her, but Bretherton
felt put at a greater distance by her manner of good comrade-
ship. When she was indignant he could presume, when
diffident he could dare; now he must be merely conventional.

"When we are in earnest we generally go straight to the
point," he replied.

"And do you always — always succeed?"

" 'Where there's a will there's a way'!"

"You look as if you had something of a will," she said
tentatively.

"I can fight for my principles — and my happiness."

"Would you be so tmhappy if "

"My life would be ruined."

"But you forget that I am a Princess."

"You are a younger daughter of a royal house; you will
have none of the petty princes your rank allots you and you
are tired of the narrow bounds of Court etiquette. "

"You jump at conclusions."

"Not at all. This journey incognito proves it. Why not
marry me, whose queen you will always be? In giving up
your royal rights you lose nothing but empty forms. As a
good woman you will receive equal homage and respect, and
as my wife you will have equal luxuries. My love for you — "

At this juncture the train was inconsiderate enough to
arrive and Bretherton's eloquence was checked.

The Face in the Crowd 265

IV.

Their jotimey to Hofheim passed uneventfully. Those
few hours were the happiest that Bretherton had ever spent.
Princess Olga's mind and character fulfilled the promise of
her face and bearing. She was sweet, simple and clever, fond
of gayety and not naturally conventional.

Bretherton had the grace to remember his appointment
with his sister, and explained the arrangement to the
Princess.

"She wiH turn up all right at Hofheim," he said, with
cheerful confidence in Marian's ability to take care of her-
self. **And then, if Your Royal Highness will graciously
accept her hospitality and be her guest in Paris, we can
further discuss my hopes and your renunciation."

The Princess smiled demurely and made evasive answer,
How was Bretherton to know that this was exactly what she
had planned to do?

Their arrival at the Hofheim station, tmostentatious and
without luggage, was unheeded by the officials, so obsequious
a few hours before. When they asked at the hotel to be
shown to the Princess Olga's suite, they were intercepted
by a gen-d'arme, who touched his cap respectfully and
announced blandly that they must consider themselves
under arrest for being accessory to a conspiracy.

Their astonishment may well be imagined. Their sur-
prise was so evidently genuine that the hotel proprietor
explained in deprecatory French:

** The suite of Her Royal Highness is at present occupied by
a young lady whom we supposed to be the Princess. She
arrived by the train upon which Her Royal Highness was to
come, and carried bags bearing the royal arms. But it has
been discovered that she is not the Princess, but an American
lady, and, we believe, mad."

**We believe nothing of the sort," interrupted the gen-
d*arme blimtly. *'She is as sane as a judge. It is a plot to
kidnap the Princess and you two are mixed up in it. You
must come with me. If you can clear yourselves, well and
good, but you must do it before a magistrate."

"I can't clear myself from that charge," murmured Breth-
erton in a tender aside to the Princess Olga, "for I have in-
tentions of carrying off a princess."

366

The Face in the Crowd

He did not at all grasp the seriousness of the occasion.
Just then a hall-boy addressed the proprietor.

"The lady in the Royal suite says, sir, that she must see the
gentleman who just arrived. She recognized him from the
window and says he can explain everything."

Bretherton was freshly amazed at this, but the gen-
d'arme smiled cannily.

"Remember, sir," he cautioned, as they proceeded by the
lift to the floor above, "that everything you say will be

used as evidence against you."
Bretherton stared and stared
again as he looked down the hall
and saw standing, in an open
door^^ay, guarded on either side
by a policeman, Marian Brether-
ton, beckoning frantically.

But when Marian saw who
accompanied her brother, with
entire disregard for the officers
who would bar her way, she
rushed out into the corridor
and swept a profound curt-
sey to the Princess. Then
she rose, and laughing
heartily, the two girls em-
braced.

Bretherton 's feeling
beggare ddescription.
Dumb, numb with
stupefaction, he followed
the two young women
who were walking, with arms intertwined, down the
hall. The Princess's maid fell in behind and the proprietor
and gen-d*arme brought up the rear. At the open door Miss
Bretherton turned.

*This," she said, indicating her companion, "is the Princess
Olga." Sudden profoimd obeisances. "I am her friend. I
— ^she — I — something went wrong about her taking the train,
so I came here to wait for her. You may all await the
Princess's orders," she finished magnificently.

Upon which the Princess herself calmly closed the door.

The Face in the Crowd 267

''Marian," said Bretherton sternly, as he faced the two
laughing, beautiful young women, "there are a great many
things to explain. But the first is to tell me how it happens
that you have known this yotmg lady*' — bowing to Princess
Olga — " and yet let me search the world for her all winter,
going nearly mad with disappointment over each failure?*'

It was Marian's turn to be astonished.

"What do you mean? Is she — do you mean — are you
madf*' she cried.

"Not at all mad, now. And I do mean that my quest is
ended. I have found the face in the crowd."

Marian looked at the Princess and all at once she tmder-
stood.

"I never dreamed," she murmured. Then: "This is the
explanation of your etdogies on the glory of American cit-
izenship, and your tirades against Court shams," she said
slowly.

Princess Olga blushed and glanced at Bretherton.

"Also it explains your extraordinary interest in my brother's
love chase," went on Marian. "I only told Olga, Dick," she
added apologetically. "But I had to have a confidant and
Olga seemed so interested. And no wonder," fixing keen
eyes upon the confused Princess.

Bretherton, never slow at seeing through things, crossed
and took the Princess in his arms.

"And you knew it all the time," he murmured reproach-
fully.

"What I want to know," said Marian, when she blared to
look around from the window again, "is, how you knew he
was my brother?"

"Oh, the Cotirt has ways of finding out things," replied Her
Royal Highness evasively. "After the concert that day, I
had inquiries made," she admitted. "Then — Marian's cor-
respondence told the rest."

"And you intended all the time to marry me? You loved
me from the beginning?" cried Bretherton rapturously.

" *Who has loved that loved not at first sight?' " answered
Her Royal Highness, archly.

-•^•^^2«w»

iHIRTEEN-Red: A

Mexican Gamblcr^s Story, by
EUcn E. H^ Wildman^ Illus-
trations by Bessie Collins Pease*

J0^

SENORS, your wagers."
The sallow-faced tailleur, sitting impassive at the green-
covered table, raised his hand and with a touch set the wooden
wheel whirling. A turn of his wrist, and the ivory ball went
spinning in a contrary direction around the revolving disk.
Then he quickly replaced the cover.
♦Written for Short Stories.

Thirteen-^Red 269

The smoky, ill-smelling lamps, placed at irregular intervals
along the walls, but dimly lighted the small room. A thick
blue haze of cigar smoke half obscured the group at the
roulette table, absorbed in play.

Mariano Cayuba's little shop was about equally given up to
trade and gambling.

By day it was a thriving mercantile establishment where
Mariano dealt in a veritable chaos of goods: piles of native
cloths, coarse blue cottons and bright-colored Bayeta de
Castilla; hats made of palm-leaf ribs or soft vicuna wool;
gayly-striped ponchos, blankets, beautifully tanned victma
skins, boots and straw sandals; heaps of fruits and vegetables;
pineapples, sour-sops, delicious green-skinned papayos, clusters
of yucca roots as thick and long as a man's arm; and fat
earthen jars of the inevitable chica.

But when darkness fell, and the business of the day was
done, it became a miniature Monte Carlo, where fortunes
were staked on a turn of the flying wheel.

Night after night a motley company gathered around the
long tables; AymarjC Indians and mestizos; wealthy planters
and ragged peons and a cosmopolitan sprinkling of foreigners.

Among them was a long, lank Amen^'^n, Hemdon by
name, agent for the great manufacturing company of ''Bar-
rows, Micklejohn & Co., Agriculttiral Implements, etc., etc.,
U. S. A.," and past master in the arts of the salesman.

Sometimes there foregathered with them a sandy-haired
Scotchman, Angus McCulloch, whose long residence in the
coimtry had not yet modified his Scotch accent, and who
was as canny in his betting as in his bargains.

There was also a handsome Bolivian, Don Leon de Carvalho,
scion of an old, once wealthy, Hispano-American family, who
was as punctual in his appearance at Cayuba*s little shop as
the nightfall.

Again the tailleur spoke, his voice as expressionless as his
face:

"Sefiors, your wagers."

There was a quick interchange of bets. The muffled hum
of the wheel imder its cover grew fainter and fainter; it
ceased, and a soft thud announced that the ball had fallen.

The banker bent forward to lift the cover, but before his
fingers reached the knob, the Bolivian, who had been watch-

270

Thirteen — Rsd

ing the game with but languid interest, apparently, hastily
started forward and cried:

"Thirteen — ^red! Sefiors, name your wagers."
A short pause ensued, and some of the older habitu^ of the
place glanced doubtfully at him.

Then the betting was resumed, de Carvalho quickly taking
each wager offered. Once he turned interrogatively toward
the American, lotmging in his chair at
the opposite side of the table : "Sefior
Hemdon— ?"

Hemdon shook his head, a gleam of
' uriosity in his half shut eyes.

*'Not this time, Sefior de Carvalho."
Catching the slight emphasis of Hemdon's
tone, de Carvalho darted a sharp look at
hira; but the American's face was as blank
as that of the tailleur, who raised the cover
and read in his monotonous tones:
"Thirteen — ^red, sefiors. "
The Bolivian swept his winnings from
the table.

"Thanks, gentlemen. And now your
healths." He turned to the sleepy negro
behind the bar: "Titto, you lazy rascal,
wake and fill our glasses."

The chica swallowed, the crowd re-
turned to their game; but Sefior de
Carvalho played no more, and soon
left the shop, beckoning as he did so
to his servant Pedro, who, all the
evening, had sat, stolidly silent, on a
bench near the door.

Pedro rose, wrapped his poncho
closely about him, and slowly followed the Sefior. On the
threshold he started and turned quickly, with an intent look
at the table. The banker was annotmcing the number:
"Thirteen — red, sefiors."

"McCtdloch, " said Hemdon, as later they groped their
way along the dark, lane-like street, stumbling occasionally
over the cobble-stones which bordered each side of the foot-
wide flagging serving as a sidewalk; "McCuUoch, why does
Sefior de Carvalho always win when he plays thirteen — ^red?"

Thirteen — Red lyt

"Mon, that's the verra question a' was aboot tae ask,
maser/* growled the Scotchman, discontentedly.

"And why, " continued Hemdon, " doesn't he play oftener?
Sometimes he will stand about for a week without making a
wager larger than five pesos, and then, all of a sudden, he
places all he can get, but always on thirteen — ^red, and
ahjuays wins. He must have made a tidy sum in the last few
months. I've watched him like a hawk, but I never have seen
a thing to indicate that he wasn't strictly square, nor have
I ever heard anyone question his honor in any way. I have
done considerable business with him, too; sold him several
job-lots of machinery and never lost a cent, and I've a pretty
big deal on hand now, with him."

"What is 't, Hemdon.?" saked ^McCulloch, interestedly.

" Oh, he wants some of these new-fangled contrivances for
preparing mat^. They're big, cast-iron pans, you know, to
dry the leaves in. I'm to see him to-morrow and close the

bargain. He seems all right, and I like him; but what

the devil is his little game.'*"

"Ask him," said McCulloch. "A've heard, though," he
added drily, "that he's a verra good shot."

" Juana, mia, last night Senor Leon won again, and now.^-"

Pedro paused, glancing tentatively at the girl as she stood
leaning against the great box in which was planted a tall
oleander, one thick-set mass of delicate pink blossoms.

"Well?" She tossed her head carelessly, but the pink in
her cheeks deepened a tint, as if a petal from the rosy blooms
above her had floated down and lodged there, and her black
eyes hid themselves for an instant behind their white lids.

"Well?"

"And now, " continued Pedro, "I have saved two himdred
and thirty pesos. Is it not enough, Juana, if you love me?'*

His dark face glowed with the light of a passion which
transformed his heavy features.

"No," said Juana impatiently, "no, not a peseta less than
the five htmdred pesos. How many times must I tell you
that, Pedro? Madre de DiosI but you know it cannot be
tmtil then."

"My heart, why not?" persisted Pedro. "None of our
people ever had so much. See then, there is Jua Prado; she
did not make Luis wait so long."

27*

Thirteen — Red

"Stirely," burst out Juana, scornfully, **she did not; and
look at her now! Once she was the prettiest girl at all the
fiestas, and the lightest-hearted. Now she is pale, and almost
as wrinkled as old Benita, and Ltiis beats her, and drinks too
much chica, and never brings home anything to her. No,
no, Pedro, I will not do as Jua did!" And she stamped her
little foot energetically on the brick pavement.

'•Ah!" sighed Pedro, "but—"

"Juana!" called a soft voice from an inner room, and the
girl vanished through the doorway.

Pedro settled back on his bench and fell to musing; but the
brightness had died out of his face.

The little patio was flooded with stmshine. The patch of
sky seen above its whitewashed walls was of deepest azure.
The warm air was redolent with the heavy perfume of blos-
sonung plants and shrubs disposed in large pots and boxes

Thirteen — Red 273

arotind the sides of the court. Up one side, in green luxuri-
ance, clambered a vine of **Inca's favorite," its heart-shaped
leaves half hidden by the thick-crowding clusters of its crimson
flower-bells. A splendid, blood-red orchid made vivid
blotches of color against the wall. In the center of the court
a tiny bronze fotmtain musically spouted out its cool waters.
Here and there a door stood invitingly open, and, softened
by distance, a low hum of voices lightly stirred the stillness.

The bell at the outer gate jangled.

Pedro rose and went leisurely down the corridor leading to
the front entrance. Presently he returned, ushering in Hemdon.

"The Seflor de Carvalho, is he in?" inquired Hemdon, his-
quick eyes taking in at a glance the pleasant scene before him.

" Don Leon is absent, Sefior Hemdon; he is at his hacienda
to-day, but we expect him soon," replied Pedro, adding:
**The Sefiora, his mother, is here and will be pleased to see
you. Juana!" he called, "Show the seflor in."

As Hemdon *s tall figure mounted the open stone stairway
leading to the rooms above, and passed through the door of
the family parlor, Pedro looked after him, half frowning, half
puzzled:

** What does he want of Don Leon, I wonder? " he muttered.

He dropped lazily upon his bench, closed his eyes, and
abandoned himself tranquilly to a siesta.

The Seflora Mercedes de Carvalho sat in her balcony,
slowly swaying back and forth in her easy chair. The balcony
projected directly over the street. Its woodwork, hard, pol-
ished, dark with age, was wrought with the intricate designs
of a long bygone time. The spaces between the pillars,
where dark-eyed sefloritas may have leaned and bent a willing
ear to soft murmurs from below, were now fitted with sashes
of small-paned, thick glass. The low, two-story house, with
its walls of bamboo and adobe bricks, was old, very old. One
of the pillars of the arcade below bore a date cut in the seven-
teenth century.

The open windows near which the Seflora sat revealed
picturesque vistas of white walls and red-tiled roofs scattered
along the straggling street. The highway ended in the shady
paths and park-like stretches of the alameda.

In the far distance, sharply outlined against the measure-
less blue of the tropic sky, rose the Anies, stupendous
snowy masses — ^inaccessible heights of arctic cold and solitude.

t74

Thirteen — Red

Dofla Mercedes' parlor was an odd jumble of old furnish-
ings and modem. Across one comer was slimg an Indian
hamac, woven of a reed-like wild grass; while in another
stood a luxurious fauteuil of approved Parisian pattern. On
the wall htmg a cabinet crowded with the pieces of a costly
antique service of solid silver. The carpet was a modem
innovation of gaudy colors, but there were pretty curtains at
the windows, while an inviting couch, and some old chairs,
made of a fine-grained, lustrous native wood, their heavy
frames elaborately carved, added to
the homelike look of the room. Upon
the table, which was constructed of
the same wood as the chairs, stood
the customary equipage for serving
mat6 — a tray of little, egg-shaped
gourds and silver bombillas, with
dishes for milk, sugar, and lemon-
juice, and the urn for hot water.
Each] goiird (about as large as an
orange) was pierced on top with a
hole the size of a shilling piece, while
its tapering end served as a handle
for the unique and pretty cup.

Dofla Mercedes rose as Hemdon
approached. The Sefiora was good
to look at. Tall and stately, she held
her fine figure youthftdly erect. Her
still black, glossy hair was put back
from her face in thick braids; her
dark eyes had kept the softly lambent
glow of her girlhood, and a charming
smile disclosed her perfect teeth.

She put out a small, white hand:
*'Ah, Seiior Hemdon, you are wel-
come. Pray seat yourself,'* and she waved him to a chair.
Hemdon replied to her greeting, turned to the chair nearest
him, and sat down.

There was a rending, splintering crash, a stifling cloud of
woody dust, and Hemdon measured his long length on the floor.
Senora Mercedes gave a musical shriek.
"Ah, Dios! Sefior, you are hurt? Pedro! Ignacio, nm,
run! TheSenor— "

Thirteen — Red 275

But Hemdon was on his feet, smiling unconcernedly as he
brushed the dust from his clothes.

**It is nothing, Sefiora, nothing. Do not alarm yourself.
But what have I done to your chair? It went down like a
puff-ball."

He picked up a fragment and examined it carefully.

What had seemed a solid frame was but a thin shell.
Through the wood ran cotmtless branching channels, cut with
almost mathematical precision in all directions, which had
consumed the hard, woody fibre nearly to the surface. So
thoroughly was it honeycombed that but a touch was needed
to make it collapse.

**But what is it, Sefiora?** Hemdon asked again, as he
cnunbled a piece of the broken carving in his fingers as if it
had been a grain of cancha.

The servants had come running in at the Sefiora's call, and
she bade them gather up the debris.

" What is it, do you ask, Seflor Hemdon ? *' she said, turning
to him. '*It must be the teredo bianco, I think. You see,
Seflor, in this country there is a most mischievous, small
white worm that attacks our furniture, and even the wood-
work of our houses, sometimes, and it eats and eats, oh, for
many years, it may be, until, basta! your chair, your table,
is a little heap of dust and splinters, as you have seen, Seflor,"
she added, a half-amused smile lighting her face.

'*But are you sure," she continued solicitously, "that you
have received no injury? Let me give you a cup of mat^
Juana!" she called, "bring the hot water."

She hturied over to the table and picked up one of the
small silver-motmted calabashes.

"Sugar, Seflor, and milk? No? — ^the lemon juice, then?
Ah, yes, that is right; it brings out the flavor so much better."

Into the gourd she poured a small quantity of hot water,
put in the sugar and lemon juice, dropped in a generous pinch
of the dried mat^ leaves; then, filling the cup to the brim
with the steaming water, she offered it to him, with the long,
odd-looking bombilla.

"Stir it well, Seflor."

"Thanks, Sefiora," said Hemdon, as he took the cup.

He stirred the tea slowly, examining with interest his
bombilla. Its handle was a silver tube, richly chased its
entire length. The bulb at the end (designed to keep back

276 Thirteen — Red

the leaves while one drew up the tea through the hollow
handle) was made of extremely fine silver wire, woven in a
basket pattern.

He drew up a swallow of the strong, fragrant beverage.

"It is delicious, Seflora. And what a beautiful bombilla!
I have never before seen one of this pattern. Is it not an old
one?"

**Yes/' assented Dofia Mercedes, pleased. **It is very old
and an heirloom. We are of Spanish blood, and our family
once had great wealth. These also are heirlooms, oh, so very,
very oldT' and she pointed to the silver service in the cabinet.
**And the mat^, is it not fine? It is from our own planta-
tion, and Leon takes such pains with its ctdtivation."

She sighed gently. "He works so hard; always trying
new ways of improving the mat^ ; but the peons do not under-
stand. They like the old ways best and they often trouble
and hinder him. And then the new machinery! Saints help
us! But it is dreadful how many pesos it costs. Still Leon
says he mtist have it."

Hemdon cast a conscious glance at her and fell to stirring
his mat^ vigorously.

"That is true, Senora; but " (his business instinct

beginning to assert itself) "I assure you he is getting it at a
bargain, a great bargain! and think of the gain in time and
labor. Our machinery is guaranteed to save "

"Ah yes, I know," broke in the Senora with a mellow
laugh, "Leon has told me. Well, he hopes soon to ^ell the
crop for a large sum, and then "

She checked herself and looked at him. Somefthing in his
tace reassured her.

"You see, Sefior Hemdon, when my husband died there
was much trouble — a great debt, the estate deeply involved,
and ever since Leon has been working, working to pay the
debt and save our home. He is so honorable," she added
proudly, "he will not rest tmtil the last peseta is paid."

Hemdon nodded sympathetically, draining the last drop
of mat6 through his bombilla.

"Another cup, Senora, if you please.*'

The night was very dark. So was the long, gloomy street,
lit only by an occasional lamp swinging before the closed door

Thirteen — Red 277

of a shop, a gambling place, or the house of some government
charge d'affaires.

But dark as it was, two persons threaded their way down
its black length with the certainty bom of long familiarity.

**Step carefully, Don Leon; the stones are broken here.
Carambal what a night!"

**Patience, patience, Pedro I We are nearly there.'*

"Yes, and I pray the saints that they send us better luck
than last time. I believe some one has cast the evil eye on us
lately." And Pedro crossed himself repeatedly tmder his
thick poncho; then, under his breath, swore a mouthful of
high-sounding Spanish oaths as they paused at the door of
Mariano Cayuba's small shop.

Inside it was as dingy and dark as ever. Behind the bar
sat Mariano's fat wife, Leocadia, keeping a sharp eye on Tito,
as he served her thirsty customers with chica. About the
table, the same heterogeneous company watched, with eager
eyes, the fateful ttimings of the wooden wheel.

As they entered, Pedro dropped into his accustomed seat
by the door, while Don Leon stepped up to the side of the
table, glancing quickly around the circle of intent faces.

Hemdon looked up, nodded, and motioned de Carvalho to a
seat by his side, but the latter shook his head and remained
standing.

The Bolivian was of a presence to arrest attention at once.
He was tall and slender, but well built. The olive pallor of
his face was intensified by his black hair and eyes — eyes like
his mother's in color, but with a flashing gleam in their dark
depths instead of the mild radiance of the Seiiora's melting
orbs. A slight mustache fringed the fine curve of his firm
lips, and his black goatee accentuated the long oval of his
high-bred face. His expression was frank, but at the same
time somewhat reserved, and his manners were those of the
polished gentleman.

Around and arotmd sped the wheel. The voice of the
banker, calling the numbers and colors, droned through the
hush that followed the betting.

Black — ^red— odd — even; and a forttme was won or lost.

The nervous little Frenchman sitting near the end of the
table, made his wagers in a voice that shook in spite of his
struggle to keep it steady.*^ ^Next to him a peon watched the
scanty wage for a whole year's drudgery melt away with the

278 Thirteen— Red

flight of the fickle wheel, without the change of a muscle in
his sullen, apathetic face.

The betting ran high. Large sums changed hands rapidly.

Don Leon watched the play for a while, but made no
wager. At last he sat down a little behind the others.

Once Hemdon glanced at him curiously, then turned to
McCulloch, who sat at his right hand, and said something in
a low tone. McCulloch nodded grimly, then fell to watching
the Bolivian furtively.

**Se£Lors, your wagers."

Once more the tailleur sent the great wheel and ivory ball
spinning; then hid them under the cover.

The clamor of betting ceased. The wheel whiried madly;
it slackened; slower — slower — ^more slowly yet, ran the
circling rim. The ball fell; through the silence the soimd of
its falling echoed almost loudly.

The banker bent to raise the cover — Don Leon sprang from
his chair with a bound.

"Thirteen — red! Seiiors, and the highest number that the
house will register! Place your wagers, gentlemen, any or
all of you. I will take them all."

His eyes flashed brightly; a suppressed excitement thrilled
his voice as he spoke.

There was a moment's breathless pause as the banker
again reached to lift the cover.

Somewhere in the distance soimded the faint, sweet tinkle
of a mandolin. A passing wheel grated on the cobblestones,
and even Hemdon started. The careless laugh of some late
returning merry-makers jarred painfully on tense-strung
nerves.

Even the tailleur seemed impressed as he slowly lifted the
cover. He might have been the presiding priest at some
strange barbaric sacrifice, offered to appease angry gods, so
solemn was his face.

"Black!"

Don Leon started; a dazed look crept into his eyes; he
raised his hand with a commanding gesture:

"Read it again!" — his words were barely audible.

"Black."

His face went ashy white ; he hesitated an instant, but when
he spoke again his voice was clear and steady.

Thirteen — Red 279

* ' Gentlemen, you shall all be paid. Buenas tardes, sefiors 1 "

He turned to the door.

**Come, Pedro."

Pedro was on his feet, staring at the table, his face ghastly,
wild-eyed, terror-stricken.

**Don Leon — *' he gasped.

* * Hush, Pedro— come ! ' '

The Sefior waved him imperatively forward, and the two
passed through the door into the darkness, which swallowed
them as the sea swallows wrecks.

**McCulloch, IVe found out why de Carvalho always used
to win when he bet on * thirteen — ^red*."

"Ay?" McCulloch eliminated all expression from his face.

**She told me the whole story — " Hemdon shifted his
position uneasily, and, with a gloomy air, pulled abstractedly
at his cigar. " She says — *'

" Wha's she?" queried McCulloch, with just a suspicion of
interest in his voice.

'* Why, Juana, the girl Pedro wanted to marry; the Sefiora
de Carvalho's maid. I thought I told you. You see, Pedro

let out the secret to her one day " There was a long

pause; McCulloch looked puzzled but waited. At last Hem-
don went on :

'*Did you ever hear what sharp ears some of these peons
have— so sharp that they can hear ordinary sotmds a mile or
more distant, or noises so faint and fine that most persons take
no notice of them? "

" Ou, ay, but a'm not believing all that I hear," and McCul-
loch nodded emphatically.

**Well, it's true, for Juana says that Pedro could hear a
diflEerence between the falling of a pin and a needle. She told
me —

**Hoo cam' you to te speerin' at the lassie?" said McCul-
loch, severely.

"Why, you see, I went to the Seiiora's house to learn if
there wasn't something I could do for them — de Carvalho's
losses have nearly ruined them, you know." He added,
musingly: ** The Sefiora's a fine woman, a very fine woman — "

"Weel?"

"I did not see the Sefiora" — there was a note of regret in

2 8o

Thirteen — Red

Hemdon's voice — **but I saw Juana and I asked her a few
questions, and — "

*'Mon, a'U warrant ye did!"

"This is what she told me: One night when in Cayuba's
shop with Don Leon, Pedro heard the ball drop with a peculiar
hollow sound, and, when the cover was raised, noticed the
number and color.

" Happening into the shop next day, and being alone for a
moment, he examined the wheel.

" He discovered a small hole in the wood. Sounding it with
a straw, he found a hollow space under the compartment into
which the ball had fallen the night before — the thirteen — red
— and extending no further, apparently. He knew at once
that it was the work of the little white worm they have down
here which eats furniture and things — the ter — teredo bianco,
that's it! Don't you remember what I told you about the
Seflora's chair?"

**Well, Pedro told Don Leon what he had chanced upon.
You can guess the rest. All that de Carvalho had to do was to
watch for Pedro's signal that the ball had fallen into thirteen
— red, and wager accordingly. Fine plan, wasn't it?"

"Ay," assented McCulloch, stroking his grizzled beard
thoughtfully, **ay, that wes a fine plan. But what went
wrang wi* Pedro's ears that nicht?"

"Nothing. He heard the ball when it fell all right, but
he forgot that if that infernal worm was still in the wheel
it would keep on boring!''

ICETTB: The Story of a
Death Sentence. Translated'
from the French^ by Rachel
H. Stannard*

AmB ^^^a ^^^a ^^Ia ^^^A

IT IT IT TIT f

YOU are a dead man," said the doctor, looking fixedly
at Anatole.

Anatole trembled.

He had come in all cheerfulness to spend the evening with
his old friend, Doctor Bardais, the famous scholar whose
works upon poisonous substances are known to everyone, but
whose noble heart and paternal kindness were fully appre-
ciated by Anatole alone. And now suddenly, without warning,
without preparation, he heard from the revered authority
this terrible prognostic.

"You unfortunate boy," continued the doctor, **what have
you done?"

''Nothing that I know of," stammered Anatole, much agi-
tated.

"Try to remember. Tell me what you have drunk — what
you have eaten — ^what you have breathed."

The last word came like a ray of light to Anatole. That
very morning he had received a letter from one of his friends
who was traveling in India. In this letter was a flower which
had been gathered by the traveler on the banks of the Ganges,
a flower of peculiar shape and coloring, whose fragrance
Anatole now remembered, had seemed to him strangely
penetrating. He drew out his portfolio, and took from it the
letter and flower, which he showed to the wise man.

"No more doubtl" cried the doctor. "It is the Pjram^n^i^
Tndica! The deadly flowerl The flower of bloodl"

"Then you really believe "

" Alas, I am only too sure!"

^Translated for Short Stories

i8a Nicette

"But it is impossible! I am only twenty-five years old.
I am full of life and health."

"At what time did you open this fatal letter.?"

"This morning at nine o'clock."

"To-morrow morning, then, at the same hour, at the same
minute, in full health, as you say, you will feel a sharp pain at
the heart, and all will be over."

"And you know of no remedy — ^no means of — *

"None," said the doctor.

And hiding his face in his hands, he fell into a chair, over-
powered with grief.

Seeing the emotion of his old friend, Anatole tmderstood
that he was really fated. Out he rushed like a madman.

With burning temples, with ideas all upset, Anatole strode
on mechanically, tmconsdous of what was going on arotmd
him, not even noticing that the night was far advanced and
that the streets were becoming deserted. For a long time
he rushed on thus, then, coming to a bench, he sat down.

It did him good to rest. Up to that time he had been like
a man who had received a severe blow on the head; his stupor
gave way now, and he began to collect his scattered ideas.

" I am in the position," thought he, " of a man sentenced to
death, and even he can hope for a reprieve. By the way, how
much longer have I to live?"

He looked at his watch.

"Three o'clock in the morning 1 It is time to go to bed.
To bed I Give up the last six hotu-s of my life to sleep? I
can certainly do better than that; but what? Well, first, I
have my will to make."

A restaurant which kept open all night was not far ofiE.
Anatole entered it.

"Waiter, a bottle of champagne and a bottle of ink."

He drank a glass of Cliquot and looked at the paper before
him, meditating.

"To whom shall I leave my income of six thousand livres?
My father and mother are no more — ^happily for them. And
among the people who interest me I see onlv one — Nicette."

Nicette was a distant cousin, a charming girl of eighteen,
with golden hair and large brown eyes. She was, like him,
an orphan, and this common misfortune had long ago es-
tablished between them a bond of silent sympathy.

His last wishes were soon set down ; all to Nicette.

Nicette 283

When that was done, he drank a second glass of cham-
pagne.

**Poor Nicette," thought he. "She was very low-spirited
the last time I saw her. Her guardian, who knows about
nothing in the world except his wind instruments at the
conservatory, has promised her hand to a brutal fellow
whom she hates the sight of. She detests him all the more
because she loves another, if I understood her shy and falter-
ing confessions. Who is that happy mortal ? I do not know ;
but he must certainly be worthy of her, since she has chosen
him.

"Good, gentle, beautiful, loving Nicette deserves an ideal
husband. Ohl she is just the kind of a wife I should have
wished for, if — It is infamous to force her to ruin her Ufe by
giving such a treasure to a brute 1 Why should not I be her
knight errant? It shall be done, to-morrow morning. But
no, to-morrow will be too late, it is now that I must act. It
is rather an tmsuitable hour for seeing people ; but when I think
that I shall be dead in five hours, it is Uttle I care for the
proprieties. Come thenl My life for Nicettel"

It was four o'clock in the morning when Anatole knocked
at the door of Nicette's guardian. Monsieur Bouvard him-
self, much startled, came down in his night-cap to open the
door.

"Is the house on fire?"

"No, my dear Monsieur Bouvard," repUed Anatole. "I
came to make you a little call."

"At this hour?"

"Any hour will do for me to see you, but you are but
scantily dressed, Monsiexir Bouvard. Go back to bed."

"That is what I am doing. But, sir, you must have some-
thing very important to say to me, that you disturb me in
this manner."

. "Something very important indeed! Monsieur Bouvard,
you must give up the match between my cousin Nicette
and Monsieur Capdenac."

"Never, sirl Neverl"

"You should not say either neTwr or always.'*

"Sir, my mind is quite made up. This marriage will take
place."

"It will not take place."

284 Nicette

"We will see about that. And now that you know my
answer, I will not detain you longer.**

"That is not very polite on your part, but I am good-
hearted as well as persistent. Monsieur Bouvard; I shall take
no notice of your discourtesy, but shall remain."

"Remain if you like, but I shall consider that you have
gone, and shall hold no more conversation with you."

And Monsieur Bouvard turned his face to the wall, mut-
tering.

"Did anyone ever see the like? The idea of disturbing a
peaceable man, of rousing him from his sleep, for such a
piece of nonsense I"

Suddenly Monsieur Bouvard leaped from his bed.
Anatole had taken up the professor^s trombone, into which
he was blowing like a deaf man, pushing the grooves with all
his force. Diabolical sounds were coming from the instru-
ment.

"That is my best trombone! Presented by my pupils!
Put down that instrument, sir!

"Sir,** answered Anatole, "you regard me as having gone
away; I regard you as absent, and I am amusing myself
while awaiting your return. CouacI CouacI Oh' what
sweet music!**

"But I shall be turned out of the house if you keep on!
My landlord will not tolerate the trombone after midnight.**
"Then he certainly does not love music. Frrout, frroui,
prral''

"Oh stop! Pray stop!**
"Do you consent, then?*'
"To what?**

"To give up this project of marriage."
"But, sir, I jcannot.**
"All right. Couac!''

"Monsietir Capdenac is a terrible man! If I insidt him in
such a manner he will kill me.**

"And you hesitate for such a reason?*'
"Good reason enough, I should think.**
" In that case, leave the matter to me. Only swear to me
that if I obtain Monsieur Capdenac*s withdrawal, my cousin
shall be free.**

"Yes, she shall be free.**

" Hurrah ! I have your promise, remember. You will now

Nicetie 285

allow me to depart. By the way, where does your Capdenac
live?"

**No. 100, Rue des Deux-Ep^es."
** I shall go there at once. Good-bye."
** My young friend," thought Bouvard, *'you will find your-
self in the jaws of a lion, and you will get the lesson you well
deserve."

Meanwhile Anatole hastened to the address given him.
When he arrived, it was about six o'clock in the morning.

** Who is there ? " called a gruff voice, in answer to Anatole's
ring.

**Open at once. An important message from Monsieur
Bouvard.

The clank of a heavy chain became audible, then the rattle
of a key, which unfastened three locks in succession.
**This man shuts himself up well," thought Anatole.
At last the door opened, and Anatole found himself in the
presence of a man with fierce whiskers, wearing in lieu of
night-clothes, a complete fencing costume.

"Always ready, you see. That is my motto."
The walls of the vestibule were hidden behind suits of
armor. The little parlor into which Capdenac ushered his
guest contained nothing but arms, poisoned arrows, guns,
sabres, swords, pistols, a veritable arsenal. It was enough to
strike terror into the breast of a timid person.

** Pshaw!" thought Anatole, "what do I risk now? Two
hours and a half at most. Now then ! Sir, you wish to marry
Mademoiselle Nicette ? ' '
"Yes, sir."

"Sir, you shall not marry her."

"Eh! Thunder and lightning! Who will prevent me? "
"I will."

Capdenac looked at Anatole, who was not a large man, but
who looked very determined.

"Ah, young man," said he at last, "you are forttmate to
come upon me when I am in a good humor. Take advantage
of it. Do you know that I have fought twenty duels, and
that I have had the misfortune to kill five of my opponents,
and to wound the fifteen others? Come! I take pity on your
youth. Once more, give up this mad project and retire."

" I see," replied Anatole, "that you are a fit adversary for
me, and my desire to try my strength against so redoubtable

286 Nicette

a man is increasing. Come! Shall we take the two swords
on the mantel? or those two battle-axes? or these cavalry
sabres! or — but why do you not decide? What are you
thinking of?"

" I am thinking of yotir mother, and of the sorrow which
awaits her/*

** I have no mother. Do you prefer the rifle, the pistol, or
the revolver?"

" Young man, do not trifle with fire-arms."

"Are you afraid? You are trembling."

** Trembling? I ? It is the cold that makes me."

"Then either fight or give up Nicette."

"I like yotir bravery. The brave should understand each
other. Shall I tell you a secret?"

"Goon."

"For some time, I myself have thought of breaking this
engagement, but I did not know how to go to work to do so.
Therefore I would willingly accede to your wishes, but you
see that I, Capdenac, must not appear to yield to threats.
Now you have threatened me, you know."

**I withdraw my threats."

"Then it is settled."

"Will you write and sign your withdrawal?"

" I have so much sympathy with you, that I can refuse you
nothing."

Armed with the precious paper, Anatole rushed back to
Monsieur Bouvard, at whose door he knocked at about eight
o'clock in the morning.

"Who is there?"

"Anatole."

" Go to bed," cried the professor, in a rage.

"I have Capdenac's withdrawal. Open the door or I will
break it in!"

Monsieur Bouvard opened. Anatole gave him the paper,
then rushed to the door of Nicette's room, and called.

"Cousin, dress quickly and come down."

In a short time Nicette, fresh as the morning, entered the
little parlor.

"What is the matter?"

"Your cousin is crazy," said Monsieur Bouvard. "That's
what's the matter."

NicetU a87

"Crazy?" repeated Anatole. "Very well; but Nicette
will allow that there is method in my madness. This night,
my dear little cousin, I have succeeded in obtaining two
things; Monsieur Capdenac gives up his claim to your hand,
and your good guardian consents to your marrying the man
of your choice."

**0 guardian, are you really willing that I should marry
Anatole?"

* * What ! ' ' exclaimed Anatole.

"Since it is you whom I love, my cousin."

At this moment, Anatole felt his heart beating wildly.
Was it the pleasure which the unhoped-for avowal of Nicette
caused him? Was it the pain foretold by the doctor? Was
it death?

" Unf ortimate man that I am!" cried the poor fellow.
"She loves me. I am within reach of perfect happiness, yet
must die without attaining it."

Then, seizing Nicette's hands eagerly, he told her about it
all; the letter received, the perfume inhaled, the prophecy of
his old friend, the steps taken, the success obtained.

"And now," he concluded, "I am about to die."

" But that seems impossible," said Nicette. "That doctor
must be mistaken. Who was it."

"A man who is never mistaken, Nicette — Doctor Bardais."

"BardaisI Bardais!" exclaimed Bouvard, suddenly, with
a burst of laughter. "Listen to what my newspaper says:
' The learned Doctor Bardais has been suddenly overcome by
an attack of mental alienation. This trouble has taken a
scientific form. The doctor, as is well known, has given
special attention to poisonous substances. Now he believes
that all the persons whom he meets are poisoned, and tries to
convince them of it. He was taken at midnight to the home
of Doctor Blanche.' "

"Nicette!"

"Anatole!"

The two young people fell into each other's arms.

QUESTION of Obli-
Rations: A Tale of the

Spanish-American War, by
Clifford Mills*
^ ^^ ^ ^

" A ND this is — Spain 1 "There was a note of delight, almost

/i rapttire, in the girl's voice, as she waved her riding-
whip, indicating the line of purple hills that marked the
horizon. Beneath her lay a deep valley, across which a
roughly-hewn roadway ran, losing itself in the shadowy woods
which bordered it on either side. Far away on the left was
the sea, rolling broad blue waves on golden sands.

* * Yes — ^this is Spain. ' ' The words were identical , and yet at
sound of them the girl turned quickly and looked inqtiiringly
at the speaker. He was a typical Anglo-Saxon, long-limbed,
broad-shouldered, close shaven, faultlessly attired in a well-
fitting riding suit. He sat his horse with the ease of one long
accustomed to the saddle, and his keen blue eyes glanced
searchingly to right and left of him, as he and his companion
rode slowly down to the valley below.

The girl at his side also bore unmistakable evidence of her
nationality. She was slender almost to angularity, with a
clear, fresh complexion and straw-colored hair done anyhow.
Her nose was tip-tilted, and there was a touch of pride in the
pose of her head, and in the glance of the wide-open gray eyes
that looked out from beneath the boyish straw hat she wore.
Her cotton skirt, stiff collar, and manish tie suggested maybe
too close a following after masculine attire. But Miss Chiches-
ter was still in her teens, and as yet had not learned the rudi-
ments of the pleasing art of dressing well.

**You hate Spain!*' she cried, reproachfully, speaking her
thoughts with the indiscretion of youth.

The man started and turned, the shadows that had gathered

*Prom Temple Bar.

A Question of Obligations 289

about his eyes and mouth dispersing as he looked at her. The
girl's frank manner and her downrightness had interested him
from the first moment of their acquaintance. *'If you say
so," he laughed.

** Oh, but I knowl " she answered ; with her most supercilious
air; ** there was hatred and all uncharitableness in the way
you said Spain!''

**Well?'* The man's amused glance was upon her glowing
yoimg face.

**0h, well, I think it rather horrid of you; one does feel like
that," she added, with quick apology in her tone, "when some-
thing bright and beautiful is despised." She was not, how-
ever, thinking of Spain, but of the Countess, the sad, beautiful
Spanish Countess, who only last evening had confided to her,
as they walked in the hotel garden at Gibraltar, her passion
for this man at her side. And now, when beyond all expecta-
tion, she had, in compliance with the Countess* suggestion,
induced this reluctant lover to accompany her to the place
named by the Countess, the latter, coquetting with fate, was
already five minutes behind the time arranged by her for the
rendezvous.

It was too vexatious; suppose her brother and the rest of
the party that had started earlier that morning should appear
on the scene, and the Countess lose this last opportunity of a
reconciliation!

She only half caught the indignant outburst that her remark
had called forth from her companion. **0f course," she
answered, abstractedly, her eye searching the road to the left
along which the tardy lady had planned to appear, **they are
bigots; one can't quite forget the Inquisition, and then there
is this war with America; I am afraid I don't know much
about it, or quite why they are fighting, but I have been told
it is not exactly bliss to be under Spanish rtde. One can't
doubt America is right, but," she added, persuasively, *'that
does not prevent individual Spaniards from being the most
delightful of people. Don't you agree? Ah, well, you do not
Itnow General Cardona. He dined with us last night at the
hotel. My brother wanted to introduce you, but you were
not to be fotmd. ^ Well, he is just charming, such perfect
manners, and the best of patriots. He has lost his right arm,
you know, and so is not able to go to the front. They have
'given him the command of the station here, but oh! how he

290 A Question of Obligations

longs to serve his country more actively. I wish you could
have heard him talk last night."

Her companion did not reply, and neither his silence nor the
sternness of his profile could be described as encouraging. But
Miss Chichester, once embarked on an enterprise, was not
easily datmted. It was so like an injured lover, she told her-
self, to ape disregard to all that appertained to his late passion.
If only the Countess would come, and this miserable misunder-
standing be set right by her timely intervention ; it would be
enchanting to remember in after years the part she had played
in so romantic a love affair.

"You leave Gibraltar to-mo/row?" she said, speaking hap-
hazard to gain time ; for, despite his politeness, there was no
mistaking her companion's apparent desire to be moving
homewards.

"Yes."

The undoubted satisfaction in the tone of his reply made
her heart sink ; what if after all he did not love the Coimtess ?
But there was a sound along the road at last, and her field-
glasses flew to her eyes.

"Miss Chichester, I think, if you do not mind" — he was
turning his horse's head.

Miss Chichester put down her glasses. "Oh, just one mo-
ment!" she cried. "You have been so kind. I shall always
remember that but for you I should have missed this delight-
ful ride, and perhaps, who knows, never set foot in Spain.
It was too stupid of my brother to start without me, when he
knew how I was longing to say I had been in this dear romantic
country of strict duennas and grave grandees. You know
our yacht leaves Gib. to-morrow early, and there is no plan
for our returning here. But that is just like a brother, is it
not? He has seen Gib., and that's enough. And I suppose
it is interesting, with all these fortifications, and it is nice to
think it belongs to England, is the key of the Mediterranean,
and all that. But oh, it is ugly — and the glare! Ah, now,
now this is heaven. Look at those trees at the side there, did
you ever see such green, leafy shade, and the stream that
gleams like silver through them. Oh! you must own it is
beautiful?"

" It is a tight place." He spoke with a short reckless laugh,
and something in the alert way he glanced arotmd the little
valley struck the girl.

A Question of Obligations 291

" Do you know/' she said candidly, ** if I had not known yov
to be an artist, I should have taken you for a soldier."

*' Indeed?" he had bent his brows, and was scanning the
dense cover of the woods opposite.

** Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, hastily, ** I ought not to
make personal remarks. It is a fault of mine that time, I
hope, will correct." Why did not the Countess come? What
could have detained her?

**Jove!" The exclamation burst suddenly from her com-
panion, and the girl, turning, found hjm bending forward in a
listening attitude.

**Not — ^not — ^brigands?" she gasped, white-lipped; she had
heard the tradition of the place, and a small party of men had
appeared on the crest of the hill.

But the next moment she saw they were soldiers, and that
they were coming quickly towards them. Her exclamations
of relief were cut short as she caught sight of her companion.
He still sat erect in the saddle, and was carelessly adjusting the
right lappet of his coat, but his face was set and had whitened.

Miss Chichester tossed her head. ' ' A coward ! ' ' and she had
thought so well of him. Suppose these had been brigands?
Perhaps, after all, the Countess would be lucky if she missed
her chance.

Another second, and the soldiers had come up to them, and
their officer was bowing before her.

** Sefiorita," he said, ** I implore that you feel no alarm ; it is
my painful duty to arrest your companion, who is a spy, an
American in the pay of his Majesty's enemies."

Miss Chichester gasped a little. "It's not him," she cried
in ungrammatical haste, ** you are making a mistake ; we know
him — my brother. Sir George Chichester, and I — he is an artist
— a friend of ours." And then it struck her suddenly how
little she did know of her companion, and she turned her face,
from which the color had flown, and looked at him.

He met her gaze steadily. *' It is just a mistake," he said,
carelessly, answering the question in her eyes.

The Spanish officer bowed courteously, but there was, the
girl thought, menace in his glance. "That may be," he
admitted politely; "it has, however, to be proved."

Miss Chichester's heai:t beat uneasily, for they were in
Spain, and to be there during the war with America with even
a supposed American as one's sole companion, was to court

292 A Questiofi of Obligations

possible difficulty. She was remembering, too, as one does in
supreme moments, many a tale of Spanish cruelty and injus-
tice, to which she had listened with indifferent interest; but
she ^checked such thoughts.

"You see," she cried, with a smile — and though Miss
Chichester had but just, left the schoolroom, she knew how to
smile — "this gentleman, who is a great friend of mine" (she
felt that under the circumstance the adjective was pardon-
able), "very kindly offered to be my escort this morning.
It is horridly vexatious that through me he should be placed
in such an annoying position."

"I assure you, Miss Chichester — " her companion began
loftily, when she cut him short.

* * Why, the Coimtess 1 ' ' she cried. * * Of course, how stupid I
am, she can put it all right. The Coimtess Varene, you know
her by name, at least. She knows this gentleman well; if you
will wait a moment she will be here. In fact, only last night
she arranged with me to meet us at this very spot." Mr.
Halsford started, and a queer smile wreathed his lips.

The Spanish officer raised his head and was looking straight
into Miss Chichester's eager face. " I do not think," he said
in deliberate tones, "that the Countess intends to keep the
rendezvous."

"You mean?" Miss Chichester cried, her eyes holding his
questioningly; and then instinct told her what the admission
concealed; the color flew to her cheeks, and she laughed, but it
was not the laugh of the schoolgirl, for no one likes to be used
as a catspaw, and to have one's first dear romance end in an
intrigue in which one has played the fool, is a hard awakening
from girlish illusions.

"I see," she cried scornfully, "this is the Countess's doing,
it was revenge, then, she wanted, and I — " she stopped
short. " What a fool I have been! " she thought, despairingly.

The Spanish officer was smiling reassuringly into her
troubled face. "The Sefiorita need feel no alarm," he said
kindly; "I shall be delighted to provide her with an escort
that will see her safely to Gibraltar before gim fire; as for the
Sefior" — he bowed stiffly to Mr. Halsford — "he remains my
prisoner."

Miss Chichester jumped from her horse and faced him,
breathless with indignation. "You can't mean itl" she
gasped; "why, you must see that all this is mere foolery?"

A Question of Obligations 293

The Spaniard bowed. *'I think," Miss Chichester cried,
turning to Mr. Halsford, desperation in her eyes, **that you
might do more than look like a Christian martyr."

"I was thinking," Mr. Halsford remarked quietly, **that it
might be as well if you accept this offer of an escort."

** That's nice! " she cried, bristling, her head in the air. '* I
get you into this scrape by being a fool, and then I am expected
to slope off like a sneak and leave you in the lurch! "

"Understand, please," she said, addressing the Spanish
officer with the air of a tragedy queen, '*that I shall accom-
pany this gentleman."

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

*'The SefLorita gives herself unnecessary annoyance," he
repUed, as he turned to give directions to his men.

'*I wish," Mr. Halsford said, some moments later, when he
and Miss Chichester were walking side by side along the road,
guarded by the soldier who was leading the horses they had
lately ridden, **that you would think better of it and go back;
it is only fair to warn you that there is danger in the affair.
Suppose it is proved that I come from New York?"

**What nonsense!" Miss Chichester began, and then some-
thing in his eyes stopped her; "it is possible — ^it might be
proved," she faltered. '*0h, then that makes it all the more
necessary that I should stay," and she tossed the limp fringe
that trailed imtidily across her brows, and met his glance
defiantly. "We can fight it out together."

"England," said Mr. Halsford, watching her with a queer
little gleam in his eyes, "is bound over in this affair to strict
neutrality."

"Pooh!" Miss Chichester cried, her nose in the air, "it's a
sheer insult to Rimnjnneade; one can't rub out the beginning
of things, you know."

. " In time of war, they have," Mr. Halsford said, "summary
measures of dealing with persons suspected as spies."

Miss Chichester's eyes widened suddenly. "I have read,"
she said, with an asstmied carelessness that did not in the least
deceive her listener, "that — ^that they don't mince matters.
But the newspapers always pile up the agony, don't they?"
She strove to smile, but felt her lips tremble.

" Nevertheless," Mr. Halsford said, looking straight in front
of him, as if he saw more than the dusty road and the distant
hills ahead. "Suppose, for example, that the worst is proved

394 ^ Question of ObligaUons

against me?" Miss Chichester gave an impatient little snort
— ** And that my case is dealt with after this sunmiary fashion
described in the newspapers you refer to. I want you to
promise me that you will let a girl in New York know just how
this all happened, and send her the ring that you will find tied
rotmd my neck. I would give it you now, but we are
watched.

Miss Chichester's sob was audible. "They will never
dare!" she cried, in desperate impotence.

Mr. Halsford smiled grimly. *' Shall I tell you the name and
address now?" he asked.

Miss Chichester made a mental grasp at calmness, and re-
peated his directions in a low voice, tense with suppressed
feeling. '*I shall not forget," she said, meeting the anxious
inquiry of his eyes; ** whatever happens, please remember I
shall not forget."

In the ensuing silence her thoughts ran on irrelevantly. *' I
won't believe it!" she assured herself; '* nothing so dreadfid
could happen. But if^-if it does, it will be all my fatilt! He
did not want to come with me this morning, nothing but sheer
politeness made him do it. I just drove him into a comer, and
he would have been a cad had he reftised. Oh, that Countess!
A political spy, of course, and that love-story was all a lie;
what a fool I have been! If only I had had even the smallest
suspicion that he was an American! That poor, poor girl in
New York! How could I ever send her the ring. I, who have
led him into this death-trap! I couldn't — I couldn't. No,
if they shoot him, they shall shoot me, too — I'll insist, I'll say
I also am a spy, an American. What would be the use of liv-
ing with a thing like this on one's conscience? But he must
not die — he shall not. Oh! why was I not bom clever, if fate
was to lead me into such a maze as this? But clever or not,
if he dies, I do! All is fair in love and war— I will swear any-
thing— everything. ' '

Her eyes sought her companion's face, and her heart sank.
" He will be the difficulty," she thought, with despair. ** He'll
not stoop to compromise; one can read it in his face. He will
be just mtilish in his honesty, and coimt his life a mere rush-
light compared to what he pleases to call his honor. Oh, that
poor girl in New York!" She tramped on hopelessly for a
time, a picture of dejection, her mind a desert in which despair
reigned.

A Question of Obligations 295

Presently she started and looked up. ** If only I dare! " she
thought, and she turned and confronted her companion with
flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. **I hate would-be mar-
tyrs," she said, "obstinate martyrs who contrive to get killed
unnecessarily while aiming at self-glorification! I don't sec
that the prestige of America will be raised by your being shot
out here in the woods. If you are going to die without mak-
ing an effort to save yotirself , I call it mere selfish indidgence
of national pride."

Mr. Halsford smiled despite himself. "You are severe," he
said; "but let me assure you I have no particular craving for
unnecessary martyrdom."

"I suppose," Miss Chichester said, ignoring his assertion,
"that you have heard it said that all is fair in love and war ? "

Mr. Halsford did not reply.

Miss Chichester's eyes flashed. " It might, of course, inter-
fere with your wish for martyrdom to take full advantage of
the saying," she remarked with some scorn; and then she
uttered a cry of delight, for she had caught sight of a horse-
man coming up the dusty road towards them. "General
Cardona! " she exclaimed, and the next moment he was along-
side the group, amazement on every feature, as he recognized
the sister of his host of last night in such a plight.

But Miss Chichester, smiling her sweetest, had forced her
way to his side. " To think," she exclaimed, "that you should
come to my rescue, and that your dear delightful Spain is so
tiresome a country to travel in! Oh! it is not the fault of
your gallant soldiers," for the General had turned sharply for
explanation to the officer in charge. "They are acting on *
information received from that quite too patriotic Countess
Varena." Miss Chichester's Spanish was not a strong point*
but she thought she caught the words "meddlesome woman"
as they fell from the General's lips.

" Yes, the Cotmtess Varena," she continued; "it was by her
appointment we came here this morning. She has somehow
conceived the notion — it is really too absurd — ^that this gentle-
man"— she indicated Mr. Halsford — "is an American — a spy.
I suppose," Miss Chichester said, she was blushing furiously
now, " I suppose the fact of his being — my — my fianc^, will set
that doubt at rest."

Mr. Halsford made a sudden step forward. Miss Chichester
could feel the glance he threw at her, though her eyes were

396 A Question oj Obligations

discreetly downcast. "It's another comer," she was telling
her trembling self; **he can't give me away — ^thank God —
thank GodI"

But she could hear her heart beat in the silence that fol-
lowed.

**I should, however, prefer that the fact did not interfere
with the present diffictilty," Mr. Halsford said, addressing
General Cardona; and his tone was cold, Miss Chichester
thought, even to insolence. **I am quite prepared to stand
my chance of investigation."

**OhI of course — darUng!" Miss Chichester cried, shrilly,
losing embarrassment in fear, and feeling that she might as
well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. * * You being a man would
prefer to go through with it rather than lose the excitement.
I dare say you would even rather be shot than miss your
chance of posing as so interesting an individual as an American
spy. But" — she was looking into his indignant face with an
outrageous coquetry new-bom for the emergency — ** there are
other people to be considered, you know — there is the girl —
I mean, there is — me!"

General Cardona, looking on, felt that he had come across a
very interesting romance. He was, he said, distressed beyond
measure that a silly woman's meddling had produced such a
contretemps — he would himself call on Sir George and apolo-
gize. He begged to be allowed to offer his congratidations,
and trusted that this imforttmate little episode might be the
only cloud that wotild mar the bright sky of their felicity.
Fortunately he was in command, and could prevent the matter
going further; he implored them to be quite reassured on
that point, and turning to his officer he commanded him to at
once withdraw with his men.

Mr. Halsford had relapsed into a dogged silence; his brows
were knit angrily, his mouth was stem.

Miss Chichester's heart sank as she observed him. ** He will
despise me forever," she thought, **for a forward, hateful
minx, but what does it matter — I don't coimt. He must get
out of this affair somehow, and it is certain that the more fibs
I tell the harder it will be for him to speak the truth." She
told them unsparingly, with apparent ease and cleverness.
Peril is the forcing-bed of humanity, but Mr. Halsford, looking
on, compelled to silence, if not to acquiescence in her scheme,
remembered with some regret the honest little schoolgirl he

A Question of Obligations 297

had thought her. His half-hearted assurances of good faith
would not have gone far. But Miss Chichester made up foi
all such shortcomings. ** You can do that," she cried, eagerly
turning to him, **you can promise General Cardona that you:
visit to Spain shall in no way injure her interest. That is easy
enough, is it not?"

"Oh, quitel" Mr. Halford answered, meeting her entreating
eyes unflinchingly, but she noticed that he set his teeth as he
spoke.

The General, also observing, thought him an ill-conditioned
fellow, and pitied the girl, whom he found charming, for the
choice she had made. He himself assisted her to remount, and
watched the pair ride off. At the bend of the road the girl
turned and waved her hand to him; and the General sighed as
he rode homewards. It was ten thousand pities, he thought,
that Sir George permitted the sacrifice, but then were not all
Englishmen brutes ? ' '

**I suppose,** Mr. Halsford said, some moments later, when
they had left danger and the hills behind them, '*that I musi
now thank you for saving my life."

**0h, pray don't mention it!" Miss Chichester cried hysteri-
cally. ** I quite understand how thoroughly galling you must
feel the whole situation. To lose the chance of serving youi
country even by dying in that cold-blooded higgledy-piggledy
fashion is naturally annoying, and to lose this through a girJ
too, whom you scarcely know, a girl whose stupidity forces you
into a dangerous position, and then tells wholesale lies to get
you out of it, must make you feel disgusted. Please under-
stand once and for all that I realize only too well that I am the
one under the obligation.*'

**What nonsense," Mr. Halsford exclaimed. "You know I
think nothing of the kind," but he still looked desperately
angry.

Miss Chichester's face was very white. Her eyes lay in dark
hollows beneath her drawn brows. Her hair trailed, a yellow
strand, down her back. The spirit that had upheld her de-
serted her, and she felt horribly like crying.

Mr. Halsford rode at her side in silence; it was easy to see
that his mind was much perturbed. His companion scanned
his face wistfully from time to time. ** I wish,*' she said pres-
ently, in disconsolate tones, "that you didn*t feel so sick

298 A QiA£stion of Obligations

about this — it is quite bad enough for one of us to bear a life-
long remorse."

** You do not understand," Mr. Halsford answered, coming
slowly out of the long thoughts that had held him ; and then
he sprang quickly from his horse, for Miss Chichester, with a
low moan, suddenly lurched forward and slid in a limp heap
from her saddle to the ground.

A few moments afterward she looked up at him from the
rock against which he had propped her. ** I fainted, didn't I ?
It*s the first time," she gasped, forcing a smile, "it is awfully
stupid of me. Please don't mind — but I must," and she
dropped her face into her hands and sobbed quietly.

Mr. Halsford looked on with a face full of concern. **I am
so sorry," he said. ** I am no end of a brute, I know, but you
must not think me tmgratef ul if at first I regretted the incident
that robbed me of the gratification of taking this to New
York." He had drawn a folded paper from beneath the lining
of the lappet of his coat, and held it towards her.

Miss Chichester took it wonderingly. Her bewildered eyes
looked for a moment uncomprehendingly at the plans and
measurements traced thereon, and then suddenly the truth
flashed upon her. "Oh!" she cried, and despite herself there
was horror in her voice. "Then you were — you are "

Mr. Halsford smiled grimly. "A spy — an American in the
pay of his Majesty the King of Spain's enemies — it was all true,
you see."

Miss Chichester rose suddenly, still very pale. "Let us go
on," she said in a frightened voice, glancing round her, "you
forget we are still — ^in Spain."

"There is something to be done," Mr. Halsford said, "before
we go. You promised something concerning my visit to
Spain — do you remember.'* "

Miss Chichester put one hand to her brow ; she was holding
the paper at arm's length with the other. "Yes," she said
slowly, " I remember — but what do you mean? "

"That your word must be kept — the paper must be de-
stroyed. I have a notion that its possession by the authori-
ties of New York might not always be exactly harmless to
Spain."

Miss Chichester gave a gasp. " But you? " she cried. "To
destroy it after all the risk, the trouble — and danger!"

"I must 'confess," Mr. Halsford remarked, as he took the

A Question of Obligations

290

paper from her hand, ** that the price you offered for my imme-
diate release seemed for the moment somewhat inadequate."

Miss Chichester's head drooped. **I am sorry,** she said,
dubiously, *'but the girl-^the girl in New York — ^what will she
say?**

"The girl in New York,'* Mr. Halsford answered, as he tore
the paper into tiny shreds, "having the very questionable
taste to prefer my personal safety to anything on this planet,
will agree with you.**

Miss Chichester smiled through her tears. "I am glad of
that,** she said; "perhaps becatise of that you may in the
future come to forgive my meddling."

Mr. Halsford took the hand she had extended. It was cold
and trembled a little, so maybe it was partly for this reason
that he held it in both his own, in a grasp that was long and
kindly. "In the future,** he said, meeting her supplicating
eyes, while his own twinkled into a smile, "America will be
bound to admit, as she does now, that in this particular in-
stance England has not behaved in a strictly neutral manner.**

H^ Soul of Judas:

An Escaped G)nvict*s Story, by
Helen Sterling Thomas'"

y» ^ y»

TONIO was small and clever, agile as a street cat and
much in demand in all miserable professions. With
the versatility of genius he followed first one lawless pursuit,
then another, and succeeded because he cared much for the
excitement of the game ^ttle for the result.

He had been one of the smugglers along the coast at one
time; again he had followed the trail of the gypsies among
the hills; once he held a stiletto and waited on the dark road,
to Trivoli and came away with ill-gained spoils. He had
loitered near the booths at street fairs and learned to do
tricks with cards and tell fortunes. In the taverns there was
always some one to throw a copper or give him a glass of
wine. True, it was sometimes cold in winter, but spring
came early; his stomach could gnaw painfully, but his wits
were sharper than the baker's eyes. He had never suffered
long. He bore his questionable life lightly, meeting danger
with a smile, happy with a handful of chestnuts or an old
cigarette. He had friends without number. He would have
given his last soldo or drawn his knife in aid of one of them.
It was often said that those who had done an evil turn to
Tonio had best make peace or never meet him again.

He had failed but once. It had gone sadly for him then,
however, for he had lost his freedom in the affair about the
jewels at the villa in the hills. His comrades had deserted
him at the critical moment, and escaping with the plunder
left him where he had been captured. He had been taken
back to town and sent to the prison outside the ramparts.
There they shaved his head, gave him striped clothes and a
ball and chain to wear. These indignities hurt his vanity
cruelly. He missed the freedom of the streets, the gaiety

•Written for Short Stories.

The Soul of Judas 301

of the wine shops; here all days were alike, aui he found
neither pleasiires nor friends. He grew dull and sullen under
prison life, did his share of labor mechanically as though in-
sensible to thought or feeling.

One morning as he worked on a new roadway among a
dozen other criminals, the sun burned warm on his back and
bare arms. A bird sang somewhere overhead, then he saw
it wheel away northward and knew that spring had come.
All at once his courage and spirit leaped into life. He glanced
about. The overseer was passing leisurely to and fro, shoul-
dering his gun. He also was feeling the spring sunshine
according to his nature. It made him languid and somewhat
lax in vigilance. The moment was one among a thousand.
Tonio knew it. He grasped his pickax firmly; as the over-
seer passed he dealt a blow, qtiickly, tmswervingly. The
keeper fell heavily, the blood showing through his dark hair.
Tonio wrenched a key from the man's belt, and with cunning
fingers undid the ball and chain at his own ankle. His
comrades stood in dazed silence watching his movements.
Then some one gave the alarm. Tonio heard men crying
in hoarse voices. A bullet whizzed past his cheek.

Once more he felt the exhilaration of danger. He ran
with all his strength, still clutching the key. He leaped with
great bounds across an open field and dashed into a little
wood. His pursuers soon forced him from out the friendly
shelter of the trees. He turned toward the town. There was
a dwarf, one Giusseppe by name, not far away. He would
help him could he reach there. He was quicker than those
heavy fellows from the prison. But they pressed him hard.
The dogs ! He had not nm like this for months. His breath
was shortening. He managed to gain the outskirts of the
town and dodged into a quiet alley. He could go no further.
He was lost unless he could find shelter. High walls rose
on either hand. He placed his foot in a crevice of the crum-
bling stone. Would it hold ? His hands clasped the top. He
dragged himself over and fell bruised and breathless on the
other side. Some thick bushes screened him, and he lay still
and listened to the noise of his piunisers passing quickly in the
street beyond. As these soimds faded away he gained
breath and looked about.

"Body of Satan I** thought Tonio, " 'tis the monastery!"

The Brothers had not forgotten how he stole their pome-

302 The Soul of Judas

granates last year. Trust them. They would be the first to
hand him over to the police. But they were slow and sleepy
fellows. After all, this was not a bad place to hide. If only
he had a knife in his hand he could manage. He could creep
into the cathedral through the garden. If he could get a
crust to eat he could he quiet in some dark comer of the
church, no one would be the wiser. There mtist be the blessed
bread and wine in the sacristy. His soul shrank from the
thought of touching it, but he was cruelly hungry. He woulc'.
make the sign of the cross before he ate and no harm could
come then. In a few days the excitement of his escape would
be forgotten, he could make his way toward the coast. Ships
were lifting anchor there at all times; once across the sea he
could be free and happy.

Suddenly a bell rang from the tower at the end of the
garden. Tonio heard footsteps and voices; he shrank back
against the wall and peered cautiously through a mass of
leaves. He saw a line of brown-robed Brothers descend the
church steps ; each one reverently crossed himself, then pro-
ceeded across the garden. As some paused to examine the
fruit trees and vines, Tonio held his breath. But at last all
left the garden, except one monk and a small boy, who paused
so near that Tonio could have stretched out his hand and
touched them.

The spring sunshine blazed steadily down upon Angelo and
Brother Antonio. They began weeding industriously, both
imconsciotis of Tonio. Brother Antonio had a face like the
St. Francis in the fresco on the chapel wall. Angelo loved
him because he made music on the great organ while Angelo
sang at mass, and because the Brother told him stories of the
Holy Virgin and the good apostles. Angelo gazed toward the
intense blue sky, wishing that to-day he might see the Blessed
Lady crowned with roses, holding in her arms the little Jesus
or St. John. St. Peter, carrying the key of heaven, or St.
Francis with his pierced hands, were vivid and real to Angelo.
When the harvest failed and the hungry poor swarmed at the
refectory door, he remembered the miraculous feeding of the
multitude. He fancied that the Brothers were St. Phihp or
St. James, dispensing loaves and fishes. It would have stir-
prised him little at any moment to see Brother Antonio or
even the stout Abbot carried up to heaven over the roofs and
spires of the cathedral.

The Soul of Judas 303

Angelo had come to the monastery from outside the town,
where the gardens stretched away in green rows, and the
goats' bells sounded on the hills. It was a country of white
roads, flat-roofed houses, baked yellow in the sunlight, hard-
working people, and children that grew strong with little care.
His mother and father toiled in the open the week through,
went to mass on Sunday, and sat under the grape arbor in the
evening discussing the business of the farm with other honest
countrymen. Natoni, from across the way, was getting old.
He needed a boy to drive his cart on market days, to help
sell the vegetables, and to mind the horse all through the
hot afternoon, while he drank sour wine under an awning on
the Piazza. The father considered. It was time Angelo did
something beside lie in the sunshine on the doorstep, and sing
to Liza, the little sister. He should go with Natoni and bring
home a few soldi. So one day, in the faint light of early
morning, Angelo sat in the market cart with the old man.
As they jogged slowly on, Angelo saw the roadway winding
white and tempting before his eyes. He thought of the city
lying at the other end, the many towers and spires, the open
squares, the great cathedral. Then he began to sing for very
joy, a song which made the country people in the fields lift
their heads and look wonderingly after the cart, a song which
rang strong and free through the silent streets of the town.

Brother Antonio heard it, paused over his illtmiinating in
the cloister, and crossing himself, murmured hastily:

**The Holy Mother has sent that voice to praise the Good
God in the Gloria."

He threw aside his work and hurried down the street after
the singing boy. Tbus it happened that Angelo slept within
the monastery walls that night, dreamed that he followed
the goatherds again at home, and that the Virgin Mary came
down from the sky and took him to the City of Paradise in
Natoni's wagon. He learned to serve at Mass, to sing in the
cathedral and to work in the garden beside Brother Antonio.
Time went on, arid little Liza, the little sister, grew tall, and
drove the father's cart to market ; sometimes she stopped at
the monastery gate, where Anglelo came to kiss her and send
greetings to the mother at home. There he whispered to
Liza the strange tales he heard from the Brothers. The dark-
ness of the homeward roadway became alive to her with visions
of St. Peter and St. Paul, or a frightful devil with horns

)04 The Soul of Judas

and a red tongue, and she mtirmiired for safety the prayer
to the Guardian Angel.

This spring day was like many others within the monastery.
The Brothers had arisen for prayers and confessions in the
white light of dawn, Mass had been simg in the small hours,
tasks and penances had been appointed, and now the sun
was high and lay warm upon Angelo and Brother Antonio
at work in the quiet garden. The flash of a lark s wing now
and then cut the blue above their heads, the air was sweet
with jasmine and orange flowers, and the almond trees
turned faint pink blossoms toward the light wind. Angelo
and Brother Antonio knew nothing of the uproar in the town
over the escaped prisoner; they talked not of the things of the
day, military or political, but of the dramas of saints and mar-
tyrs acted a thousand years ago. Angelo listened breathless
to these wonderful stories, of which the Brother had no lack.
The sensitive, lively imagination of this child appealed
peculiarly to the monk. Into these tales Brother Antonio
infused much of his own poetic personality, of which the barren,
literal life within the cloister had never robbed him.

Angelo knew well the lives of St. Francis and the gentle
Santa Clara; Brother Antonio had shown him the pictures of
the brave St. Stephen being stoned to death, of St. Sebastian
shot full of arrows, St. Lawrence roasting on the fiery grid-
iron. Tonio lying imeasy and cramped against the wall
learned imwillingly the fables of the Church, and in his heart
he cursed the saints.

To-day the Judas tree flushing crimson-purple blossoms
against the monastery wall reminded Angelo of the unworthy
Apostle, and he asked the Brother why this harmless tree
bore the name of the wicked one.

"Listen well,** said Brother Antonio, "and I will tell you
the true story of the soul of Judas Iscariot."

Angelo crept nearer and paused at work.

" No, child, do not stop weeding. Let us be diligent to-day,
so the Abbot will be pleased and grant us a longer time to
practice the Easter songs. The weeds grow rank this weather,
and, like our sins, outstrip our watchfulness.

** Long ago when the Lord Jesus played at St. Mary's knee,
and later, when, a grown man, He walked the seacoast and
called the chosen ones to Him, this same tree, now stained and
purple, bloomed pure and white amid the Galilean hills. You

The Soul of Judas 305

know, Angelo, the story of the wanderings of the Master,
the healing of the sick, the raising of the dead, the agony
on the cross. After the betrayal Judas found the price of
blood too heavy. He was haunted by the horror of the
cross, black against the sunset sky; by the torn veil of the
temple; the crowds of frightened people; the pitiftd face of
the Mother Mary. He wandered disqtuet and wretched
awhile, and at last hanged himself upon the branches of this
tree. His blood dyed the white blossoms, and from that
day forth the poor tree blooms with stained flowers — a Judas
tree indeed — ^an eternal reminder of the faithless Apostle.
His blood still colors these blossoms; while his sotd, not fit to
enter Paradise, nor worthy to find its way there even through
Purgatory, is doomed to roam upon this earth, repentant
through a thousand years, forever seeking rest, forever pur-
sued. Sometimes it is in one form, sometimes in another,
condemned ever to seek for kindness in a form which must
ever repel it. It is a restless soul in search of a peace it can
never find. It is crushed and driven from all places, wailing in
the night wind, crying desolate on the seacoast."

'* Is there no hope for Judas? " questioned Angelo in horror,
" is there no door to Paradise that can at last be opened to
receive him?*'

The Brother answered in a voice clear and resonant, " His
hope lies in the kindness of his fellow-men. For, Angelo,
every gentle deed done to a repulsive and loathsome creature
may unthinkingly be done imto this unhappy soul. When
a cruel act is done to Judas Iscariot another hundred years is
added to his pimishment, but if any compassion or mercy
be shown him, he may be pardoned and received into Paradise.

Then Angelo, puzzled, put this question: ** How*can I recog-
nize this Judas, and therefore avoid doing him evil? '*

**Only the Good God himself can distinguish between Judas
Iscariot and better men or worse. Who can tell but at the last
fatal Judgment Day He may find even that despised soul more
sinned against than sinning? But if ever the Judas tree
blooms in the spring, once more white and innocent as of old,
it shall be taken as a sign that Judas Iscariot is pardoned
for some kind deed shown him, and has entered into heaven
with the saints, at rest and forgiven."

Angelo reflected. He thought with sorrow of his unkind
deeds. He shrank with loathing from the Judas tree. He

3o6 The Soul of Judas

saw in excited imagination the limp figure swinging from
its branches, blood surging from the mouth, dyeing the poor
blossoms, branding them forever, a reminder to men of the
uneasy soul of the faithless Apostle. Angelo remembered the
crippled beggar with his lean dog, skulking at the refectory
door; the poisonous snake, the sluggish lizard in the garden;
old Dominico, down in the market place, cursing the passers-
by, stealing lemons from the fruit venders; ugly, ragged AUes-
sandro who came late to Mass and neglected the confessional;
might not any one of these be Judas in disguise ?

As they talked the shadows lengthened and the bell called
for vespers. Angelo followed the Brothers into the church.
He was still thinking of the strange story. All through the
hymns and psalms that day, amid the music of the Magnificat
and the Angelus Domini, he heard the sorrowful wail of the
unhappy Judas. He pictured him at the gay Easter time,
toiling, tired and hungry, through the town; or homeless on
the hills in the winter's cold. From out the colored windows
of the cathedral the faces of Archbishop and Apostle gazed
at him with reproachful eyes. The deep voice of the priest
at the altar, the murmured responses of the choir, surged
louder and louder, and again sank away into a hopeless mono-
tone. All this seemed to Angelo but a lamentation for the
lost soul.

The service over, the Brothers and the people arose to
leave. Angelo remained behind as usual, to close the doors
and arrange the scattered sheets of music on the choir stalls.
Two by two the Brothers departed; the last old woman, the
last slow cripple passed out of the open door into the twilight.
Angelo felt suddenly an overwhelming loneliness in the great
church. The candles on the altar burned low and flared fit-
fully. One by one he put them out and closing the great
doors shut out the daylight. The church, always large and
empty, became desolate. The faithful little red lamp,
burning before the Holy Eucharist, swayed uneasily on its
slender chain, the wreath of paper roses aroxmd the picture
of the Virgin rustled mysteriously. Angelo trembled. He
heard a thousand noises in the stillness. What if the dreadful
Judas should be hiding somewhere in the darkne&s, or beside
him even at this moment! In his haste a book fell to the
floor making a loud sound. To be alone to-day terrified
him. He turned toward the sacristy door. Someone stood

The Soul of Judas 307

there. The darkened church yawned behind him, before him
was a man with piercing eyes, a great key clutched in his
hand. Angelo stood quite still. The figure did not move. *tjB
** Gentle Mary, save me!" faltered poor Angelo. Then,
perceiving the key in the man's hand, and falUng on his knees,
he cried aloud and gladly: ** Tis the good St. Peter carrying
the key of heaven ! "

*'How if it were Judas with the key of hell? " said the man
in a voice thick and frightftd.
Angelo gasped.

Tonio had been many characters in his short Hfe. It was
a simple matter to him to change his name, and it tickled his
fancy hugely to impersonate Judas. When he spoke again
his eyes were not unkind, but to Angelo he was still a hideous
figure.

** Listen, boy, and swear on the cross you will tell no one I
came here, or I may carry you off with me to hell, where the
mummeries they teach you here will not avail."
Angelo gasped and stood breathless in terror.
At that instant the ring of horses* hoofs in the street pene-
trated the stillness of the church. Loud blows were struck
on the door and hoarse voices called for entrance. Tonio
glanced about for escape. Angelo dared not stir. Thoughts
ran swiftly through his mind: ** They have come for the poor
Judas to torment him. I must save him, Brother Antonio
has said it."

Then to the man beside him: ** Quick into the sacristy, put
on a priest's cassock."

Tonio darted away. The noises outside grew louder. Men
were shouting angrily now.

*' Holy Mother, help me to save him ! " murmured Angelo.
He hurried to the great door and tremblingly undid the
unwieldy iron bolt. A group of noisy soldiers burst into the
quiet church. Angelo fell back against a pillar, quivering
with fright. With beating heart he watched. The men
lost no time, but swarmed down the long nave and into the
side chapels. Their heavy boots and steel spurs resounded
on the stone pavement. Their harsh voices awoke untuneful
echoes beneath the pointed arches. Angelo's excited eyes
followed their movements. There seemed to be hundreds
of them in the twiUght of Ihe cathedral. They vanished in
the distant shadows, then suddenly reappeared beside him

3o8 The Soul of Judas

as though by magic. One of them tore aside the curtains of
the confessionals, another thrust his sword behind the altar
tapestries. To Angelo's horror one man even dared penetrate
the chancel, and crawled beneath the choir stalls and car-
dinal's chair. They found no one, however, and finally
gathered near the entrance. The officera mong them cursed
their dullness. Turning to Angelo, he said impatiently :
"Have you seen anyone, boy?**

"No one, officer," answered Angelo, with averted eyes.
Then a sudden thought striking the officer, he called to his
men : * * Pest 1 the sacristy forgotten . * '

They turned in a body toward that door. Angelo sprang
before them.

" Father Ketro is there at his prayers."
Suspicious at once, the officer thrust Angelo aside. The
soldiers pressed into the room. They saw only red and
white vestments hanging quietly on the wall, and over in the
comer the httle altar with its carved crucifix. There a black-
robed figure knelt with bent head and shadowed face. The
soldiers paused abashed. The officer crossed himself and
murmured hastily:

"Your pardon. Father." Then turning to Angelo, "show
the way toward the cloister. The Brothers might have a
fancy for the King's prisoner."

Angelo opened the door and they departed. They crossed
the garden and aroused the Brothers in the cloister beyond.
They inspected its cells, its chapel, and refectory. Then an
instant later they were dashing down the street again with a
kick to the horses, an oath to the luck. As these soimds
faded away the man kneeling in the sacristy arose awkwardly,
stumbling over his long cassock. Angelo stared at him a
moment, then, terrified anew at the thought of confronting
Judas Iscariot, he fled out of the church.

He ran through the garden and paused at last by the gate-
way. Where was Liza? He must tell someone. Woiild she
never come? Suppose she had forgotten and gone home al-
ready? It was after Vespers that she came, but last week
she was surely here by this time. He glanced toward the
church. Was the terrible Judas still in the sacristy? The
noisy, red-faced soldiers might return at any moment, and
drag him away to some hideous torment. Should he tell
Brother Antonio or still try to save Judas? He remembered

The Soul of Judas 309

his lie in the church — the wicked man concealed in the holy
Father's cassock. What would the Abbot say I He dared
not tell even Brother Antonio. Nothing could avail. Judas
must suffer. Then he heard again the Brother's words of
that afternoon: "One little unkindness lengthens his penance
a htmdred years, and for one kind act he may be pardoned
and received into Paradise.'*

The soimd of wheels coming down the street reached
Angelo at this point. He caught sight of the white donkey
advancing leisurely and Liza seated in the market cart. He
ran out of the gate to meet her. ** Liza, Liza," he cried, seizing
her hand as she dismotmted, and dragging her into the garden
with him. There Angelo told the story of the soiil of Judas
Iscariot, and his own wonderful encounter. Struggling vainly
to dispel Liza's terrors, he became the more confident and
determined himself.

"You must pretend to go home, Liza, and hide on the
roadway and come back after it is dark — oh, so quietly!
Late at night, after the Abbot has locked the gate, I will take
the key and give it to the man in the sacristy, and no one will
know. He can ride with you safely outside the town, and we
shall have saved him."

But Liza cried bitterly. " Angelo, Angelo, I dare not. The
father will beat me if I come home so late. Our donkey is
tired, I must go home — I have done no harm to Judas. I
dare not ride alone with the evil one."

"But he must be saved, Liza; Brother Antonio has said
it, and the Brothers know everything. If you will not help me
there will be another hundred years added to his misery. The
blessed Virgin will be grateful to you if you help, and send
you something for Easter — and Liza, you shall have the little
gilt cross that Brother Antonio gave me, and you can wear it
always round your neck. Besides, what matter if the father
beat you? One beating is soon over — ^the cross will be yours
forever."

He swtmg it toward her on its string, and it shone beauti-
ful and bright in the sunlight. Thus Angelo urged and
Liza still resisted. She retained only a jumbled idea of
Angelo *s story. She had but a vague picture in her mind of
the wicked, dead Judas, who was somehow spitefully hatmting
Angelo and herself. She again caught sight of the gilt cross,
still swinging in Angelo's hand. She clutched at it, tied it

3IO The Soul of Judas

around her neck, and watched it shine on her bare, brown
skin. So, thinking of the little ornament and not at all of
the soul of poor Judas Iscariot, she consented to do Angelo's
will. At the last moment he again terrified her.
' " If you do not come^ Liza, he will send evil spirits to pinch
you black and blue. The cross about your neck will turn
into a cloven hoof. But you must come. You must save
some of your bread and cheese for him; and when he gets
into the cart you must take the road arotmd the walls
instead of straight home through the town. If any question
you, say it is a priest who goes to visit the fever sick along
the coast; that the Father is tired and has gone to sleep in
the bottom of the cart. Then they will not disturb him.
Outside the town he can get down and go away in peace some-
where in the darkness." Liza tremblingly promised, and
departed.

That night Angelo sat abstractedly through the supper in
the refectory, the evening prayers, and afterward lay long
awake. Then he arose and crept through the cool corridor;
past the Brothers* cells; past the door to the Abbot's room.
His feet made no sound on the stone floor, but his heart beat
noisily. A loud sound reached him and he paused in fright.
Someone must have heard — ^no, it was but a Brother breath-
ing heavily. He went on again, down the narrow stairs to
the cloister entrance. In the darkness at the foot, he fumbled
on the wall for the two keys, to the cathedral and to the
garden gate. He put his fingers upon them at last, and pushed
open the door. A sudden draught swept in; he went out,
closing it again quickly — hurrying across the windy garden —
into the black church. He hoped the terrible Judas had
escaped somehow, or that it was all a curious dream he should
soon awake from. But no; as his eyes became accustomed
to the dim light, he saw the man, curled close against a pillar
and sleeping soundly, his arm bent under his head for a pillow.
The light from the windows fell across his face, which was still
and untroubled. Angelo stood watching him, and somehow
he no longer felt any fear. Tonio opened his eyes the next
instant, and seeing no one but Angelo, smiled sleepily, sat up
and stretched himself. He followed trustingly out of the
church to the garden gateway. Angelo opened it and waited.
The moments passed slowly, each one an eternity. What if
Liza failed to come! What if the Abbot awoke and found

The Soul of Judas

3"

them! By and by the faintest click of the donkey's hoo**
came down the street ; a few moments later the curious com-
rades, Liza and the evil one together, went out into the night.

At the last instant Angelo whispered hastily: " As you hope
for mercy on your soul do not frighten the little sister.'*

Tonio bent forward and murmured sheepishly, "Have no

fear." Then he added: "Some fine morning, boy, you will

vake and find the saints long-faced, sorry fellows. . . The

«<rorld is a merry place, after all. Come with me — ^it may not

be so ill a thing to have Judas Iscariot for a friend.**

Angelo, bewildered, shrank back. He watched the donkey
cart until it was lost in the darkness; then he crept inside
the gate and locked it, saying meanwhile a prayer for the sotil
of Judas Iscariot.

The tree tops rocked mysteriously in the night wind. The
thin clouds parted suddenly, and the moonlight lay across the
garden, blanching the path, the church door, a comer of the
cloister. Against the wall Angelo saw the Judas tree, in this
mild light shining with pure, white blossoms.

T the Sign of the
Sound Pig: The Story
of a Strange Happening*

THE sign itself was of a red amorphous sow couchant and
at the same time hovering, as it were, over a green
ground that suggested grass, while a little to the left a piglet,
excusably regardant, blinked at the curious perspective. But
the inscription on the board ran, " The Sound Pig, by S. Turfy.'*

Jerry JuU smiled upon it ! Mrs. Turfy (being the same as the
S. Turfy of the inscription) had just ejected him from the tap-
room, because he had had enough to drink for the good of the
. house and more than enough for his own. It was the third
day Jerry had been off work, and Mrs. Turfy was tired of
him. To have him lolopping there all day, smiling to himself
and deliberately constuning ale in half -pints (which necessi-
tated constant attendance at an hour when not another soul
was on the premises to make it worth while) was, she declared,
intolerable. Moreover, she disliked to see a man a-sillying
himself.

" It doan't pay in th' end," she said wamingly.

"Ah, so ut be," said Jerry, complacent.

"So what be?"

Jerry tried to remember, but could not.

"Termups," he ventured, and guessing from the lowering
of Mrs. Turfy's brows that he had not been quite apropos,
"An' t'weather — simly fine sunny weather — so ut be," he
added craftily.

"Out yew go into it," said Mrs. Turfy, taking him by the
sleeve.

That was how Jerry came to be standing underneath the
swinging sign. He was not aware of having suflEered any
indignity. Blandness possessed him. His only concern was
that he could not recollect why he was there or what his plans
for the afternoon were. But, after all, that mattered little.

* Prom Black and White.

At the Sign of ike Sound Pig 313

Nothing mattered at all. His whole face was wreathed in
smiles. Merely as a matter of curiosity, he thought he shotdd
like to know if the ground was as firm as it looked, and he
put out one leg gingerly. Curiously enough, it was not so
firm. It heaved a little, and Jerry's foot had some difficulty
in establishing a firm position upon it. Necessity^urged him
to put the other foot after it to obtain any proper balance
whatever.

If you place one foot in front of you and follow it up with
the other, in all probability you cover a certain amotmt of
space. This natural law presented itself to Jerry in the
form of a discovery that he was not underneath the sign,
but facing it. He knew it very well by sight, having seen it
most days of his Ufe for twenty-nine years. But to see it
tmexpectedly like that gave it a fresh interest, and he pe-
rused the inscription earnestly — "Shotmd Pig," he read out.

Wonderfiil thing — the art of painting — ^Jerry thought.
There was something about the sow astonishingly life-like.
So there was about the grass on which she couched. He
began to calctilate the amount of hay it was likely to yield,
but was impeded by the perspective. The mead seemed to
stretch indefinitely.

But the yotmg pig — that really looked laughably real. He
could almost hear it grumping. What a splendid creature
it would grow into! The notion of the young pig growing
up was so comical that somehow Jerry was convulsed.
*'Sh — sh — ound Pig," he repeated.

It was then that a quaint thing occurred. The sow rose
up, shook herself, and with a snort of disgust descended
from the sign-board into the road. The pig followed with a
toss of its head and a scream, galloping down through the
air so as not to be left behind. The whole thing happened
in an instant, almost before Jerry cotild rub his eyes.

When he looked again, the board still swung there, the grass
of its pleasant meadow blown a little in the breeze, but the
sow and pig were below in the road, following their noses
toward the open moors.

What was to be done? Jerry's first consideration was for
the landlady of the inn. At no time is it agreeable to lose
one's possessions like that, but if Mrs. Turfy's extremely val-
uable sow went astray with that promising pig, what woidd
she do ? So far as Jerry knew, she had no others. And these.

314 At the Sipt of the Sound Pig

living as they did in a field on a sign-board, were probably
unique of their kind. Few pigs are accustomed to live on sign-
boards. If they were lost on the moors, they could hardly
be replaced.

The inference was — they must not be lost, and prompt in
action, Jerry called out loud: "Missus Turfy! "

There was no reply. Jerry sidled to the door of the inn
and kicked violently.

" Missus Turfy!" he shouted. " Hi, Missus Turfy I"

The landlady's voice came in a shrill from the second floor.

*' Yew bain't comen in here agen, Jerry Jull, an' doan't 'ee
think it!"

It is hard for a man bent on doing a kindness to be rebuffed
in this manner. It seemed less than kind to Jerry, who could
not remember any cause for disagreement between himself and
Mrs. Turfy. Still, he felt too magnanimous to be put off by
any want of feeling on the other side, and he continued kicking.

" 'Tis aleng of t' sow and t* lil pig," he vociferated. " They
be coom down from t* booard. Missus Turfy, an* they be a
scudden straight for t' Pike Moor!"

Mrs. Turfy thrust her head out of the window, eyed the
sign-board and sniffed.

"Ef yew doan*t stop a-kicking ma door," she said, **ah*ll
splosh a pail o' watter over 'ee!"

" But t' sow's loose," Jerry protested, " an' t' lil—"

"Cut along arter they, then!"

Jerry, still kicking vigorously, heard the ominous swish of
water in a pail overhead. It seemed monstrous that a sen-
sible woman like Mrs. Turfy shotild be willing to bear what
would certainly be a pectmiary loss apart from sentimental
considerations. But he would help her in spite of herself.

"All ri', Mrs. Turfy, ah'm— "

A deluge of water from the window above narrowly escaped
him.

Jerry gave a final kick.

" Ah'm gwoan to fetch they, Mrs. Turfy," he said charitablv.
Don't yew fret!"

And, hearing more swishing of water, he put up his
elbows, and started running. Ahead of him were the truant
swine some distance along the road.

"Ta— ally ho!" cried Jerry.

A wind-borne grunt came snorting back to him. It gave

At the Sign of the Sound Pig 315

zest to the chase. Jerry avowed himself that there was no
merrier way of spending an afternoon.

Now the things that followed upon this are as clear in his
mind to-day — Mr. Jull says — as they were then. Clearer if
anything, for some new detail is always presenting itself to
him, and the story grows in length as well as in gruesome-
ness. But I have to be brief. What happened, shortly, was
this :

The road which the swine had taken winds like a string of
white chalk for half a mile, rising gradually between green
hedges to the level of the moors. Then the hedges give out
and the road runs straight to the horizon, but on either hand
the open moorland lies. And it was Jerry's object to prevent
the swine reaching this, and turning off into the infinite
scrub that climbs and dips for miles to right and left.

To begin with, he fancied it was an easy matter. The red
was clear on the white of the road, and the hedges prevented
doubling. Nor were the creatures, it seemed, in any great
haste though they went at a persevering trot.

Only when Jerry made a great spurt and came up with
them, it was not so easy. No sooner was he at them than they
dodged, each a different side of the road, squealing, but always
going forward. In vain he tried to head them off. A grunt
and a rush, and one or other was in front again. And the
moors were getting close.

*'Sink im!'* exclaimed Jerry, alter a fifth failure.

"Sink yourseri"

Jerry gasped. It was the impish pig that had spoken.
Never had Jerry known a pig speak before. And this one
was so young. All the same, a man of Jerry's caliber was
not going to be flouted by a sucking pig.

**What di' yew saay?" he inquired sternly.

**Sinkyourseri"

With this repetition the little creature made a most violent
dart between Jerry's legs.

*' Ah, would 'ee now?" said Jerry, deeply incensed.

He grabbed at the thing's curl of a tail. It skipped aside
like a rabbit. But chance assisted Jerry. His hand lighted
on the tail of the sow and closed tight.

'* Ah've got one on 'ee," he cried in glee.

'•G-r-r-r!"

"Come along whoam, will 'ee!" Jerry continued.

31 6 At the Sign of the Sound Pig

G-r-r-rl Instead of compliance, yet another grunt. The
sow ran on. All of a sudden Jerry realized that he could
not let go. His feelings — ^Jerry hints — were more easily
imagined than described. And it seems not unlikely that this
was so. A sort of horror made him feel warm all over, and
his reasoning factdties deserted him. All that he knew was
that the more he tried to draw away his hand, the more it
clung to the sow's tail, or the sow's tail clung to it. What
is worse, they were on the moors now.

•' HalpI " cried Jerry, in a fright.

Just coming over a track to the left, Moonbridge way, was
Mr. Stallycoot, the Rector, and it was to him with a sinking
heart that Jerry appealed. For he was apt to be absent-
minded, though benevolent, and he was decidedly deaf. Still,
one would suppose that even a deaf parson would perceive
the horrible incongruity of a man being dragged across the
moors at the end of a sow's tail.

"HalpI" Jerry cried desperately, as he drew near at a
gaUop. •• HalpI"

"Bless my soul!" The Rector stopped and adjtisted his
glasses. "What's that? Eh — ?" A sUght frown crossed
his beaming face as he perceived Jerry. "It's you, Jull,
again, is it? What do you want? What's got you?"

"T' Devil!" Jerry shouted.

That was a mistake. He had put it briefly, partly from
breathlessness, partly because the sow wotild not stop to let
him explain. And the Rector took it in the wrong spirit.
He looked pained and turned away. Plainly, he thought
Jerry was in liquor, instead of perfectly sober and in a terrible
predicament.

"T' Devil, t' very Devill" Jerry repeated frantically. An-
other moment and he would be beyond reach. What was it
Mr. Stallycoot was saying?

" Beware, Jull, for the Devil you are thoughtlessly invoking
goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom "

"She be a scuppering sow! " Jerry groaned. " Halp! "

"Fie, Jerry Jull!" said Mr. Stallycoot. "Fie! If you
were to practice — I do not say teetotalism, which is not given
to us all — but I do say habits of temperance, moderation,
and industry, I firmly contend that there would be less of
this terrible — "

But Jerry had gone whizzing past, and the advice was lost

At the Sign of the Sound Pig 317

upon him. Ziz-zag went the sow, and zig-zag the little pig
charging Jerry's legs incessantly. Rip and tear, through
brambles and gorse, waist deep in thorns and prickles they
sped. When Jerry could divert his attention from these
obstacles to screw his head roimd, the Rector was a mile
away, perched on the brow of Pike Moor, like a magpie
in his white tie and black coat.

**Who was yon, Jerry?"

The sow was addressing him this time, and by name. It
gave Jerry a hope that by a show of deference he nught con-
ciliate her.

"T* Paarson." he said apologetically.

But g-r-r-r-mp! At that she was off more terrifically than
ever. The wind positively whistles past Jerry's ears; six tall
brambles he was taking in a stride; it seemed at this pace
they must soon come to the rim of the world. And while,
he was wondering what the end of it all would be, and if the
little pig could really be keeping up, the sow plungedjvehe-
mently down into a green and dismal ooze with a dive and a
wallow, and there was Jerry neck-high in mud, half choked,
and the impish pig alongside kicking mud in his eyes.

'*Mussy a me!" wailed Jerry, as they emerged the other
side preparatory to hurtling into a maze of gorse. "Ah
cud wish ah were whoam, ah cud.*'

Hardly had the words left his mouth when the sow slowed
down. Jerry says that it was like magic, the change, and he
realized, shrewdly enough, that there was some virtue in the
words he had used.

"What be'est sayen? " inquired the sow, uneasily.

** Ah cud wish ah were whoam, ah cud."

Not a word would Jerry, in his new-bom sagacity, leave
unsaid or vary, and he was justified by the result. For —

" An' so yew mid be," said the sow, plainly unwilling.

" Wi' yew a-tuggen ma hand?"

The sow sulked and Jerry pressed the question. The little
pig had ranged up, and now began to squeal pitifully.

" Lemme go whoam! Lremme go whoam!"

"Ah wud," said Jerry. "There iddn't no comfortabler
place than t' booard for a lil pig."

" So yew say," broke in the sow. " But 'tis like this: t'were
along o' yew that we kem out."

"Along o' me?"

3i8 At the Sign of the Sound Pig

** See-en yew loloppen an' light-haded set me an' the lil' pig
off. S* long as yew was gwoan to t' Devil, ah cotddn't see what
for we shotddn't go. T'is weary stayen alius in a sign-board."

" But ah bean't gwoan to t' Devil," said Jerry, scandalized.

** Doan't yew be ower sure. Afore yew be sure, yew'U ha tc
see me whoam — me an' lil pig."

*' Ah '11 do ut willin', ef so be yew cud tmdo your tail."

" T'wudden do to trust 'ee," sad the sow.

*• Not ef ah were to carry t' lil pig? He's tired simly."

The sow hesitated. She looked at the landscape longingly
and her ears shook with desire of a scamper. Not far oflE
was a prodigious quag. And Jerry struck in hastily:

" Ah'd carry t' lil pig all t' way."

'* Op wi' un then," said the sow sulkily.

Jerry stooped and lifted the squeaking creature. It was
heavy as ledd, and his own spine went near cracking with the
strain. But he persevered, and no sooner was it in his arms
than he found his hand free.

" Lemme go whoam," wailed the little pig.

" Bide quiet," said Jerry, stepping out with a will.

The sow came lumbering after them.

It was not a dignified procession, nor was it light work or
in any way resembling the entertainment which Jerry had
hoped to derive from the afternoon. He hoped none of his
acquaintances would meet him. But compared with his
recent experiences it was as good as a circus. He felt so
safe. He skirted the bog through which they had weltered,
and avoided the bramble-spikes and the gorse. And though
his. arm ached mightily, the distance traversed did not appear
to be so great as he had thought. As they drew near to the
road again, he even felt inclined to converse with the sow.

"An' t'was along o' ma taking a day off that yew tuk un
an' t* lil pig tuk 'tm," he remarked.

The sow made no reply.

"'Tis a curous thing," continued Jerry. '*We was all
gwoan to t' Devil simly an' pretty faast."

No answer. The little pig seemed to be alseep and growing
lighter. Now they were on the road again, and no one about.
By the time Jerry had got under the sign-board, the pig had
dwindled so in weight that he looked closely at it to see if
anything was the matter. It was no longer under his arm.

At the Sign of the Sound Pig

319

**Flewed oop,** said the sow, briefly. And sure enough
there it was in the sign-board, blinking at the perspective.

•* An' now yew'll ha' to hoist me," said the sow.

Jerry bent down, put his arms about her, and heaved.

**Oop!" he called.

The vastness of her upflying weight precipitated him
forward on his face, and he lay on the ground a little to collect
his senses. When he had risen he looked up. There was the
sign-board swinging in the wind, and the red sow in it hovering
over the grass the same as ever. Indeed, for a moment
Jerry doubted if she had ever come down.

He looked about him. It was still early in the afternoon
apparently, the sim still shining and not a sotil come back
from work. Jerry stepped to the door of the inn and knocked.

**Be that yew still, Jerry Jull?" cried Mrs. Turfy; **yew
bain't comen in, mind."

**Noa," said Jerry slowly. *'Ah bain't— ^not ef ah knaws
ut. But ah thought as ah'd let yew knaw, Missus Turfy,
as t* sow an' t' HI pig az back in t' booard."

*"Tiddn't trew, surely?" said Mrs. Turfy, sarcastically.

*' An'," continued Jerry, undeterred by her lack of interest,
**ef ah was yew, ah'd tie a rope round they — ower t' booard
like. 'Tis a vallyble sow an' HI pig, an' yew wouldn't laike
to lose they."

Then he retreated swiftly but steadily, with one eye on
the sign-board.

HE Captain of the
Penf^uin: The Story
of a Coasting Trip, by )• C.
Plummet*

%1B %1B ^ %1B

CAPTAIN COALE had written to his wife from Boston
that he was offered a profitable job on a wrecking
expedition to the Nova Scotian coast, and, as freights were
very low, he would accept. He would let the brig Penguin
lie idle at the snug New Jersey wharf until his return, which
might be soon or much delayed, he couldn't say. He advised
that Mr. Somers, chief officer of the Penguin, be retained on
pay, as he did not wish to lose him and he could take care of
the brig.

Mrs. Coale, who had been wedded only a short time and
whose dowry had completed the purchase of the brig, com-
mtinicated this news to Mr. Somers, and to Mrs. Nancy Bird-
sail, who was visiting her.

*'It seems a pity,*' said Mrs. Birdsall, ''to have that there
brig layin' at the wharf doing nothing."

" There's nothing for her to do," sighed Mrs. Coale; " I wish
there was; she's earning nothing lying at the wharf."

*' Wouldn't it be a nice thing, if you could only sail her. to
take a trip down to Eben Slocum's in Virginia?" suggested
Mrs. Birdsall.

'*Why, Nancy!" exclaimed Mrs. Coale, "the very thing.
Mr. Somers will do the sailing and I'll be captain; no, I can't
be captain, I'll be captainess. Do you know I've never been
to sea, and I am dying to rise and fall on the salt sea waves? "

"How poetic you do talk sometimes, Sarah," said Mrs,
Birdsall, admiringly. "But, for the land's sake, I didn't
really mean it. Suppose a storm strikes the brig and sinks
her?"

♦Written for Short Stories.

The Captain of the Penguin 321

''Storms ain't likely right now," replied Mrs. Coale; "be-
sides, if one comes we'll drop anchor and wait till the rain is
over. As to sinking, that's Mr. Somers' business to look out
for."

Mr. Somers was not enthusiastic when the scheme was
broached to him. He dared not refuse to obey the half owner
of the brig and his paymistress, but he made difficulties. He
had no sailors.

**Get 'em," retqrted Mrs. Coale, with brevity.

Mr. Somers finally managed to rake together three seamen.

"These are all I can get," said he; '*we ought to have five
men 'fore the mast."

** Oh, we'll get rfong with three, "remarked Mrs. Coale, cheer-
fully, ** we are not going far and are not in a hurry."

** I can't find a cook," grumbled Mr. Somers.

"I'll take Righteous Barnes out of the kitchen," said Mrs.
Coale.

"They gen'rally have men cooks aboard ship," put in Mr.
Somers.

"And men captains," retorted Mrs. Coale; "but this ship
will have a captainess."

Mr. Somers subsided.

It was a very fine noon when the Penguin, with all sails
outspread, buffeted the waves of the broad Atlantic, out of
sight of the Jersey coast. Mrs. Coale, standing on the quarter-
deck, gazed thoughtfully at the sails. *' Nancy," she said,
"what do you think of those sails?"

"I think they need washin', Sarah," replied Mrs. Birdsall.

" Mr. Somers," called Mrs. Coale, "we are not in a big hurry
to get to Eben Slocum's, as he's busy about this time getting
in his garden truck, so I think you had better have those sails
taken down and washed."

"Washed?" exclaimed Mr. Somers, aghast.

" Certainly, they are very dirty. I'd be ashamed to meet a
ship."

"Oh," remarked Mr. Somers, "the fust shower we'll have
will wash 'em all right."

"Mr. Somers," asked Mrs. Birdsall, reproachfully, "if your
shirt was dirty would you wear it until a rain came and washed
it?"

"All right," said the mate, struck by the point, "I'll have
them down and washed right away."

32 2 The Captain of the Penguin

** You'll find some of Jorkin*s Washing Ck)mpoimd in the
cabin," said Mrs. Coale, "it's a grand thing for cleanin*."

The sails were taken down, the hawse holes stopped up with
swabs, water piunped on deck and washing commenced.

"Say," said Ben, the oldest seaman, to the mate, "get me
some starch and have the irons good and hot, these here sails
'11 look gorgeous standin' out stifiE and white with a strip of red
flannel tied arotmd the mast and hangin' over the sail."

The two sailors laughed gleeftilly, but Mr. Somers was glum.

"Stow your guff," said he, "and obey orders."

When the renovated sails were spread once more to the
breeze both ladies admired them hugely, and as Righteous
had little to do that afternoon, she was put to scrubbing the
quarter-deck with sand soap and a brush. The next morning
it was dead calm and for want of something to do, Mr. Somers,
who acted as if the voyage did not interest him, overhauled
the flag locker, to the great admiration of the ladies.

"Oh, how cute!" exclamed Mrs. Birdsall, holding up a
triangular flag with a white groimd and a red ball in the
middle.

"And look at this," said Mrs. Coale, pointing to a square
flag with blue and white squares.

'Them's signal flags," said Mr. Somers, "Intemat'al code,
the red ball flag means * C,' and the square flag means 'N '."

Mrs. Birdsall gave a squeal of joy.

" My initials," she gasped, " N for Nancy, and C for Cobus,
my maiden name, you know, and oh, Sarah, this is my birth-
day!"

"I'll hoist these flags to the mast in your honor, Nancy,"
said Mrs. Coale. "Hoist them, Mr. Somers, the N above the C."

"Them's signals," growled Mr. Somers, "if we hist them
up in that fashion it will mean we are in distress and want
assistance. Ships will be bearin' down on us. Mum."

"How nice that'll be," exclaimed Mrs. Coale, "it is awfully
poky all by one's self and we may meet some real nice people."

"Surely," assented Mrs. Birdsall.

"I'll hist them if you order it, Mum," said Mr. Somers
sadly, "but it may make trouble."

"Nonsense," replied Mrs. Coale, "we needn't ask them to
meals unless we want, if the people from the ships do come
aboard."

Mr. Somers had the fateful flags hoisted, and then humed

The Captain of the Penguin 323

to the extremity of the bow, where, with his lips moving, he
resembled a man apostrophizing the ocean.

The brig dawdled along before the merest ghost of a breeze
until about noon, when a large steamer hove in sight. The
officers aboard evidently noted the distress signals of the
Penguin, for the steamer bore down on them and finally
slowed up.

Then a man on the bridge bellowed through a megaphone,

*'Brig ahoy, what's the matter.?"

''Don't answer him/' said Mrs. Birdsall indignantly, "it's
real ill-bred to shout that way at ladies."

**Do you want us to board you?" shrieked the megaphone.

Mrs. Coale waved her handkerchief and giggled. Mrs.
Birdsall dove into the cabin to arrange her hair.

The big steamer stopped and lowered a boat, which presently
delivered on board the Penguin a stout, florid-faced English-
man.

"I am chief mate of the steamer. Mum," said he, *'how
can we help you?"

*'I don't think we need any help, thank you kindly," replied
Mrs. Coale politely, "but we are very glad to see you."

The chief officer stared arotmd him.

"Where's the captain?" he asked.

"There is no captain on board," .replied Mrs. Coale, '*I
am the captainess."

"Why have you the distress signal flying?" inqtiired the
officer, his face becoming very red.

"Oh," said Mrs. Coale, "that's in honor of my friend's
birthday; you see her name before she was married was
Nancy Cobus, so I have hoisted the flag meaning *N' over
the one meaning 'C. It seems a little hind before, but it's
the only way to get the right initials. Mr. Chief Officer,
Mrs. Nancy Birdsall."

The officer made a feint of taking off his cap in honor of
Mrs. Birdsall, but was seized with a sudden choking that
made him turn av ay from the ladies rather suddenly. Having
at last recovered himself, he said:

"Glad to know you, Mum. So there's really nothing I can
do for you?"

"Thank you, nothing," replied Mrs. Coale, "but I am real
glad you called, for it is quite lonesome at sea."

"Where are you boimd?" asked the officer.

324 The Captain of the Penguin

*'To Eben Slocum's," responded Mrs. Coale. ''Do you
think we are sailing in the right direction ? "

"I never headed for that pprt myself," answered the
officer, "but I think you are."

** Won't you stay to dinner?'* asked Mrs. Birdsall hospitably.

"Sorry, Mum, but I must go back to my steamer; we have
a cargo of cattle bound for London/'

"If you have cattle on board," said Mrs. Birdsall, "I might
buy a Jersey heifer if you don't ask too high. We could use
one on our farm."

"Sorry, Mum," replied the officer, "we have only bullocks
on board and I must be going."

"I remember," exclaimed Mrs. Coale, detaining him,
"that a cousin of mine, Jim Stubbs — you remember Jim,
Nancy — ^went over to England in a cattle boat and is now
butchering in Sheffield. Maybe he would buy one of your
bullocks if you write to him."

• "I'll certainly do so, Mum," said the officer, and hurrying
into his boat he was rowed back to the steamer, which at
once moved off.

"I don't think that gentleman is used to ladies' society,
Nancy," said Mrs. Coale; ' 'did you notice how he colored up?"

"Poor creetur," exclaimed Mrs. Birdsall, "I expect he has
to spend all his time driving them cattle about the decks
and has no time for manners."

The evening wore on wearily, scarcely any wind and a dull
haze. The distress signals flapped harmlessly against the
mast without drawing any more visitors and the night came
apace arm in arm with such a dense fog that as far as seeing
where they were was concerned they might have been sus-
pended in mid-air instead of floating on the water.

Mr. Somers, gleaming as to his clothes and beard as if
sprinkled with powdered silver, ordered hideous sotmds to
be drawn from the fog horn and the crew to remain on deck
the whole night.

"It would be a pity if a ship passed now," remarked Mrs.
Birdsall, "we couldn't see her."

"It 'd be Gord's Providence if she passed and didn't run
into us," said Mr. Somers.

"If there is any ships near us," said Mrs. Coale, "I am sure
that horrid horn will keep the people awake. Why don't
you stop it, Mr. Somers?"

The Captain of the Penguin 335

The mate indignantly went forward without reply and
the wailing of the horn continued.

"I suppose he's Wowin* that horn to keep ships from
running into us," remarked Mrs. Coale.

*'I don't see,*' retorted Mrs. Birdsall, "why ships» when
they see a fog comin', don't let down their anchors and wait
for clear weather."

"I guess the sailors don't like the trouble of pulling the
anchors up," said Mrs. Coale.

*'The more shame to 'em," exclaimed Mrs. Birdsall eni-
phatically. "Let's go to bed; there's nothing to see and we
won't have any visitors to-night. "

The ladies were aroused at dawn by Mr. Somers announcing
that there was a vessel in distress on the port bow.

"Merciful heavens, " exclaimed Mrs. Coale, leaping from her
bunk, "get up, Nancy, we have run our port bow into a ship."

The ladies hastened on deck and were looking vacantly
around them when Mr. Somers pointed out the vessel just
visible amidst the rapidly clearing mists.

"I thought," said Mrs. Birdsall, with disappointment,
"that he said the vessel was on our port bow, and it's miles
away. "

"What are you going to do.'* " asked Mrs. Coale of the mate.

"I am bearing down on 'em as fast as the wind '11 let me, '*
said Mr. Somers, "and that's not fast enough, I am afeared,
for she's sinkin', her deck is nearly awash. Hello, they're
getting out the boats."

"For the land's sake, here they come, Sarah,'' exclaimed
Mrs. Birdsall, "and look at my hair."

Mrs. Coale nearly collapsed at the realization of her own
appearance, and both ladies rushed into their staterooms,
calling Righteous the cook as they ran.

"Put on the new napkins. Righteous," called Mrs. Coale,
in tones that suggested hair in her mouth.

** Don't forget the coffee urn. Righteous," screamed Mrs.
Birdsall, "and the tablecloth last night had a gravy stain on
it, get a new one."

"If there are many of 'em we'll be short of plates, I know, "
moaned Mrs. Coale.

But no time was allowed for much improvement, as the
castaways were heard on deck by the time the ladies were in
passable presentation shape, and they were about going on

326 The Captain of the Penguin

deck when the stairs were blocked by a btirly man who
seized Mrs. Coale and kissed her loudly.

"Hello, old girl," said he.

"Why, Samuel," exclaimed Mrs. Coale, recognizing her
husband, "I thought you were in Nova Scotia!"

"I came very near being at the bottom of the Atlantic,"
repHed the captain, "and being turned from a wrecker into a
wreck. "

"Were you on the sinking ship?" asked Mrs. Coale.

"I was. You see, we finished up on the coast quicker than
I expected, and as Captain Grigg was about to sail for Phila-
delphia with his schooner, I came down on her. Last night
with all our lights burning and the fog horn squealing a
blundering steamer ran into us and then kept on as if nothing
had happened. We started in at the pumps, but had made
up our minds to leave the schooner when your brig hove in
sight through the fog.

"For the land's sake," exclaimed Mrs. Birdsall, "it seems
a Providence we were sailing along here."

"How comes it that the old Penguin is cruising along
here?" asked Captain Coale, "I thought she was moored at
her wharf."

"Oh," replied his wife, "we got tired of seeing her do
nothing and were going to run down to Virginia and pay
Eben Slocum a visit."

"Come on deck," cried the jolly skipper, "I'll introduce
you to Captain Grigg."

"I can't understand," said Captain Grigg, "why, if there's
nothing the matter you should have distress signals flyin'. "

Mrs. Coale explained.

"Well," said the skipper gallantly, "it is a mistake to
hist distress signals to mark the day you were bom, miss,"
and he glared at ^rs. fiirdsall with admiration depicted in
every lineament of his countenance.

Mrs. Birdsall blushed and saw that Captain Grigg had the
best of the breakfast.

After the meal Captain Coale glanced aloft and ordered the
yards shifted.

"We'll let Eben Slocum alone this trip," said he, "he's
planting potatoes, anyway. We'll steer for New York and
have a.few days' holiday."

And they did.

fl]& ^Sergeant's Idea:

An African Sketch, by G«
Stanley EUis*,

A WISE man,*' said the sergeant, ''will often be a fool, but a
fool will never be anything else. And a few wise men
are worth more than a heap of fools, or perhaps even than a
heap of wise men. And a few fools are worth more than a heap
of fools. As how? Thus. When we were at Parda, up in
what they call the Hinterland, beyond Bamboa, which is on the
west coast of Africa, the lieutenant and I, and a sergeant of
the 'Lions,' the King's Own, and two himdred of our niggers
made a reconnaissance. When we were three days' march
beyond Parda, we became aware of a big crowd of niggers, who
seemed to wish to bar our way. We judged that by the fact
that no fewer than two thousand of them came up against us
with all the weapons they could muster — bows and arrows,
spears, and such things. Those of them who had trade guns,
with gallant disregard of the danger to the men at the butt
ends of the old gas-pipes, fired them off at us. At last the
lieutenant said:

"'Sergeant Harding, the men, for raw blacks, have stood
very well. But they're getting a bit out of hand now, and
there are at least a dozen down. Do you think any of yours
have enough grit in them to cover the — er — retirement ? '

"'Well, sir, I don't feel very sure of them. Their fellow-
heathens have put the fear of God into them. But I'll try
with them.'

"They stood — oh, yes, they stood — ever so much better
than I'd ever expected to see them stand. I retired them by
alternate half-sections. The retiring half-section did its work
thoroughly, and retired for all it was worth. The covering

*From Longman's Magazine.

328 The Sergeant* s Idea

half -section did not seem to have its heart in its work quite so
much as the other had, but when I saw a man getting nervous
I distracted his attention from the en^my by attacking him
in the rear with my boot. They would rather face a possible
bullet than a certain ammunition-boot. The difficulty with
me was to keep in touch with the two half-sections. If I left
the covering half -section, it had a tendency to be afraid of
bullets, and if I left the retiring half -section, it had a tendency
to keep on retiring. But I kept them up to the scratch with
all the abusive terms that I had been able to pick up out of
their language, and filled up the gaps with a little Tommy
language at the top of my voice. It is more the noise you
make than what you say. And, when language of all kinds
failed, I recollected that some philosopher before me had said,
'Actions speak louder than words.* Now, I have always been
a bit of a philosopher myself — that is' with regard to other
folks — and I brought in the boot. When night fell the.attack
dropped oflF bit by bit till it ceased, and we rejoined the main
body.

***Very good, very good, indeed, sergeant,' said the lieu-
tenant.

** 'They're all plucky, sir,' said I, *oiu- niggers and the other
niggers, too. They're very handy in a free fight, and they
enjoy it as much as if they were Irish members of Parlia-
ment.*

** * Yes, sergeant. But what I was surprised to see was how
well they kept on the defensive in retiring. A rear-guard
action is trying to the best troops.**

" * It was their fear for their rear that kept them up, sir.*

***0h,' said the lieutenant, in a puzzled way. It would
never do for an officer to acknowledge to an N. C. O. that he
didn't understand.

*'*We seem to have beaten ott the enemy, sir.'

'**No, you mustn*t congratulate yourself on having done
quite as much as that, sergeant. You ought to know by now
that black men are very superstitious, and that they dislike
doing anything at night for fear of evil spirits. Even our own
trained blacks won*t do anything in the dark unless they are
led by white men. These natives who attacked tis have cer-
tainly formed a camp for the night; you can even see from
here the fires they have lighted to keep off evil spirits.*

The Sergeants Idea 329

***Yes, sir. I judge them to be about three miles off.'

***That is about it.'

** * Couldn't we push on a bit, sir, while they are resting? '

** * No. You had the best of the men, and your men were
kept going by the fact that they were fighting. But the bulk
of the main body are clean done, and many of them couldn't
march another mile.*

** * Can't we leave them behind, sir? '

'* * Not to be killed and eaten, though it would do the enemy
good, and serve them right, to let them eat some of our niggers.
There is nothing for it but to camp till the morning, and then
to carry on as before.'

''So the lieutenant and I and the Lion took our rations
together, for when you are schooling niggers in West Africa
there is more difference between a white man and a black man
than there is between an officer and an N. C. O.

***It reminds me, sir,' said the Lion, with his mouth full,
*of what happened in '57, in the Mutiny, to my father, who
was then corporal in the *

'** Thank you, sergeant,* said the lieutenant, *but I've often
heard of things which remind you of what happened to your
relations. And I must say that I never — out of the Engineers,
that is — knew, in spite of the fact that, on the surface, you
appear a little heavy, a more lively imagination in drawing
parallels. But please get that Maconochie out of your mouth
before telling us any more.*

** (If you're admitted to mess with officers, you have to pay
for it.)

*" Maconochie, sir,' said the Lion indignantly; * mine's only
bully-beef.'

***Well, we'll share and share alike to-night,* said the lieu-
tenant, 'so long as we have no reminiscences.'

"*I don't know, sir,* said the Lion steadfastly, *that I can
promise you no reminiscences, because they may do you good.
And, although you are my officer, I am always willing to do you
good.'

*** That's kind of you, sergeant. Generally people are op-
posed to those over them.*

** * There is a more important matter for me, sir. They may
do me good. There was a newspaper man called O'Donovan,
who was always nosing about to get information. The way
he asked questions was by telling other people tales. And one

330 The Sergeant's Idea

tale he told me was about a man called Skobeleff , who made a
trig name in the Russo-Turkish War. It appears that, like
ourselves, a Russian column was once retreating '

" The lieutenant frowned. I gave the Lion a judicious kick
while the lieutenant pretended not to see. The Lion looked a
little flabbergasted; then he tmderstood, and went on:

"*A Russian column was strategically retiring, imder Gen-
eral Trotsky, from Namangan, because it numbered only eight
htmdred men. Skobeleff proposed a night attack on the six
thousand Khokandians who were in pursuit. He carried it
out with a hundred and fifty Cossacks, and it was quite suc-
cessful.'

'"Sergeant,' said the lieutenant like a flash, 'that's your
idea, and you shall carry it out to-night. How many men do
you want?'

"The Lion was knocked galley-west.

***rd rather you carried it out, sir,' said he respectfully,
when he recovered his moral wind. * It wants a man who is
quick at the uptake, and I never was a Skobeleff myself. Now
if it bad been my imcle in the Horse-Gtmners '

"*I must stop with the main body,' said the Ueutenant.
'They'll cut and run if they are left in camp without one of
us.'

" ' Then I'd like Sergeant Harding with me, sir, and the black
sergeant. Big Tom, and sixty good men.'

" * Do you think that will be enough? ' asked the Ueutenant.

"*I remember, if what Mr. O 'Donovan told me was right,
sir, that Skobeleff had only a htmdred and fifty against six
thousand.'

'* * All right, sergeant. I don't question your reminiscences;
but what General Skobeleff had doesn't prove what you ought
to have. As you yourself said, you are not a Skobeleff, so take
as many as you think you want.'

"'Sergeant Harding, Big Tom, and sixty men will be quite
enough, sir,' said the Lion, who was an obstinate man.

"*When will you start?'

" 'About twelve, sir. I shall take twenty men on the right
flank, Sergeant Harding twenty men on the left flank, and Big
Tom twenty men for a frontal attack. The frontal attack will
be the easiest, if I judge the ground right. We shall be all in
position before one o'clock. Allow half an hour for delay or
going astray, and we shall all attack at half-past one, when I

The Sergeant* s Idea 331

send up a rocket from the right flank. That will be at the
darkest time.'

** * Make it a quarter-past one, sergeant,' said the lieutenant.
'If the others are not up by a quarter of an hour after time,
they will either have entirely lost their way or they will have
been cut up. In either case they will be of no use to you, and
though our blacks will fight when properly led, they won't bear
waiting in the middle of the night. Even trained white
soldiers want some nursing for that.'

***Very good, sir,' said the Lion, and at twelve o'clock we
started.

"With my twenty men I crept on and on through the dense
bush, wherein we heard the forest beasts rustling their way
through the underwood. Once, for a moment, I saw a pair of
yellow eyes glare full into mine, and I brought my rifle to the
charge. I was in mortal fear of treading on a snake, which is a
thing I hate. Taking one thing with another, I think the
niggers, when they object to night expeditions, are certainly
right.

"But at last we got close on the left flank of the enemy, and
there came a time of waiting which seemed hours. I foimd
the lieutenant had been quite right in saying that a quarter
of an hour was enough. That quarter's wait in the dark as a
C. O., without anyone with whom to rub shoulders, being miles
above all sympathy and advice, seemed a whole long night to
me. I give you my word, it's more companionable and cosier
to be in the ranks than to be an officer. The only companion-
ship I had was the chattering behind me of the teeth of the
niggers, who were both cold and afraid, and it was all I could
do to keep my own from chattering. Just when I thought I
could hold on no longer, up went the Lion's rocket with a whiz.
It was better to me than the Crystal Palace on a Thursday, or
Brock's Benefit, or even than the Policeman's F^te. I never
saw a finer display of fireworks than that rocket. We fired a
volley, jumped up, and ran in with the bayonet. When I met
the Lion, five minutes later, in the middle of the enemy's
camp, there was not a live and tmwotinded adversary who was
not running for his life ; for an xmtrained black man who wakes
up in the middle of the night, to see what he thinks is a fiery
serpent in the air, and to feel what he knows is a bayonet in his
stomach or the small of his back, develops running powers not
to be got by training. And we let them run ; we were pleased

332 The Sergeants Idea

to see it. Next morning, after occupying the camp all night,
we marched to our main body. The lieutenant turned out to
meet us.

'* * What did you do, sergeant? '

** * We buried three of the enemy, sir, and have ten prisoners
and one hundred and twenty guns.'

' ' * Where are the rest of the enemy ? *

*' * I don't know, sir,' said the Lion, *but I should think they
are about in Zanzibar by now.*

'* ' I'm proud of you, sergeant,' said the Heutenant. ' It was
a very ticklish operation with so few men.*

*'*No, sir,* said the Lion with a blush; *it reminds me of
what Mr. O'Donovan said Skobeleflf said. Irregular troops,
even of the very bravest, are subject to panics. A night attack
is the most nerve-shaking of fights; for irregular troops, if
their lines are penetrated, it means destruction. The object
being not to cut to pieces, but to strike terror, a small number
can make as much noise as a large one. A small party is less
liable to conftision and to killing each' other. If a small party
is destroyed, the destruction does not endanger the main body.

*'*Thank you, sergeant, very much,* said the lieutenant.
* But I will not tax your memory any further. I shall recom-
mend you for the D. C. M.*

*'* District court-martial, sir?* said the Lion, with open
mouth.

** * Not this time, sergeant — Distinguished Conduct Medal.* **

DEFAULTERi A

Tale of Monte Carlo^ by
Oskar Reich« Translated
from the German by J* V*
Minor*

^ ^ ^

MONSIEUR GERARD, chief of the detective bureati
in Monte Carlo, and L^on, his secretary, looked up
and through the open door:

"Come in. Mademoiselle Lapace!"

The one addressed, a handsome girl in the elegant, but
striking costume of the demi-monde, stepped into the room.

"We are occupied with the following case,** explained
Gerard: "The Mimich police inform us that a certain MuUer,
whose description you will find in this paper, has embezzled
18,000 marks from his employer and fled, probably to the
Riviera. M. L^on has just been telling me that one of our
men reported yesterday that a German was playing for
high stakes in the Casino. You will join this man, and as
soon as you have formed his acquaintance try to draw him
out. The rest I leave to you. There is a reward of 500
marks for the apprehension of this MuUer. I have no further
orders for you to-day. Send Bernard to me!**

The detective mentioned appeared.

"The head cashier of the Bank of Warsaw,'* began the
chief, "has absconded with 732,000 roubles. He was
traced to Vienna, and left there on the sixteenth for Italy.
The attention of our colleagues centered itself immediately
on the port of Genoa, and yesterday the Ventimiglia authori-
ties were successful in establishing the fact that the man in
question — ^his name is Godulowsky — had turned his steps in
this direction. It is now your task to discover this man.
Read these reports which have been made on the case up to

♦Translated for Short Stories.

334 A Defaulter

the present time! — Now what is your opinion?" asked M. |

Gerard, as the other returned him the folded paper after a \

swift survey of its contents. • j

"I think the Italian police are right. Undoubtedly this I

defatdter has come here to play. But as it is evident from
the whole manner and method in which he has carried through
this coup, that he is an exceptionally clever rascal, I do not
believe that he himself will visit the casino. The fact that it
swarms with detectives will certainly be known to him.
My opinion is that he is concealing himself in inconspicuous
lodgings, somewhere in the vicinity of the gambling hall, to
which latter resort he sends an accomplice who places his
money and reports to him from time to time for further
instructions. The Warsaw reports mention that another
person is concerned in the case."

'*And what do you propose to do?"

''As a first expedient I shall take my place in the Caf6 de
Paris, viS'tL-vis the entrance to the Casino. I shall disperse
my spies about the place and must request that Antoine and
his family be appointed for that purpose."

The chief nodded assent and the detective left the room.

A little while later Bernard, in the disguise of an English-
man, entered the Caf6 and seated himself at one of the tables.
He had been sitting there perhaps half an hour, when a
waiter with cigars — ^who was also a detective, and daily
ptirsued his calling in this capacity — approached him, and
while he was selecting one whispered to him that at a table
beyond, under the great palm, a gentleman was sitting to
whom another had already come twice.

Bernard stood up and cotmted. A few minutes later an
English family, in reality the detective Antoine, his wife and
twelve-year-old son, all in the detective service, seated them-
selves at a table opposite that of the designated stranger.
And after a further stated time had elapsed, Bernard strolled
by, whereupon little Antoine cried out, in faultless Englisjh:
"See, papa, there goes Mr. Jones."

Antoine called to him and he sat down with them.

Another man now came to the adjoining table, and after
eating an ice and talking softly but eagerly with the other
occupant, took his departure. Little Antoine followed him
unremarked. The stranger hurried along the Avenue of
Palms and so directly away from the casino. At the comer

A Defaulter 335

of the Rue de Richelieu he paused, but as his whole attention
was centered on grown persons he paid no attention to the
boy. He went the length of the street, then turned into the
Rue des Etoiles, and thus reached at last the gardens of the
casino. Even as he re-entered the gambling room he was
shadowed by a detective to whom little Antoine had passed
the word, after which the latter returned to his father.

About an hour later Bernard saw the stranger emerge again
from the casino and walk slowly along the Promenade. In
a few moments the man at the table beside him paid his bill
and started in the same direction, after him Bernard and
Antoine with his family.

At the Place des Princes it seemed to dawn upon the two
strangers, who had cast frequent glances behind them, that
the English people were persistently following them, and
they branched off in opposite directions.

Frau Antoine and her son went after one of them, while the
two detectives followed the other, whom they suspected of
being Godtdowsky, the arch-offender. Having reached the
Grand Hotel, the man they were pursuing turned in there.
Antoine took his stand beside the door, while Bernard
hastened with utmost rapidity to the other entrance of the
hotel in the Rue Rousseau.

Meanwhile Godulowsky — ^for it was indeed he — strolled
nonchalantly into the strange hotel. It is the custom every-
where in the Riviera that one may ftdly inspect any hotel
without being in any way interrogated. The proprietor may
perchance be moved thereto by the hope that such inspection
may residt in a decision in favor of his hotel, as due observa-
tion would not fail to remark that in so large a hostelry as the
Grand Hotel, with its two entrances, no supervisory control
is possible.

Godtdowsky hung up his hat in the reading-room, and
having spent several minutes in an apparent search for a
newspaper, quietly left the room, appropriating, however,
another hat, which, as well as his haste would permit, he
had already measured with his eye and decided to be the
nearest in size to his own.

He now ascended the stairs, walked through the corridor
of the first floor, and not finding what he sought, honored
the second story with a visit. Before the door of room
No. 16 htmg a complete outfit, whose owner had left it

336 A Defaulter

there to be brushed. He snatched it and hurried into an
empty room beyond.

With a jerk he freed himself from the false beard which he
had been wearing and threw aside the glasses. With equal
despatch he divested himself of his own clothes and put on
the others, which, as it happened, fitted him fairly well, only
the trousers being far too long for him, and these he rolled
up at the bottom.

As he suspected that both doors were watched, and that
the detectives — ^for that they were such he no longer doubted
— would take it for granted that he would make his exit by
the other one, he left the hotel by the same door through
which he had entered it.

Antoine saw, among several others, a gentleman walk out
of the hotel who was a perfect stranger to him, yet con-
cerning whom he had an indefinite suspicion that all was not
right. Then his glance fell upon the man's boots, and he
knew who stood before him. A little while before, in the
Caf^ de Paris, he had noticed a spot on the left boot of the
stranger opposite, evidently the result of having stepped
into a puddle or having been splashed by a passing cart.
By this mark he recognized the object of his search, whom
he now approached.

Like lightning Godulowsky's hand flew to his pocket, but
before he could discharge the revolver which he drew, the
detective had struck the weapon from his hand.

Fifteen minutes later Godulowsky was seated in police-
headquarters, together with his simultaneously arrested
accomplice. The greater part of the money was found to be
still upon them.

FiTeftiE^

A Story of Trcasurc-trovc, by Emily Allison
Townsend. Illustrations by Louise
B. Mansfield*

THE south wind came rushing over the island, bringing to
the ear the dull boom of ^the breakers. It ruffled the
surface of the moorland in dark green waves of bayberry, and
twisted the gnaried and scrubby cedars. Nature was in one
of those moods where the gray desolation of a winter day
seemed to have settled on the land in spring.

In the center of the gloomy moor stood a tumble-down
hut. Its broken window panes, stuffed with rags and
bleached seaweed, gave the place the appearance of a blind
beggar. A worthless boat was stranded in the yard, and on
t perched a black cat with wicked yellow eyes.

A cart containing a solitary figure wended its way across
the ruts and hummocks of the moor, according to the erratic
fancy of the old horse. Suddenly the animal stopped in front
of the hut, and no amotmt of persuasion with voice and whip
could induce him to move.

^'Gee 'long, Dobbin! What ails thee?" said Hiram
Coffin, a strapping young fellow of twenty-two; but Dobbin,
with feet firmly planted on solid grotmd, refused to proceed.

*Written for Short Stories.

338

The Enchanted Pitcher

"Some of old Sal's work!*' muttered the young man, and
leaping lightly from his cart, he strode up to the door of the
hut and pounded with the handle of his whip on the door.
No response came from within. The cat sat licking her
chops and looking at Hiram maliciously.

At length he heard a slight commotion inside the hut, a bolt
was drawn, and an old, bent woman appeared in the doorway.
Patches of every color held her gown together. A pair of

sharp, black eyes, beneath tangled locks, looked keenly at
him.

"Please take the spell off my horse, Sal," said Hiram.

"So Tristram's son comes to old Sal for help? Let the
pride of the rich be himibled in the dust.*'

** I never harmed thee,** replied the yotmg man.

'* The curse shall descend to the second and third generation
of them that hate me,*' said the witch.

The Enchanted Pitcher 339

"See, I have brought thee a present;*' and going to the
cart he took out a large basket of cohogs and deposited half
of them in a bucket near the door.

Sal entered the house and soon reappeared with a blue
Canton pitcher in the design of which snakes, turtles and
birds were curiously intermingled. Going three times aroimd
the horse, she uttered a strange incantation and the animal
relapsed into its usual docility.

While she was absorbed in this procedure, a yotmg girl of
seventeen with masses of tawny hair and big brown eyes came to
the door. Hiram's blue eyes lighted with pleasure.

"Ain't seen thee in a dog's age, Judy," he said.

"Sal watches me like a cat," replied the girl. "She says
the devil is trying to lure my soul to destruction."

" A witch ought to know the whereabouts of that old fellow,"
said Hiram. "But thee must come to the sheep-shearing
to-morrow. We're going to have a bully time."

"I'll come," said Judy, and hastily withdrew, as old Sal
came toward the house.

"Begone, yotmg man!" said Sal. "Never let thy shadow
fall on this house again. Take care how thou despiseth the
witch-woman. The fires of hell shall consume thee."

"Thank thee kindly for thy good wishes, Sal," said Hiram
as he jumped into his cart and took his way onward.

Old Sal, in her steeple-crowned hat and long, rusty black
cloak, might truly have flown down on a broom-stick from
the nearest planet, so little was known about her. The
ruined fisherman's hut was found one day to be occupied by
her and she proved to have some skill in things supemattiral.
Ailing horses, cows and sheep quickly regained health by
the potent charm of her simple liniments and magic words,
aided generally by the tmcanny spell of the blue pitcher.
Sailors came to bespeak lucky voyages, and lovers to gain
her advice. People who consulted her on business were un-
molested; but disaster followed those who approached her
abode from idle curiosity.

The incongruous companion of the woman's isolation was a
beautiful child — probably five years old at the time of the
witch's arrival on the island. The girl seemed the em-
bodiment of refinement and daintiness, very different from
the sturdy Quaker children of Nantucket.

"A stolen child!" was the comment often heard when the

340 The Enchanted Pitcher

Quakers spoke of her. When Judy was abottt seven years old
she went to school at the instance of the selectmen.

The teacher asked: "What is thy name, little girl?"

"Judy, " replied the child.

"Judith what?" inquired the teacher.

"Just plain Judy — ^nothing else 'cept Judy," was the
answer.

At recess the children romped and played about the yard,
while Judy was left to her own devices. Suddenly there was
a whispering, with girls' heads close together. Then one little
voice piped up, " Judy, the witch's child ! The witch's child !"

Finally, a chorus of little voices shouted, "Judy, the
witch's child!"

Judy's cheeks grew redder and redder, and her eyes flashed
defiance, when suddenly a defender appeared.

"You girls just leave Judy alone. What's the use of
being so mean?" said young Hiram Coffin. "If any fellers
wants to fight me, come on ! " and he took off his jacket.

But no one appeared to accept his challenge. Judy cast
a look of gratitude on Hiram, and ever since that day the
two had been firm friends.

When Hiram Coffin, the son of the wealthiest ship-owner
on Nantucket, championed Judy's cause, the other children
decided that it was best not to torment her. After this
incident the child, so little accustomed to kindness, regarded
Hiram as a hero.

Faith Gardner was Judy's only girl friend. This growing
friendship was decidedly frowned upon by Squire Gardner
and his wife. They thought that the witch's child could not
be a fitting associate for Faith. Neither her parentage nor
her environment made the friendship seemly. In vain
they remonstrated, and finally concluded that opposition
only added fuel to the flame and that it was a species of be-
witchment which the child would outgrow. But Faith's
friendship was firmly placed.

One day on the way to school Judy met Hiram. After a
little talk about teachers and lessons, Hiram said:

"Say, Judy, do you know what's in the blue pitcher? By
gummy, I'd like to know what makes it cure sick horses."

"So would I, Hiram."

" Let's find out. Judy, when old Sal's away."

The Enchanted Pitcher 341

"She's going over the beach to pick up driftwood this
afternoon," said Judy. *'Come after school."

When Hiram arrived at Sal's, Judy at once ushered him
in, and they began to search for the pitcher. Hiram climbed
up to the top shelf of the pantry, and was about to seize
the pitcher when a step was heard on the door-sill. The
boy, terrified, fell to the floor in a heap, and Judy rushed
to the door but found no one there. When Hiram tried to
stand he discovered that his ankle was sprained. Judy
helped him out, and by aid of a chair, he moimted his
horse and rode away. He had no sooner gone than Sal
appeared.

**Hast thou taken good care of my pitcher?*' said the old
woman sardonically.

Judy hastened to assure her that she had.
**The foul fiends will take thee, thou child of Ananias!"
was the comforting assurance.

A huge brown bear was another of Sal's treasures. A
traveling fiddler had come to the island, and, having the
sick bear on his hands, was very glad to sell him for a small
sum of money. Sal restored the animal to health, and now,
led by a chain, it followed her tamely about. The bear
proved a terror to naughty children and kept them at a
respectful distance, and at the same time served as a beast
of burden. It was whispered that people going near the
witch's house at night had heard the strains of a fiddle and
had seen the shadows of a huge dancing creature — presumably
the bear. This seemed conclusive proof to the primitive
people that the old woman had sold her soul to the enemy
of mankind. Fear kept them at a reasonably safe distance,
and so they had the disadvantage of not being able to verify
their surmises.

Sheep-shearing day dawned, a typical Nantucket day, full
of brightness and the keen joy of life. Great patches of
golden flowers gleamed over the moorland. Judy rose early
to make her simple preparations for the great day. She
looked as fresh as the morning in her clean print gown.

*'rm going to the sheep-shearing, Atmt Sal," she said.
** Faith Gardner asked me to come; and to spend the night
with her afterward."

Strange to say, the old woman made no decided objection,
though she muttered something in reply.

34^ The Enchanted Pitcher

The annual festival took place on Miacomet Plain, stir-
rotinded by its chain of ponds. The first two days were
occupied with washing of the sheep by the men, and on the last
day was the shearing and rebranding. All over the plain
glistened white tents, in which tables were spread, and maids"
and matrons presided, with much merriment over the boun-
tiful feasts. When Judy arrived there was a sound of revelry
from the tents; for the men had come from shearing the
sheep and were at their noonday meal.

Faith Gardner caught sight of her and called out: " Come
in here, Judy, if you want to be where the ftm is."

Judy saw a table spread with all the good things which
the island and mainland could produce in those days, and
besides there were viands brought in ships from many
foreign cotmtries. Nantucket vessels went to every port
in the world, bringing home many strange dainties — confec-
tions from the West Indies, rarest teas* from the East, and
foreign wines of choicest vintage — ^to be used only on great
occasions.

** Here's a place for thee, Judy," said Hiram CoflBn, making
room for her beside himself.

**The Nautilus comes in port this afternoon," said Lovice
Macy.

"If she can run the blockade," said Hiram. **We shall
sit in darkness, like the heathen, if a little oil is not forth-
coming soon."

*' Two thousand barrels are aboard her," said Peleg Randall,
** and the seed com we are so much in need of."

"Girls," said Hiram, "we must have the dance to-night,
but not a word as big as a huckleberry to anyone. Jonah
Ray and I have otir plans all made. The town-crier shall
annoimce the ball, if all goes well; but our elders must
not know."

"We'll ask the officers of the Nautilus," said Faith, "if
they are in port in time."

"The town-crier shall be in the secret," continued Hiram«
"He will say this evening, as he goes arotmd the town,
* Nautilus expected, also Terpsichore, * We in the secret will
know what he means. Now whisper the news to all the
other girls and boys."

When evening came great excitement prevailed among the
young people. Hiram and Jonah had taken possession of a

The Enchanted Pitcher 343

large, empty room — the entire second story of a storage
btiilding on the wharf. It belonged to Jonah's father, from
whom the yoting man had stolen the key. The floor was
scoured and rubbed down tintil it looked like the deck of a
man-of-war. The walls were covered with old sails and
flags of many nations. The town-crier perambulated the
town at his usual time, riaiging his bell and crying:

"Another battle fought! Many killed and wounded —
meat sale to-night — Nautilus expected — ^likewise Terpsichore
— all are invited."

Faith loaned Judy an old pink brocaded satin gown which
made her, with powdered hair and a coquettish patch near
the comer of her mouth, resemble a beauty of the Court of
Louis XVI.

"Indeed, thee quite eclipses me, " said Faith, a sweet-
tempered, fair-haired girl, who looked very lovely in a pale
blue silk over a white satin petticoat.

"What a dear thee is!" said Judy, kissing her.

"Ma," said Faith, coming down the stairs, "we're going
over to Mehitable CoflBn's for a while; does thee care?"

" Don't get tired at the ball, " said Squire Gardner, winking
knowingly.

All agreed that the hall was a dream of beauty. Old
black Jim, a West Indian negro, scraped the fiddle with
great dexterity and presently the room was filled with
whirling figures.

As soon as Hiram spied Judy, he rushed toward her, saying:
"Come, Judy, the dance. is beginning and thee promised to be
my partner."

Some of the other girls looked jealously at Judy, for Hiram
was considered the most desirable yotmg man of Nantucket.

Judy was having such a beautiful time with Hiram that
she did not even see the scornful glances cast toward her.
She was determined to be recklessly happy for once in her
life, let the consequences be what they might. She danced
with spirit and grace. A beautiful color came into her
usually pale cheeks and her flashing eyes expressed supreme
happiness.

"Thee is the prettiest girl here," said Hiram.

"O flatterer!" replied Judy, "does thee say that to each
girl in turn?"

344 The Enchanted Pitcher

** No, '* replied Hiram, with a hurt look, ** I say it only whea
I mean it/*

"Forgive me, Hiram," said Judy; **I believe thee has
been my friend ever since that first day at school. Does thee
remember it?"

** Indeed I do. The women are not much nicer to thee than
they were then; but we will change all that, " he added kindly.

**I would not be here to-night if it were not for Faith
Gardner. She is my dear, good friend."

Nothing succeeds like success, and Judy, much to her
surprise, soon found herself the belle of the ball.

The Nautilus had reached port at about eight o'clock in the
evening, and the officers eagerly availed themselves of the
invitation to the dance, making gay the scene in their gold-
laced uniforms among the severe-looking, drab-colored Qua-
ker youths.

Captain Brandigee danced with Judy, complimented her on
her dancing, and asked her if she had learned the art in Paris.

Judy blushed and answered ** No. " If he only knew about
old Sal and her hideous home, thought the girl, bitterly,
for a moment; but soon, lost in the delight of the dance,
she forgot everything except the pleasure of the hour.

In the meantime, old Sal had passed quite a different day.
In the afternoon she had wandered over the beach, picking up
driftwood, occasionally lifting her head and drinking in the
delicious salt air, mingled with the sweetness of the growing
bayberry. She looked out over the rippling blue water.
Not a ship was in sight. No human being seemed on the
island except herself. The old bear ambled along by her
side and she piled her driftwood on his back.

Suddenly she thought she heard a voice. It came ap-
parently from a ruined fisherman's hut on the bank. She
listened. From the window a hand beckoned her. She
approached; the hand held gold pieces. **They are for
you," said the voice.

"Come out, lad," said Sal. "Who art thou?"

A young fellow wearing the dress of an English middy
stood before her astonished gaze.

"The Lord preserve us!" exclaimed Sal.

"Well, old gal, call off your bloomin* bear. My eyes, but
hain't you never seen one of his Majesty's sailors afore?"

"What dost thou here, young man?"

The Enchanted Pitcher

345

*• Expectin' a ship, ain't they ? *' he said in a whisper. ** See
here, ** and he held out a handful of gold, with meaning looks
first toward the town, then toward the British vessel.

*' Put up your money, lad. Vengeance is mine. It's the
worm's chance to
turn. The worm
trampled on for
years at last turns
and bites the heel
of the oppressor."

The man had "^^^
come ashore from a
British cniiser, in a
small boat which
quickly returned.
None of the deni-
zens of Nantucket
had seen the ship,
though it still
hovered not many
miles out to sea.

The old town had
suffered severely during the days
of the Revolution. Its fleets of
whalers were almost entirely
destroyed, and oil and provision}^
sometimes were barely obtainable.
The British ships, continually on
the watch, stood ready at any
minute to swoop down on the
defenseless people. The Nan-
tucketers managed to signal to
the schooners of their own peo-
ple, and they had been warned,
if they gave help to any more ' "'^

ships, their town would be

burned. A ship laden with two thousand barrels of oil and a
supply of seed com was expected at Nantucket. The British
knew this and the sailor had been sent ashore to investigate.

That evening Sal and the bear meandered down to Candle
Alley, where the old woman made a few purchases. Near the
comer of Candle Alley and Main Street stood a little shoe-shop.

346 The Enchanted Pitcher

where the masculine gossips of the town were wont to assemble
by night. Here Sal stopped imder the side window. The
bear very strangely preferred to stand upright, with his ear
quite close to the open window, while Sal watched the pass-
ersby.

In the store were gathered the village worthies, discussing
the war and the likelihood of the expected ships being able to
run the blockade.

'* They do say as how the Sary Ann's been sighted," said the
old sailor, Eliphalet Russell, taking his pipe from his mouth
and expectorating with sure aim into the smoldering wood-
fire. ** We must hail Capt'n Ray somehow or t'other. The
saucy Nautilus ran in right tmder the Britishers' noses; but
the Sary Ann's a blamed slow ship, and Capt'n Ray ain't so
cussed daring."

"I appint thee a committee, Lifiet — ^thee and Moses — ^to
make a signal fire on the south shore to-morrow night. Squire
Gardner's had private word that the Sary Ann*s coming
then," said Hosea Macy, " and he must let her know the coast's
clear or the contrary. We can't afford to lose all that good
West Indy rum and merlasses."

The two listeners at these words moved quickly away.
The bear still walking upright strode along quite in advance
of the old woman.

Instead of remaining all night with Faith, Judy decided to
return to the house on the moor, having an tmdefined feeling
of coming disaster. Hiram brought her home in his cart at
about eleven o'clock; for the Quaker people kept early hotirs.
As noiselessly as possible she entered the house, taking care
not to awaken Sal, whose heavy breathing she heard.

But Judy could not sleep; the excitement of the evening
kept her awake and her mind wandered over the happenings
of the day. Suddenly she heard a groan from the old woman
in the next room. The girl, thinking that she was ill, hastened
to her and heard her mutter in her sleep.

**At one o'clock — ^high tide, they're coming — ^the British-
ers!" Judy started and listened, her eyes open wide with
horror. "The spy is on the beach and will make the signal
fire."

Judy's first thought was of Hiram — ^how to get word to
him! She looked for the lantern; it was gone.

With wildly beating heart she rushed from the hotise — on

The Enchanted Pitcher 347

and on in the darkness. She hurried along the narrow streets,
and stopped before a big square brick house.

She pounded vigorously with the brass knocker and Hiram's
voice from the window above called, " Who's there ? "

**It's Judy, Hiram! Dress and come down as quickly as
possible!" she said breathlessly.

In a few minutes he appeared.

** Why, my girl, what is it?" he inquired, as the light from
the window fell on the excited face.

*' The British attack the town in an hour! A spy is on the
beach, ready to give the signal. He must be taken prisoner
before he can reach his ship I "

Hiram at once aroused several of his neighbors, and without
waiting to saddle their horses, they rode swiftly to the beach.

The sailor stood near a signal fire waiting impatiently for
his ship to put off a boat. The noise of the surf drowned
the sotmd of the approaching men, who soon overpowered
the sailor and put out the fire. During this time the church
bells had been ringing furiously, simmioning all able men to
arms. The home guard assembled in great haste on the
docks, but no British came that night.

The' next day old Sal was suspected of treachery. Little
Amasa Gardner had seen her walking with the bear. What
attracted the boy's attention was that the animal went quite
comfortably on two legs and talked like a man. An old bear
skin was found in the fisherman's hut on the beach and was
recognized as Sal's winter bedspread.

The High Court of the Colony convened to try Sal on the
charge of witchcraft and treason. She was pronotmced
guilty and sentenced to be hanged. The law did not take its
course, however, for the excitement and anxiety as to her
fate proved too much for the old woman, and she was found
dead in her bed on the morning set for the execution.

The mystery of Judy's parentage always remained un-
solved; but among the witch's effects was fotmd a small
leather case embossed with a gilt crest. It contained two
miniatures painted on ivory — one of a beautiful girl whom
Judy greatly resembled, and the other a very handsome and
distinguished-looking man. That they were the portraits of
Judy's father and mother there could be little doubt.

After examining Sal's belongings, Hiram said:

348

The Enchanted Pitcher

' ' Well , Judy , thee is evidently the daughteijof some noble and
aristocratic family in England.'*

**01d Sal must have stolen me in revenge for some injury.
She could be vindictiveness itself.*'

"My poor girl, how thee must have suffered! I want to

make it up to thee, if I can. My name is not noble, but
honored and respected in this island. Will thee accept it as
thy name? I have always loved thee better than anything
else in the world.'*

*'Yes," said Judy blushing,**! accept it because I love thee."

The Enchanted Pitcher

349

**My brave girl, the town would be in ashes but for thee.
By the way, bring out that curious old pitcher. Does thee
remember our childish curiosity about it?'*

'*I hate itl** declared Judy; **Sal knew it and always
tauntingly said it would be mine when she was dead. The
brown bear and the blue pitcher and all they represent have
been the unspeakable trials of my life."

She went to the cupboard and took down the pitcher.

**I can't endure the sight of it," she said, and with these
words she dashed the pitcher to the ground. To her aston-
ishment out rolled a shower of gold pieces — old Spanish
doubloons, Dutch guelders, English florins and good money
of Louis XIV.

"To think old Sal treasured all this wealth for mel" ex-
claimed Judy, after she had recovered from her surprise. ** I
fear I have done her great injustice. I thought she hated me."

** Peace to her ashes, " said Hiram, solemnly. **The black-
ness of her treason is redeemed. She atoned to the best of her
ability — to thee, at least," he added, with a look of affection.

*' Her love for me shall be a mantle of charity to cover all
her sins, " declared Judy contritely.

g•!^l©

ITH the Red Heavies:

The Story of a Love Affair,
by Charles Edwardes*

oe oe oe oe oe

THEY were nicknamed the Red Heavies because of their
jackets and red busbies. The jackets were frogged
with yellow; otherwise sealing-wax wasn't in it with them
from the waist upwards, as a coarse critic once said of them.
Some one else (a lady) declared that the name was no nick-
name at all, but a concise (colored) description of the quality
of their brains. She referred only to the officers of the regi-
ment. But that was before little Popper joined — ^little
Popper with the pale-blue eyes, and flaxen motistache with
its ends ironed upwards strenuously, and an eyeglass.

This was a revolution, at least. To Major Grandison Lee,
the heaviest in weight of all the Red Heavies, it seemed to
bode anarchy and ultimate dissolution. This, too, quite
apart from Peter Popper's defiance of the regimental tradi-
tion in not shaving clean. From the Colonel downwards,
hitherto, for tens of years, not an officer of the Red Heavies,
while in the regiment, had worn a hair to his face below the
nose. Even when wounded, it was a sacred law that he
should be shaved as regularly as his dresser came to him with
the bandages. ^

The Major was distressed and angry. "Why, the lad's a
marionette," he said to Captain Galway one evening, some
little time after Popper's introduction to his comrades.
Popper himself was chafiing the Colonel by the fireplace,
with one foot on a chair and his elbow resting on his knee;
and the Colonel (a six-footer) was smiling down at him while
he screened him completely from the fire. ** A little German
doll, sir! I tell you what, Galway, if this is the stuff they're
forced to send us, the service is at the lower end of Queer
Street, and no mistake. Any one would think we were a

♦From Chambers's Jotimal.

>

With the Red Heavies 351

nation of pygmies, if he's a sample. What's the Colonel
thinking about, Galway? That's the riddle / want solved."
The Major drew in a breath that seemed immeasurable.

**He has a heap of shekels, " said Captain Galway dryly.

** Ahl" The Major let out a little breath as he sighed, and
shrugged. He had few shekels, and several yotmger brothers
and sisters whose paths in life were not yet plain.

** And he's got his head screwed on all right, if you ask me,
Lee. Why — ^but you're not a speculating chap!"

"Head screwed on? I dare say. The question is, was it
worth his father's and mother's while to screw it on at all?
However, it's no use my talking. If we're doomed to become
a second-rate Power, words won't alter it. But — ^what do
you mean by saying I'm not a speculating chap?"

Captain Galway seemed to regret something. He made a
noise with his tongue as if to hint that he had forgotten a
matter that demanded attention. ** I must have a look at
that new nag of mine, " he said, moving.

But the other's grasp was on his arm.

"Wait a bit," said the Major earnestly. "I'm in the
dark. I have had the glimmering of an idea that things were
happening about which I was an outsider. You said 'specu-
lating. ' Do you mean that that young jackanapes is poisoning
your minds with infernal passions of that kind?"

Captain Galway shrugged. " That's piling it on, old man,"
he said.

•'Then it's so?"

"Well, seeing that a rose by any other name would still
smell sweet, we won't -quarrel over an adjective. It is a
fact that Popper's folks are very wide awake about City
matters, and — there's no harm in telling you that I for one
made a cool couple of htmdred on Thursday. One of the
little chap's tips — Stock Exchange, you know! But, Jove I
Lee, what's up with you?"

The Major's eyes wore their battle-look, and the mighty
hand that now hung by his side clenched its fingers. " And
the Colonel?" he whispered, twany-red with excitement,
perhaps even with shame.

"Don't be such an idiotic Puritan," muttered Captain
Galway testily. "Where's the objection? He'd have been
only too happy to do you the good turn as well if we'd sup-
posed for a moment you — . Oh, you know what I'm driv-

352 With the Red Heavies

ing at. It's the deuce of a pity that you should be always
so short, and then your — high moral tone — ^and all that.
The Colonel did pretty well too: rather better than fifteen
hundred, I believe. But excuse me now, my dear fellow;
and — don't be hard on us."

The Captain smiled. There was a dash of depreciation and
a dash of something else in the smile that moved the Major
even more effectually : the pity of comparative opulence for
poverty. Having administered this salve, the Captain
flicked some cigar-ash from his right spur and went off singing.

Then the Major sat down to challenge his emotions. The
words ** idiotic Puritan" were still ringing in his ears.

Was he that? Perhaps. Yes. No. By heaven, no! a thousand
times No, in this matter. That glib talk of Galway's about
winning hundreds of potmds in a day as simply as signing
one's name had not aroused his envy. With but one extra
hundred pounds he could see his way clear to getting Lawrie
coached for that F. O. exam. — coached right away into the
first half-dozen or so on the list, and given a career for life.
Yet he wotdd not take it at the price which the Colonel,
Galway, Fanshaw, Bissell — and the others also, apparently —
did not shrink from paying. He would not, indeed.

The Colonel's hand on his shoulder aroused him.

"Anything wrong, Lee?"

** Wrong?" The Major met the Colonel's twinkling dark
eyes and — suppressed himself. The odds against him were
too great at present. *'Some fancies!" he added. **I was
thinking about the boy Lawrence. You know I've told
you he's working up for the Foreign Office."

The Colonel nodded cheerfully. *' That's all right," he
said. "I'll back him to pull through. You are such a chap
to worry, Lee. Always thinking of some one else instead of
yourself — nearly always, that is."

The pressure he gave to . the Major's shoulder and the
twitch of his lips at the comers referred to one of these ex-
ceptional times. It was that memorable occasion — ^recorded
in the archives of the regiment — ^when Grandison Lee had
tackled three hillmen of the East with his own sword, and
polished them off before Major Reed, as he then was, could
stagger to his assistance. The Major had a bullet in the
elbow. ** I'll manage them. Stay where you are! " Grandi-
son Lee said imperatively. It was like his confounded,

With the Red Heavies 353

high-principled cheek. But he did\nBxxA%<^ them, in less than
a dozen strokes of cut-and-thrust; and the present Colonel
Reed never forgot it, and often laughingly said that he would
never forgive him either.

The Major and subaltern Popper were alone in the room,
the latter with his back to the former, straightening one end
of his moustache, and whistling over the agreeable pastime.
The sight was too much for Grandison Lee. His earlier
prejudice against the new-comer rettimed five-fold as he
looked at Popper's thin, yellowish scalp with its broad parting
— ^almost as much parting as hair. To think of Jit I Such
an object as that to thrust itself like an evil spirit, certainly
as an element of decadence, into the mess that had so far done
nothing to tarnish the good name of the famous Red Heaviest

''Popperl"

The Major bridled his indignation very fairly. He was
bound to give the little image its chance, anyway.

''Hullo, Majorl You there still?" The ''marionette'!
turned round ^arply, with an air of perfect good humor and
confidence. "By Jove! what a conceited ass you'll think
mel Fact is, if these few stinbeams of mine once get away
from each other, I look such a guy I'd be sorry to be about
on a Fifth of November. Union's strength, they tell us.
In re my moustache, it's the only saving clause; I'd be an ugly
little begejer if I didn't keep 'em packed together. Expect
I'll have to fall into line with you other fellows and shave
yet. Must let myself down gently, though, a bristle at a
time, or so. Reminds me, there's a certain girl — "

The Major coughed hoarsely and raised his hand. That
shut up Peter Popper.

"Yes, sir?" he said, straightening himself.

"Er — ^this is between ourselves. Popper," said the Major
tensely. "I may be somewhat old fashioned, but I can't
help believing that money-making and . fighting are two
separate and even antagonistic occupations. I'm afraid — '-

"One moment. Major," interposed the youngster briskly.
"If you knew how vexed I was to leave you out in the ccJd
in that Delaroo comer l^t week! The other chaps kept m^
off. They said you wouldn't touch anything of that kind
with a pair of tongs, wouldn't think it the correct thing,
and so on; and so I didn't like — dare, I mean, you know. I
was frightfully sorry. But I tell you what, old man, if youTl

354 With the Red Heavies

let me, the next whisper I get from my people, you shall run
for the profits and I'll risk the losses. Apropos, I don't know
if you've noticed a grig of a girl about the place since last
Tuesday, casting intellectual sheep's eyes at — "

"By gad, sir, hold your tonguel" cried Grandison Lee,
starting to his feet.

•'Major!"

The subaltern stood away a pace or two. He seemed
acutely astonished. ' ' What have I done ? " he continued, like
a doubtful schoolboy, staring at the Major in his wrath.

The answer came in deep tones:

"There is such a thing as the honor of the regiment. I am
sorry to say it, but you are a cad, sir; and if my influence
can do it, you shall not be one of us long. You are a con-
tamination, sir. And now I'll thank you to relieve me of
your company. I've more important things to think about. "

"A cadr*

The youngster jtmiped as if a bayonet had been nm into
him behind. He stared and stared. "Honor of the regi-
ment! " he murmtired, frowning as if he were trying to digest
the phrase. He seemed to succeed, too. "Oh!" he gasped,
with quite a different quality in the stare which he still fixed
upon his insulter.

"I repeat, I am sorry to feel obliged to speak my mind.
What I meant was that nothing but a degrading, caddish
impulse could have led you to presume — ^yes, presume, sir —
to address me as if for one moment I — . But there! I've
had enough of it. You've sickened me. Pray go, tmless
you particularly wish to be indoors here just now. "

Popper brightened considerably.

"All right, I'll go," he said cheerfully. "I begin to catch
on too. Perhaps soon I'll see all there is to be seen. But
— *cad!' And yet — . Well, an)rway, Major Lee, you're a
gentleman, and so there can't be a duel between us about it. "

He left the room, nodding to himself. The Major had an
instant attack of remorse. He wanted to call him back and
apologize, but something restrained him. He beKeved that
he had said and done no more than his duty demanded.
Nevertheless, he was not properly satisfied with himself. It
was as if he had put his foot on a butterfly merely because
the poor little flutterer a moment or two before had dared
to spread its wings between his eyes and the sim.

With the Red Heavies 355

For the rest of that day the Major felt uneasy. A nervous
dread seized him lest Popper should tell the others what he
had said to him. The honor of the regiment, forsooth!
Who was he, when all was estimated, that he should set
himself up as high priest of the cult of this same honor?
He knew just how his comrades would feel in the matter.
They would laugh and chuckle and say, "Poor old Lee!
Just like himl'* and so on; and in their hearts they would
designate him a confounded old prig. They would try,
perhaps, to maintain the familiar friendly footing, for old
times' sake; but they would also realize that he had over-
stepped the mark, and had done for himself as one of them-
selves in spirit and in truth.

He worried himself desperately with these and kindred
fancies ; and, as salt on the wounds of his worries, that longing
to give Lawrie every possible chance of a billet for life grew
and grew. A mere htmdred potmds — and the Colonel had
gained fifteen times as much by a stroke- of the pen and the
lack of all high-falutin notions about human nature!

Yet the day passed much like other days at Baddenham,
and it ended with three-penny whist at the Union Club; and
no one except young Popper seemed any different with him.

At half-past eleven the Major was helped into his coat by
some one in the hall of the club. It was rather a cltmisy some
one, too, so that he turned with a smile as well as thanks to
see which of the members was playing the amiable for the
first time or so in his life. But it was neither the town clerk
nor Chesling the rich provision factor; no, nor a new servant
either. It was sub-Lieutenant Popper, with confusion in his
eyes.

"Sorry, sir. You are such a dashed height!" murmured
little Popper as he snatched at his cane.

Then the Major knew what Fate exacted of him. He
waited for little Popper, and they walked back to quarters
together; and on the way he recanted those earlier words of
his, almost to the very last of them.

"I'm downright ashamed of myself, Popper, and that's
the truth," he said finally. "One never knows, I suppose,
what outrage one is capable of until the precise — er— sort of
temptation necessary — ^faces one. I'd like the assurance of
your forgiveness, if you don't mind. "

Little Popper had made a variety of spasmodic noises and

3S<^ With the Red Heavies

exclamations designed to check the Major in his outpotuing.
Now, however, when he had his opportunity, he seemed at a
loss. All he could get out was this: "I say. Major, don't
talk like that.'*

"But I disgraced myself, Popper. I called you a cad."
*^"And I called you a gentleman, Major; and I may have
meant it for irony, and that's beastly bad form at any time,"
urged little Popper.

"We were both wrong, then," said the Major.

"You weren't, sir. But — ^it's awfully good of you. It's
what any fellow would expect of you, I expect. I've been
reading up the article on 'honor' in the club's EncyclopcBdia,
and it squares with what you said — that is, if you read
between the lines. I only wish — . But it's never much
good wishing. I do know, though, that I'll sleep better for
what you've just said."

The Major lowered his hand to get at ibe sub's arm; and
in silence, thus looped, they walked the remaining distance
to barracks. If the lamp-posts thought the spectacle a
mirthful one, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

The officers of the Red Heavies were not only a clean-
shaven set of men, and — ^barring Popper — great in bone and
sinew; they were also as good as sworn bachelors. So
rumor ran, without telling a lie of the usual size. This
tradition, like others of the regiment, had come down from
the comparatively remote past. It was often discussed over
the wine as a capital joke. At other times it was accepted as
an inevitable detail of the regimental life. Officers of other
regiments were in danger wherever there was a pretty woman
to lay snares for them in the conventional way. This kind
of incense left the Red Heaviesunmovedin their circumstances.
They were not uniformly stolid in the matter; sometimes,
inde^, they had earnest little ffirtations, due to great determi-
nation on the part of the lady and the man's temporary weak-
ness ; but marriage was out of the question. A word from the
Colonel, and it was all up with the fair conspirator's ambitions.

So it had been for quite thirty-five years.

Of all the Red Heavies, too, no one seemed less likely to
run counter to custom in this particular than Major Grand^son
Lee. As a rule, he was too tr3nng a fortress for any lady to
besiege for more than an hour or two. He met the- warmest

With the Red HeauUs 357

direct advances with ice, ice, ice : there was no end to the ice
he had at command. Life was too short for any lady to
attempt to thaw him until he might tire. It was generally
understood that he was a most dutiftd son to his old mother,
and an unusually affectionate brother to his sisters. But to
the rest of the world such information, taken by itself, was
not exciting. Of all the officers of the Red Heavies, therefore,
Grandison Lee was least troubled by the serious attentions
of the fair se^

Yet on the day after his imbrogUo and reconciliation with
yoimg Popper, something happened to give point to the
Colonel's inquiry at dinner that evening: "By the way,
Popper, you must mind what you are doing. I suppose you
introduced Lee to that charming sister of yours? '*

Yotmg Popper did not raise his eyebrows like certain of
the others. He looked quickly at the Major and smiled,
sedately for him. ''She's my /(a//-sister, sir," he explained;
''and it was awfully good of Lee to take her off my hands aa
far as those Bailey folk by the Park. I had to introduce
him. She almost trod on his toes turning a comer — didn't
she, Major?'*

"Really, I don't remember that," said the Major. "I
thought it was you. Popper. But — "

"Oh, Major, Major!" exclaimed three voices at once.

"Don't be silly!" said the Major. "And, Colonel, I think
I may say that Miss Riddell wotdd not have been troubled
by my escort if Popper hadn't put it out of her power to—
er — accept an alternative!"

"Question!" cried young Popper. "That is, old mfm" —
for he and they all marked with surprise the Major's evident
disquietude — "I know she wotddn't really, if you want to
have it put so impoUtely."

"What did you say she's worth?" asked Captain Galway,
feigning to be quite casual, while he stripped a banana.

"Eighty thousand, the poor dear! And a bounder of the
name of Stiles won't leave her alone. He's a dogcake-
maker; and because his father invites a few broken-backed
lords to shoot his covers he thinks himself irresistible. She's
said 'No' to him three times. The next time I hope she'll
pull his ears. She's come down here with the 'mater' for a
fortnight to try to get a rest from him."

It was curious to see with what avidity these Red Heavies

358 W4ih the Red Heavies

listened to young Popper's words. But the Colonel, as well
as Major Lee, had had enough of the subject.

"That will do, Popper," he said. "I can't allow you to
continue unsettling our minds. Your half-sister is charming,
as I have said, and so we leave her. "

But the Major was disturbed for a considerable time longer,
in spite of his endeavors to comport himself as usual. With
good cause, too. Popper's half-sister had at first appealed
to him merely like any other young lady of twenty-two or
twenty-three, with tender gray eyes and a ready smile.
Probably the dappled stmlight under those beech trees of the
avenue made her look prettier than she really was. It
didn't matter much anyway. What did matter was the
tone she adopted towards him as soon as Popper had slipped
away, after a look at his watch, an expletive of annoyance,
and mention of an engagement at the Imperial Hotel.

**I do so want to say something to you, Major Lee," she
began when they were alone. It was then that he noticed
her face more particularly. She was blushing Uke a boy, and
she had clasped his hand, too, with the honest grip of a boy.

"To me?" he had replied, with rather less ice to his words
than the contingency required.

"Yes, Peter has been telling us how splendidly you have
been lecttuing him, and both my mother and I think it noble
of you."

She shot out her words like a boy in his younger teens.

The Major was startled, and the more he looked at those
stmny gray eyes and the tell-tale cheeks the more he was
startled. He begged her pardon; had she not made a mis-
take?— and so forth.

But there was no mistake at all, from her point of view,
as the Major himself soon had to admit — ^not without mortifi-
cation, seeing that it was now his turn to blush. His blushes
were of the tawny kind, yet not to be disguised any more
than hers.

"Money is so debasing," she said simply, "and you are
the first man who has said an3rthing to him, Major Lee, about
ideals of a loftier kind. It is glorious for him to be in a
regiment like the Red Heavies, and I'm stire he ought not
to have any time for those horrid Stock Exchange transactions
which are his father's business. That is what I meant. "

She was a little less like a boy now. A high-spirited and

With the Rec^Heavies 359

lovely girl, rather; so lovely, indeed, that the Major could
no longer look at her without feelings which had for years and
years been anathema to him.

*' You are making a great deal out of nothing, Miss Riddell/*
he said, forcing a raucous laugh.

*'No," said she, **I do not think so. And you don't
think it either."

Had she been an ordinary girl he wotdd have settled her
with a dry rigmarole beginning, ** But, my dear young lady, "
and she would soon have said her '*Good afternoon." But
there was an ethereal light in her eyes now which raised her
far above the crowd.

**I— was impardonably rude to your brother,*' he saidlamely.

''Yes, but it was for his good; and, coming from a man
like you, and one of his senior brother-officers, it was quite
the most generous thing you could do."

She had changed again. Her eyes met his frankly and
reasoned with him as man to man. It was amazing and more
startling than before.

The Major had never yet met this kind of yotmg woman.
"But perhaps you are not aware that I called him a — cad,
Miss Riddell?" he protested. If his life depended on it, he
could have no reservations with her in this matter.

**Yes; and you were right to call him one. I don't say
he is one, for he isn't at heart. But some men are just like
children, and it's only when they get their ears boxed by the
right person that they see how tmworthily they have been
behaving. It was caddish of him to suppose that you were
angry with him becatise you had not made money like the
others."

''Miss Riddelir' he had exclaimed, tmconsdously striking
a majestic attitude.

But she was wotmd up, just like a full-blooded boy after
a college cricket match, with the win on his side. She shook
her head in an " I-know-all-about-it " maimer.

"Yes, Major Lee. Peter told me how you'd take it. He
said it was like my cheek when I told him I would speak to
you, and thank you; but he doesn't really mind, I think.
I've seen such a very great deal of the demoralizing side of
mere money-making. My own father — and then Peter's
uncle and his father — . But I think you have had enough
of me and the subject. It's a painful one."

36o With the Red Heavies

She gave him a very intimate smile, with a gleam of sad-
ness in it, and offered him her hand. It was a small hand,
daintily gloved in lavender-colored kid.

The Major glanced at it, then again at her face, and —
positively he trembled. He did not take her hand, but in
the fulness of his humiliation proceeded to explain.

"You make me ashamed of myself, Miss Riddell," he said
quietly. **Do let me tell you what I should be sorry to tell
any other living being — well, suppose we say except my old
mother. You have been imputing it to me as a virtue that I
called your brother an abominable name. What will you
think of me when I confess to you — ^in confidence or not, as
you please — that an hotir or two afterwards I was possessed
by unholy envy of what seemed to me the luck of the other
men? I said to myself, * Why wasn't I in it? ' And so on. "

** Well ? "said she, glowingwith triumph, and in the wretched
Major's eyes too beautiful now for mortal man to look at.

"That's all," said he, feeling abject.

"Yes, but,'* she cried, seeming almost as if she were
about to put her hand on his arm, "how dtdl you are, Major
Lee! You miss the point. You were tempted, but resisted;
whereas — "

" I am afraid that is not qtiite a true statement of the case, "
he interposed.

"It's near enough. Major Lee."

"I don't see it, Miss RiddeU."

She shook her head and smiled the serene smile that pro-
ceeds from instinct the infallible. He, anxious only to have
done with heroics and to divert her from them too, tried hard
to be and appear solidly matter-of-fact.

"I think, too, that it's going to rain soon," he added bltmtly,
looking at a very innocent young cloud above the spire of
St. Eric's Church.

Then she laughed brightly, as if she were now about to
enjoy herself thoroughly, without responsibilities.

"I don't," she said. " But I will not bore you any more. I
was to say from my mother, and Peter's — ^if we did meet you,
that is, as Peter said we should," she added in rather a dis-
turbed parenthesis — "she would be glad to see you if you
cared to call. And now good-byi and thank you so much
for your patience. Peter said you were the soul of chivalry,
Major Lee, and I've foimd you so. Good-by."

With the Red Heavies 361

He felt like stooping and gently raising that little lavender-
gloved hand to his lips. Worse still, he iinderstood what the
yearning indicated. At his mellow age and with his autum-
nal prospects! For a moment or two he could not be his
tmemotional self. Then, with a stem effort, he recovered
control of his routine faculties. ''I shall be delighted, Miss
Riddell," he said, in a sort of faint echo of his field-day voice.
"May I ask where Mrs. Popper is residing?"

•* Hasn't he told you.? " she asked gaily. ** I cotdd show you
if you would let me. It is only a little way past that odd
Jubilee fotmtain — Regent House. But I Imow you detest
the — That is, Peter says you are all woman-haters. I
think you are right, too, in a sense. To a real soldier we
must seem intolerable little circumstances, like dust-specks
in the eye, and that kind of thing."

Was she laughing at him? And did she or did she not
beckon him with her eyes as well as her tongue? These were
the futile questions the Major discussed with himself when
they had parted and he was alone amid a world of golden
memories.

Regent House was a large, square white mansion, with
statues on its roof -line; a little palace, if he might judge
from its exterior. But that was nothing. He would have
been quite as much or as little impressed if she had pointed
to No. 299 in a street of two-storied, red, jerry-btiilt tene-
ments, all alike, with their thirty square feet of grass-plot
between the iron wicket and the door, and with a milkman
ladling milk at No. 297 while a dustman heaved the rubbish
of No. 296 into his cart to windward of the inilk. It was the
temple which for the time being she inhabited. That was
enough for him.

He scarcely remembered what had passed during that
walk with her of less than ten minutes' duration. She did
the talking. Mrs. Popper suffered slightly from rheumatism
— she had told him that. It was one reason why they were
at Baddenham — ^for the baths, of course. But he recalled
certain of her words with curious eagerness. ** Do you know.
Major Lee,"she had said, **youwere thefirstof Peter's brother-
officers my mother and I happened to see after coming here.
We were with Mrs. Hepburn, the doctor's wife, and she
pointed you out. Both of us felt that Peter would do splendidly
if they were all like you." Then it was *'Good-by" once

362 With the Red Heavies

more, and the old gray cloud of the routine life descended
upon him. He had never before realized the burden of an
existence without domestic hopes of the peculiarly personal
kind. And the golden memories of ten minutes, half an hour,
an hour ago eddied about !iim as if to emphasize the grayness
of his past which was \.is present also.

That little annoy; uce at dinner by-and-by was an annoy-
ance to him really only in so far as it drew him roughly from
his dreams. He had tremendous compensation shortly after-
wards, considering it from one aspect. This was when little
Popper came up to him with a clownish kind of simper and
an apology.

*• We are pals again, aren't we, Major? " he inquired.

**I hope so, my boy," replied the Major.

" That's all right, then," said little Popper. ** It was jolly
rough dumping Polly Riddell on you like that this afternoon,
and I was thundering sorry for you, old man. But the girls
will have their own way, as the sexton of my governor's
parish church says when a beaming bride drags another
reluctant bridegroom up the aisle. She's very much gone on
you, if you care to know!"

They were in the barrack-yard at the time. The Major
liked to smoke a solitary cigar by the moonlight, watching
the men come and go, and listening to the movements of the
stalled chargers. His orderly had brought out a camp-stool
for him, and set it against the red barrack-wall opposite the
stables. Thus sitting, he had let his thoughts return to
Popper's half-sister. Not that they wanted much letting.

**She w," said the little subaltern, as if encouraged by the
Major's silence. He did not see the quiver that shoc»k the
Major from head to foot. ''She's not half bad when you
understand her. She wanted to know you frightfully. Rum
things — girls! But I told her we Heavies haven't any spare
moments for women — a nobler goal is ours, and so on — and
that she might as well set her cap at Nelson on the Monument
as at you or any of us. ^hat do you think she said to that,
old chap?"

The Major passed his hand across his brow, then looked
at little Popper imder the moonlight.

**What have you had to drink since dinner. Popper?" he
asked, a trifle wearily.

*'Me? To drink? Oh, a whiskey-and-soda, and then

With the Red Heavies 363

another one. There may have been another after that; I
forget. But don't be savage with a fellow, Lee. What's
the use? What do you think she said when I said she m^ht
as well try to get made love to by St. Simon Stylites himself,
or whatever his beastly long name was, on his column?
What?"

The Major stood up and closed his camp-stool. ** I must
write a letter," he said. '* My yotmg brother Lawrence — ^but
I have probably already told you about him, Popper — he's a
bit shaky in his tongues. I want him to be in Paris for a month
or so."

He was going, when the subaltern grabbed him by the arm.

** Don't snub a fellow so per — ^pershistently, Lee I" he ex-
claimed. '* What's the good? Hitting him when he's down,
and all that, and such a little chap, too! Ha! ha I Good that.
I know all about your brother; every fellow in the regiment
knows about him by heart. It's a stock joke — ^in a friendly
way, of course, Major. But I want to know if you want to
know what Polly said when I told her that. You'd like to
know. You'd feel con:ifortable then; especially though —
no, because — oh, bother! Anyhow, that stuffed owl of a
Stiles is still in the running. He'll be down here to-morrow
in full cry again."

'* I'd get off to bed. Popper, if I were you," said the Major,
**It's a poor show to be like this."

" What did she say, I'm asking you?" cried the little subal-
tern. "Can't you answer a chap civilly?"

Then the Major gave way to his desire. *' What ? " he whis-
pered.

" She said," replied little Popper, marking the words in the
air with the other hand, ** that she was glad of it, because then
she could talk to you on what she calls a common-shense
footing. Common-shense, she said. And so, old man, you
may take it from me that she said a lot of rot, whatever she
said."

** Good-night, Popper," said the Major; **and thank you."

Grandison Lee called on Mrs. Popper, in keeping with his
promise to Mary Riddell. But he was in no hurry about it,
as he might have been had not Peter Popper let the cat out
of the bag after those superfluous whiskeys-and-sodas. Ere
he pulled the bell at Regent House, he had throttled the

364 With the Red Heavies

very last of his illusions about Mary Riddell. At least he
thought so. He flattered himself it was easy enough, too,
considering he had seen the girl only once.

Nevertheless he was very nervous when the footman
ushered him into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Popper's welcome was of the warmest. **This is
sweet of you, Major," she exclaimed. Her hand almost dung
to his. Perhaps it was a mark of her kinship with Mary;
perhaps it meant nothing. She was a large lady, with much
jewehy about her, evidently a stately person when she chose
to be so. ** We were so dreadfully afraid you were some one
else," she added, with a most encouraging cotmtenance.

Then the Major turned to Mary Riddell, and his courage
failed him. She was all, and more, than he had thought her.
Was there a smile in all the world to match hers? ''Good
afternoon," he said, in his hardest and most frigid tone.

But she did not shrink in the least. She looked her glad-
ness calmly, and again gave him a boyish hand-clasp which
thrilled him to the heart.

*' I thought your principles had compelled you to neglect us,"
she said.

It was no good. In her presence he forgot everything ex-
cept the pleasure of the moment. He felt like a criminal
whenever he tried, feebly enough, to rally himself into a con-
dition of ordinary insensitiveness to the charms of woman-
kind. It was easier to be natural, and far more comfortable.

Mrs. Popper soon mentioned her gratitude in the matter
of Peter. It was soon over too.

** Don't, mother I" said Mary Riddell. **I gave Major Lee
as much of that kind of physic as he could take. He'll never
call on us again if we keep worrying him about it."

"Very well, my dear,'' said Mrs. Popper. '*I owed it to
myself. Much as I love my son, Major, I would really rather
talk about this County Ball."

**Ball? Oh, of coursel I remember," he murmured.

Before he knew anything else definitely, he had not only
promised to go to the ball, but also to dance the first dance
with Mrs. Poppet-. She had asked him point blank. He was
quite simple in confessing afterwards that he did not, as a
rule, go to balls; hated them, in fact.

He felt dazed, ridiculous, yet blindly happy. All the
while he listened to commonplaces, and talked them, he was

With the Red Heavies 365

living his real life apart with th« face of this blithe and lovely
girl which said so much to him with its eyes alone. ^

So it went on, all too quickly, until there came a distraction.

''That's his ring; I feel sure it isl*'cried Mrs. Popper, almost
as if she were in despair, when the bell pealed loudly, ** Upon
my word, I don't know what some yotmg men are made of.
I dare say you know him, Major, by this time: Albert Stiles.
He "

** Never mind that, mother," said Mary Riddell laughing.
'' If I dared, I would ask Major Lee to hdp me to seek cover
in the conservatory in a minute or two. There's a wonderful
cactus "

** Anything I candofor you — anything I" he said, with grave
alacrity.

** Would you? Oh, how good of you! In five minutes.
Not more," she whispered.

The footman appeared, and Mr. Stiles after him. This
yotmg gentleman had been told, in the plainest language,
that Mrs. Popper and Mary were only at home on Thursdays,
and yet he had called every afternoon since his arrival in
Baddenham, on the chance, as he said. There had been
passages-at-arms with the footman about him; but of course
nobody wanted a scene, and Albert Stiles was free with his
money, as well as determined and artftd where Mary was
concerned. He tried to make love as his father had made*
a forttme in dogcakes, by forcing these down the throats of
the dogs of the public. His father's appropriate and favorite
maxim, ''It's dogged as does it!" was his also, as touching
Mary Riddell.

Now the Major had already met Mr. Albert Stiles. For
the ftm's sake, so he said. Popper had brought him to a mess-
dinner. But there wasn't much fun in it for any one. Yoimg
Stiles could be the most ordinary young man in the world
on occasion, and he soon made the Red Heavies yawn in spite
of themselves. He condescended to talk horses to them,
and parried Popper's sallies with considerable craft. There
was not a laugh in or about him from the soup to the coffee,
and every one was thankful when Popper took him away.

To the MsLJoT, after due contemplation, it seemed a mon-
strous thing that such a bladder-headed radish of a youth
should think it possible Mary Riddell could love him. He
was a mere wisp of a fellow, with a moustache trained like.

366 With th^ Red Heavies

Popper's, only black instead of flaxen. But to-day the
Major shook yotmg Stiles's hand heartily. He felt almost
as if he cotdd excuse any man anything. He nursed his knee
and smiled pensively, and listened to the neat little duel of
words between Mrs. Popper and Albert Stiles with quite a
relish.

Mrs. Popper was determined not to mince matters with
the yotmg man.

** Didn't you observe. Mr. Stiles, that the Thursday on
my card was underlined?" she asked severely. "We are going
out directly."

" I can't help dropping in, Mrs. Popper," said Albert Stiles,
with his eyes on Mary.

''Yes, yes; but you ought to know better. What would
your own mother say if Peter, for example, took such liber-
ties with her?"

Albert Stiles made his score with a grin which really stiitea
his excellently tight cornstalks of legs, scarlet necktie, and
cut-throat collar. ** She'd be jolly thankful," he replied.
**She likes Peter."

Mrs. Popper generously spared him the retort which he
invited.

** Well, I don't think I shall even ask you to sit down," she
said. "Major Lee is different. He is here on business, if
he will allow me to say so." This with a graciousness towards
the Major which was cruel in the circumstances.

"Business!" exclaimed Albert Stiles, with a slight frown.
"It's business with a decent amount of pleasure to it then.
And anyhow, Mrs. Popper, you can't turn me out. I'll
leave when the Major does. I may stay that long. Miss
Riddell, mayn't I?"

There was no more of him than this.

Mary Riddell rose and shook her head at him compassion-
ately. " I think you are the most foolish individual I know,"
she said quietly. "But perhaps he is tired, mamma, and
wants a rest. If you will be very good, my mother will
humor you so far. Shall I show you that — ^wonderful cactus
now. Major Lee?"

The Major was on his feet in an instant. "I should like
to see it immensely," he said.

"And in ten minutes, my dear, I shall put on my bonnet,"
said Mrs. Popper.

With the Red Heavies 567

Mary Riddell nodded an airy '* Adieu'* to Albert Stiles.

**0h, but " he began protestingly. Mrs. Popper, how-
ever, stifled the forthcoming indiscretion by inquiring what
he paid for the flowers he was so absurdly extravagant in
sending daily to Regent House; and before the question was
answered Mary and the Major were in the other drawing-
room, with the conservatory beyond.

* ' This is better, ' ' she said, facing him pleasantly the moment
the glass door was shut upon them. ''Do you think I was
too harsh with him?'*

*'Too harsh! I — surely that depends, Miss ReddiU. You
didn't look harsh."

She folded her hands behind her head, and, standing in a
frame, as it were, of orange-blossom, gazed at Grandison
Lee with that earlier wholly confiding freedom which had
wrought such havoc on him.

''That's what I like about the Red Heavies 1" she said
quickly. "You are all above the nonsense one expects and
gets from other men."

"How so?" he asked, determined to keep calm.

"Oh, about marrying. I assure you. Major Lee, speaking
as one disinterested himian being to another, it's not to be
believed how a girl with a little money has her own aspira-
tions badgered out of her by that — that tiresome presenti-
ment of courtship. Whenever I am introduced to a gentle-
man I have to start weighing him up instead of just being
spontaneously civil. How is one to know what his aims
are? It seems that even one's smiles — ^poor plain little
things I — ^may do a great deal of mischief quite innocently.
You see what I mean?"
• An Arctic wind had swept over the Major's heart. The
conservatory was warm, but he had become very cold. "Yes,
I believe I see what you mean," he said. "And yet "

Suddenly a fierce passion of revolt against the restraints
of his circumstances followed that Arctic gust. This radiant
and adorable girl smiled at him and talked to him as if he
were a milestone by the roadside; and she thought him
nothing better, as touching his sensibilities. What he said
he said, and even afterwards he could not bring himself
greatly to regret it.

"And so. Miss RiddeU," he ended, "you see that you have,
quite unknowingly, and I'm sure without wishing it, wounded

368 WUk the Red Heavies

one more man and msAe him feel sorry he was bom. Only
for the time, of course. Give me a couple of hours, and I
hope I shall be myself again. You called your smiles just
now 'poor plain little things.' You couldn't have spoken
seriously, and so it was not fair of you to say an3rthing about
them. I have met you only twice; but those poor plain
little things, as you call them, have — done for me. God
knows, I'm a fool, and not a yotmg one either; but I'd do
anything, almost be anything, if I cotdd have those smiles
for my own every day of my life. That's how I feel
now^ please to understand. I wish I knew if by-and-by you
will be laughing to yourself about me or not. Really, I
can't tell. I shall fight against this image of you which you
have fastened in my brain so that other memories can't stand
against it yet; and I hope I may crush it out. Hope?
Why yes, of course, for I couldn't live else. And that's all.
You will perceive that I am, tmfortunately, in love. Miss
Riddell, and therefore I had better say * Good-by ' at once."

He proffered his hand, smiling. It was not such a bitter
smile as his words required — not quite. But such as it was
it left him altogether when he marked with some degree of
calmness the expression on the girl's face.

She was waxen white, breathing fast, and there was real
pain in her eyes.

'/You — ^think that of me?" she stammered.

The Major drew himself up. ''I have no right to think
anything about you except the best possible," he said. "Please
forgive me. I'm an inconsiderate brute. I thought I had
more sense. I — ^won't you say * Good-by,* Miss Riddell,
and have done with me?"

"Yes, Major Lee," she said. "I too have been — thought-
less. It is better, I suppose. Good-by." She gave him her
hand, flushing as she did so, looking at him earnestly, and
then looking away. ** Believe me," she added, "I had no idea."

"And neither had I," said he, trying to be gay, "that I was
such a boy. Well, I hope you will the more easily forget my
stupidity."

He scarcely knew that he had patted the little hand in his
as if he were a grandfather rather than, a boy. Then he
took his hat from the soil of the camellia beneath which
he had placed it when his mad fit seized him, and prepared
to go.

With the Red Heavies 369

"I think you said there was another way out?" he asked.
**I'm afraid I daren't go back into the drawing-room."

"Yes," shejsaid. Leading the way, she conducted him
through the glass-houses and so to the lawn.

Here the Major had something to add to his previous
pleas for merciful judgment.

** I was never in love before, Miss Riddell," he said, hat in
hand, with several new wrinkles on his forehead. '*But
I dare say, with your experience, you will have surmised that
at once. Please Heaven I am now inoculated. Good-by."
'*Gk)od-by," she said again.

The Major's emotions were not agreeable as he passed the
different flower-beds of the garden. Thousands of bulbs
were here shooting their young hopes heavenwards. He
might have tormented himself by contrasting his still-bom
hope with theirs, so full of the promise of fruition. But
he had enough to distress him without that. He had hu-
miliated himself and hurt that beautiftd girl. Yes, he realized
this now; he had hurt her feelings, perhaps even wronged her.
He paused at the gate, positively half tempted to return,
in the ardor of his contrition. But Albert Stiles diverted
him from that step. He caught him on the pavement out-
side and immediately became excited.

"Oh, I say, good business. Major Lee!" he cried. ** You're
just the man I want. I'm stire you'll do it when you know
the circumstances."

"What may you be talking about?" said Grandison Lee.
** I didn't know. Major, you were so thick with Popper's
folks. Wish to goodness they'd talk of me as they do of you —
that is, the old lady does. Any one can see, too, that
you stand pretty well with Miss Riddell. Lucky bargee!
Now, cotddn't you, do you think, slip in a sly word for a
fellow now and then? I've eight hundred a year allowance,
and I'm an only son, and certainly not worse than the average
man. But Mary Riddell does ride such a high cock-horse
of her own that there's no touching her unless you're some-
thing lofty yourself. If you would talk to her in a fatherly
way, you know, about being practical, I'd be no end obliged
to you."

The Major's face would have frightened some yoimg men.
" Practical !" he said. " Do you think it would be practical
of her to marry you? Is that what you mean?"

370 With the Red Heavies

"Yes, of course it wotdd,'* was the eager reply. ** We've
known each other since we were so tall." He put his hand
down to his knee.

Then all the severity went out of Grandison Lee's coun-
tenance.

' *My lad, he said, *' Tm sorry for you. If you can't do with-
out my help after an acquaintanceship of that long growth,
Tm afraid you're past praying for."

•'But Major "

"We're a couple of fools, and that's all about it. Stiles,"
said the Major, interrupting him. *'And I've squandered
enough time already to-day."

He strode off with a nod and the bearing of a man without
a care in the world.

Looking something like a limp ttdip, Albert Stiles stared
after him. ** Selfish beggar!" he growled stdkily.

It was the evening of the Cotmty Ball, and Baddenham
was in its most volatile mood — that is to say, a considerable
number of the mothers and daughters of Baddenham, and
the cook-confectioner who had charge of the supper.
Baddenham's favored mankind regarded the dance much
more apathetically, and some even with apprehension.
Among these last were Colonel Reed of the Red Heavies
and Grandison Lee.

The Colonel struck a painftd yet significant note at dinner
an hour or two before the ball was open. It was both painftd
and significant, in spite of the forced levity in his jolly red
face while he spoke. ** I hope none of you fellows will forget
yourselves," he said, in a pause which followed Lieutenant
Bissell's cold mention of certain of their inevitable partners
by-and-by. '*No pltmging to get straight, you know. I've
had enough of rash specs."

Little Popper, who looked ill, hurriedly plunged straight
at his champagne-glass. He quite believed all eyes were on
him, and that he was being cursed freely under a dozen white
shirt-fronts. It made him feel almost sick. As for hating
himself, he had done that with so much energy for the last
fifty hours — ^nights included — that he cotddn't anyhow raise
another opprobrious epithet to pelt himself with.

But in fact, his brother-officers of the Red Heavies did not
look at him at all — except Grandison Lee, that impulsive

With the Red Heavies 371

stick of a fellow, and he only for a moment. With an im-
patient cough at himself, he looked rapidly before him the
next moment.

**No one's blaming you, Popper," the Colonel continued.

'*Setof sharks!" exclaimed Captain Gadbecker. "When
they can't get their rations out of the public they cut and
carve at each other. So I've heard. It's devilish bad luck,
but of course no one's blaming Popper. He's not a shark."

A gentle laugh rippled here and there about the table.

**No, but I'm an ass!" cried little Popper. ''I did think
my governor "

**I wouldn't dwell on it!" interrupted the Colonel kindly.
*' My fatdt for saying any thing about it. I only did it because
of this kick-up. There'll be a lot of girls there — eligible, I
fancy, is the word — eligible girls. Eh, Bissell?"

** I expect you know all about it, sir," said Lieutenant
Bissell.

** No, I don't, any more than Grandison Lee."

"I," said the Major hastily, with a quick movement of the
eyebrows, *' haven't been to a ball for ten years."

At these words a laugh arose which was not gentle; and
Wibley, a subaltern only a few months senior to Popper him-
self, fltmg a dart. "Then why's he going now?" he cried,
waving his cigarette.

Yoimg Wibley was one of the only three who were not sit-
ting in sackcloth and ashes.

Captain Galway tapped Grandison Lee lightly on the back.
' *He has you there, old man!" he observed.

"Well, do you know," said the Major, making as good a
show of frivolity as could be expected of him, "I'd give some-
thing to get out of it. If I hadn't promised — Oh, well,
never mind."

The Red Heavies were themselves again for about a minute :
they acknowledged Grandison Lee's avowal with a tempest
of laughter. Even little Popper joined in gustily, though
he still looked as if he had barely survived a bad passage
across the Channel.

The Major himself wore a threadbare smile. Only when
the mirth drooped did he attempt to explain. "You're all
on a wrong tack!" he said, in the simple candor of his souL
"At least, I imagine you are."

"Who is it, then?" urged Captain Galway.

373 Wttk ike Red HeavUs

** It happens to be Mrs. Popper. That is to say "

There never was such ingenuousness embedded in snch
imposing bulk. He saw his mistake when the very glass on
the table was ringing with the roar which followed. This
time he laughed well in train with the rest.

The session ended with the Colonel's command: *' Gentle-
men, you are requested to see that Major Lee is not led
away by his feelings in the course of the evening."

Perhaps it was all rather rough on little Popper, as some
of them said and thought. But if so, Popper bore no malice.

He got hold of the Major in the yard as the latter was mak-
ing for his rooms to dress, and begged to accompany him.
"I'm a quick-change man myself," he said; "and I do so
want, to have a chat with you. You can guess what about."

The Major couldn't exactly do that. He proceeded to
hope Popper had not been hurt by his tmwitting mention of
Mrs. Popper.

"Not a bit. Why should I? It's this infernal Westralian
Coal and Iron business. May I be quite open with you, Lee?"

Now, this was a poser for the Major, who believed that he
had retrograded in character somewhat deplorably since
his contretemps with Mary Riddell. He had wondered just
now what the fellows wotdd think if they knew that he, too,
was mixed up in the rout of the Red Heavies, due to Popper's
father's erroneous estimation of the Westralian market. He
had yielded to temptation. He had listened to all Popper's
glowing words, echoed from Throgmorton Street, and he
had resolved that Lawrence should have that month or two
of foreign coaching which his mvd voce in French and German
almost demanded. But he had managed it all apart from
the others. There was a Stock Exchange man in Badden-
ham, and there was an obliging Hebrew. The necessary
cover of one hundred pounds was readily obtained from the
latter, and then passed on to the stockbroker. And it had
vanished like a feather in a hurricane. The Major decided
that he could not tell Popper this sordid little tale. The
poor fellow had quite enough to reproach himself about.
The Red Heavies had pltmged, and the Colonel's balance
to the bad, all told, of more than a thousand potmds, was
but a small fraction of the regiment's entire loss.

"If you think I can do anything, Popper," he said, rather
wearily.

With the Rgd Heavies 373

'* There's nothing for you or any one to do. I'm thinking
of shooting myself. That's all. But I thought I'd like to
tell some one beforehand. I don't intend to do it till after
the ball; but I'm such a wretched coward I feel I must let
some fellow into the secret. There'll be an inquest, and "

** Thank you, I'm sure," said Grandison Lee. ''I should
enjoy myself very much as chief witness at your inquest,
Popper. But I beg your pardon. Pray continue."

The Major's initial horror had been succeeded by an emotion
which forced him to be ironical.

•'Well,' said little Popper desperately," what is a fellow to
do.?"

••Do?"

Grandison Lee caught the subaltern by the arm. ''Good
heavens!" he whispered. •'Are you out of your senses?
Your sister "

•*My sister's nothing to do with me in a matter this size,
Lee. Women don't tmderstand honor like men. The only
comfort I've got is knowing you've not been hit; she'd never
forgive me that. Not that I should care if she didn't, after
I'm dead."

"Popper," said the Major, holding him tight, •*you called
yourself an ass just now. You are one. But you'd be an
immeasurable one if you committed suicide for a paltry
knock like this. You'd be the wretched coward you called
yourself too. Really, I have no patience with you!"

•'Then what about the other fellows, sir?"

•• Allow me to say, confound the other fellows, on such an
occasion!" The Major flushed that tawny red of his which
appeared only in his most passionate moments. "That is,"
he added, with next to no passion, •'it can't be helped, and
you wotddn't fill their pockets by killing yourself. Upon
my word. Popper, you appal me. Where's your esprit de
corps t for one thing? An oflficer of the Red Heavies to put
a bullet into his head because of a disappointment, like
a brainless kitchen-maid! That would be mounting a bar
sinister on the colors."

•'I didn't think of that, Lee," exclaimed Popper.

"No, of course you didn't. That's just how fellows go
wrong. They fix their ey%s on their own bit of an itch,
and ask — " He stopped and shrugged. •' I'm a fine fellow
to talk," he went on, in a changed and quite humble tone:

374 With the Red Heavies

^^ You're the only fellow here whose opinion I care a hang
for an)rway/' said Popper. **! suppose it's steering clear of
messes yourself that makes you give such rattling good
advice to other chaps."

•*0h!" said Grandison Lee. '*Do you think so.?"

"I'd bet — ^that is, I'll warrant — ^you've never lost your
head and wanted to shoot yourself, Lee."

This was too much. The Major chuckled derisively.
They were at the threshold of his quarters.

"Come in for ten minutes and I'll tell you something to
open your eyes," he said. "You'll not mind my washing
the while?"

In those ten minutes Grandison Lee gave little Popper's
statement the lie by losing his head like the poor brainless
kitchen-maid he had already referred to. He meant it
for an object-lessop, partly; indeed, primarily. He told
Popper all about his love at first sight for Mary Riddell, and
his incredible behavior a few days later.

"There!" he said as a finish, giving his jacket a shake,
"you won't talk such rubbish again, I hope, nor think that
because all men don't air their troubles like shirts on a line,
they haven't got any. I must, of course, request you to
keep this to yourself."

Little Popper's excitement was intense. He seemed to
have forgotten his own sangtdnary programme altogether.
He was all eyes while the Major was speaking; but the
dinotiement disgusted him.

"Well, I'll be dashed!" he cried. "The * mater' thought
something was up with her. She hasn't been the same girl
since. But I say, Major, you're not thick enough to say
that you can't see through her?"

"See through her?"

"Yes, of course. By Jove! if I was spoony on a girl and
she treated me no worse than Polly did you, I'd have a ring
on her finger inside the week. She'd marry you like a shot —
that is "

The Major took little Popper by the shoulders and softly
pushed him towards the door, "You mustn't talk like
that!" he said, speaking with difficulty. "Go away and
brush your beautiful hair, and — ^o more of that other non-
sense either."

" AUright, oldman,"said little Popper cheerfully. " I know

With the Red Heavies 375

the Red Heavies die, but do not marry, and all that; but there
ought to be exceptions. Well, Tm off; andathousand thanks."

The Major shut the door and sat down; nor did he stir
from his chair until his man rapped to tell him that Captain
Galway and the cab were both ready for him.

Of his thoughts as he sat thus idle, looking at nothing —
at least seeing nothing within the actual range of his eyes —
it may suffice to say that they were extraordinarily confused,
yet all rushing and curvetting and fl5ring about one pretty gray-
eyed face with the love-light in it. He had dreaded the ball
before, and he dreaded it now still more. But it was no indecision
about going or not going that kept him thus motionless. Of
course he would go. But supposing Popper was right in what
he had said about his sister? It was preposterous; yet many
things that were preposterous turned out to be true. Only
supposing!

"Tell Captain Galway I will be with him in two minutes,"
he said.

A quarter of an hour afterwards he was charming Mrs
Popper as he led her with tmexpected ease through the
opening quadrille. It was evident that she did not see
he was wearing a mask. That knowledge invigorated him,
and he almost hoped the ordeal wotdd not be so very severe
after all. They had reached the hall a little late, ** thanks
to your dawdling," said Captain Galway; but the Major
had fotmd Mrs. Popper near the door, waiting, as it were,
to pounce upon him.

'*! knew you would not fail me, Major," she said, taking
his arm and at once filling a gap in a set. *' 1 am like my
daughter Mary: I have faith enough to move mountains —
in some men."

**She is with you?" he asked stiffly, neglecting the com-
pliment.

"To be sure. In the center of the room, with LordMiddle-
btuy. She didn't want to wear such a gaudy frock, but I
told her I insisted on being able to see what she was doing."

"In crimson?"

" Why, yes, certainly ; I suppose it's a crimson, like your
own dress-jackets. She had it made in honor of Peter's
regiment."

Mrs. Popper had something more to say about her daughter
Mary ere the quadrille finished.

376 With the Red Heames

"I don't care what you'll think of me, Major Lee," she said ;
"but I took the liberty of filling in six or seven of my daughter's
engagements — tentatively — you tmderstand. I can't have
her dancing with every one. But most of the Heavies are
safe, and — ^if you would see her after this dance and ascertain
which is yours ! Am I forgiven f '

"You have honored me, Mrs. Popper," said the Major.

That or liot, she had at least relieved him of an initiative
the thought of which had encumbered him.

"Take me to her, please," said Mrs. Popper at the inter-
val; and, breathing deeply, the Major complied.

It wasn't easy to steer a lady of Mrs. Popper's magnitude
through such a crowd with comfort to all parties concerned.
But at a certain stage in the progress she helped him greatly.
It was when she spied yotmg Stiles shoving his way also
towards Mary Riddell.

"Major," she said severely, **I want Albert Stiles. You
look after yourself."

She played her part like a Roman parent, too, reckless
of appearances.

Mary was smiling first upon one stiitor and then upon
another, when Mrs. Popper came upon the scene. The
Major once again yielded to the fascination of that match-
less smile. She was paler, and he fancied thinner, than
before ; but her smile was itnmortal, and never to be forgotten.

Mrs. Popper called to her, and her eyes met Grandison Lee's.

Then Mrs. Popper secured yotmg Stiles.

" Give me your arm," she said, taking it. "And now guide
me to those nice broad blue seats under the flags, Mr. Stfles."

"Half a crack, Mrs. Popper," exclaimed yotmg Stiles,
frowning.

"No, Mr. Stiles, not even a quarter of a crack, unless you
wish me to write to your mother and tell her "

Yotmg Stiles cotild not escape. And tmtil the next dance
Mrs. Popper held him fast. She met one or two acquaintances
on the way to the broad blue seats at the side, and paused to
comment on the brilliancy of the spectacle, and so forth. But
Albert Stiles cotildn't slip free of her. He tried, but couldn't
do it. She let him go only when the floor was clearing for
the waltz. And meanwhile Mary and the Major had come
together. She merely said a qtiiet " Good evening," and
gave him her card; and when he looked at it she added.

With the Red Heavies 377

almost in a whisper, "It was my mother's doing. Of cotirse
you shall please yourself."

Even he cotild not help smiling when he saw that Colonel
Reed was down for number six, and himself for number seven.

"It was bar accidents — ^that is, other engagements!" she
whispered on. She laughed too, and again their eyes met. Her
pallor was briefly hidden by a blush; but she spoke with that
boyish note which had at the first done so much to infatuate
him.

Then they separated; though not until she had smiled at
him with an intimacy she didn't give to others, and said
softly, " I'm so sorry for you."

She referred to the general ordeal of the ball; but for the
next hour he puzzled himself off and on about the meaning
of her words. He danced two other duty-dances, then left
it all alone, waiting for ntunber seven, and following the
movements of that crimson gown which held life's best
blessing for some one. Not that he felt duU. By no means.
Men chaffed him on his laziness, and ladies challenged him
about his culpable want of gallantry. Yotmg Popper cuffed hi§
back once with a "Well, old chap, I am ashamed of you!" which
seemed so incongruous with the Peter Popper of eight o'clock or
thereabouts, that Grandison Lee briefly forgot the youngster's
sister in meditating about moods and men. Albert Stiles also
dropped him a word. "Old Mother Popper's a hag!" he said.
"She's spoilt my evening, Major, confound her! It's well to
be some folks!" This said, he rushed to the supper-room.

Between the fifth dance and the sixth. Captain Galway
had a brief gossip with him. "Reminds me of Nero's fiddling
when Rome frizzled, Lee!" he remarked.

"What?" said the Major.

"Oh, that wretched Westralian business, you know. It's
tied me up for months and months. The Colonel's real
nervous lest any of us should be angling for an heiress. He'll
be glad to see you looking so safe — ^will the good old boy!
But you're not moping, are you?"

"Moping? Bless my soul, no, Galway."

"Nor dancing?"

"Well, I have got one coming on. I'm waiting for it."

The Captain laughed sagaciously. "I see! Trot her
round, then off to supper, and away you go. Who is she, Lee ?"

"Oh, well— Miss Riddell."

37^ With the Red Heavies

•* Miss Riddell! My word, that's good for you. Her dearly
beloved mother informed me / needn't apply, as she was
ftdl up. Fm not the only one complaining either. Another
beastly comer in the market, I suppose. And just when —
between otirselves — I am seriously thinking of chucking the
service and — ^you won't tell — ^wooing her to the uttermost.
I've talked it over with Popper. Well, here we go again,
more's the pity I"

The music declared a fresh dance, and Captain Galway
also went his way.

At last Grandison Lee's turn came. He rose heavily, and
made his way straight towards the crimson gown. Exertion
had increased Mary Riddell's beauty, yet it was with a certain
shyness, as well as her old sweetness of expression, that she
put her hand on his arm.

'*I'm tired," she said.

''Would you rather sit?" he asked quickly.

" Yes, if it is the same to you."

*' Of course."

It was wonderftd and incomprehensible. As he conducted
the girl across the room to a bowered alcove, towards which
she herself had glanced as if with longing, he felt blindly
blissful again. Just as if he had not already gone through
the mill and come out seasoned, woman-proof!

There were four others in that little bower, but they soon
frolicked away.

Then, on the instant, Mary Riddell began to speak earnestly,
much as she had spoken when first they met in the beech
grove. "Peter has told me of the dreadful wickedness he
was contemplating this evening, and of what you have been
to him again; and I — I don't know what to say to thank
you." She rushed the words with, it seemed, a sudden gleam
of tears in her eyes.

"Oh, my God!" gasped Grandison Lee. "Peter ought to
have known better than to say anything to any one about it.
But — I can't think he would have done it, Miss Riddell. He
couldn't."

"I believe he wotdd."

"Well, it was a shame of him to — spoil your pleasure.
But it's all right now. Don't worry about him. He'll do
well enough. He's had a lesson."

Mary Riddell's smile through her tears, now indubitable.

With the Red Heavies 379

was terribly sweet for the Major to see. *' One doesn't always
remember one's lessons though,'* she said. " Peter is like me
in haying a bad memory. It's a good thing sometimes."

** A great blessing, as you say, sometimes," said Grandison
Lee slowly. " Do you know, I've thought now and again the
words *Make us forget things' wotddn't be a bad addition
to the Lord's Prayer. And yet I don't know!"

*'/ think," said she, "that one forgets only where it is best
that one should forget."

"Ah!"

Then Grandison Lee understood that he was on the thresh-
old of another crisis. The girl's words, the light in her eyes,
her extraordinary indifference to that brutal indiscretion of
his, and the fierce thumping of his own heart — what was to
come of it all?

But quick as a lightning flash, something intervened. A
sound as of a hundred thunder-claps in one was followed —
no, accompanied — ^by a crashing on all sides. The glass of a
small window above fell about them in a splintery shower,
and even while it fell, the wall itself cracked like the report
of a hundred rifles, bowed, and

Grandison Lee was on his feet, with the battle-look in
his eyes. " This way !" he said. The girl's hands were in his.

But the ball-room was a pandemonium of shrieks, as one
thud succeeded another.

"No. Here!"

There was no time for more. Right and left, before and
behind, all was collapsing. But in the few seconds of time
at his disposal, Grandison Lee gave Mary Riddell all the
protection his body could give her, as bricks in clots and
dozens, and by ones and twos, rained upon them. And
when he dropped, all but insensible, he still contrived that
his body should act as a shield to the girl, who had sunk in
the piling litter at their feet.

The Mayor of Baddenham had quite recently drawn the
Coimcil's attention to the danger of the local dynamite
factory having even limited storage-quarters in such prox-
imity to a ^public building. This terrible explosion had
proved the Mayor's wisdom, if nothing else.

About two months after the tragedy of the Baddenham
ball, sub-Lieutenant Popper got out of the train at Badden-

38o With the Red Heavies

ham for his weekly visit to his relations and Grandison Lee.
He wore quite an alert air, and no moustache. He had a
diagonal scar from his right cheek to the middle of his upper
lip instead of a moustache, just like a saber-cut. Three or four
more of the Heavies had scars about them of a similar kind.
When they were moved from Baddenham to Aldershot they
looked like men just home from active service. Grandison
Lee was still in the Baddenham hospital.

Altogether, five people had died of that d3mamite explosion.
It was reckoned a merciful deliverance on the whole. The
roof had been of light materials, though even common Llan-
beris slates fall hard from a height of thirty feet.

Of the woimded, Grandison Lee's case was the gravest
at first. They took him to the hospital with others, and
expected him to die. He raved night and day for weeks,
but he did not die.

" Poor old chap," said Colonel Reed, after one of his regula-
tion visits to the Major's bedside, "who'd have thought he
had such a secret as that? Prom his delirium, he must have
been as gone in love — ^and so on — ^as the callowest yotmgster
that was ever nailed fast by a pretty simperer."

The Red Heavies knew all about it by this time. They had
no scruple in such a matter. Several well-controlled scowls
were directed at little Popper.

"Well, / can't help it," said this imfortunate agent of
mischief. "And I'll bet any chap a level fiver he pulls
through yet."

Captain Galway spoke as the mouthpiece of the company.
"You're not tempting as a financier, Popper," he said.

But the Colond took a broader view of the circumstance.
" It only proves," he said^ without even a twinkle in his steely
eyes, "that no man is safe where a woman is concerned."

"Not even a Red Heavy," observed' Captain Galway, with
the expression of a Scotch elder ^who has never backslid.
And yet he had been refused by Mary Riddell during the
past week. In five minutes he had proposed, been rejected,
and said "Good afternoon."

"And look here," little Popper cried, with defiance and
self-assertion of a ne"^ kind, which seemed to have come to
him with the sticking-plaster in place of his moustache. "I
don't care what you all say, the Major will pull through.
That specialist Johnny doesn't despair. I got hold of him

With the Red Heavies 381

in private yesterday, and, between ourselves, I bribed him
with an extra guinea to tell me the honest truth. Oh yes,
you may sneer, but I did! He said, 'The poor fellow may
live, or he may not.* That, from him, is reckoned first
rate. They say he's the most artful pessimist in London."

'* Anjrthing else ?" suggested Lieutenant Bissell. " And did
he take that extra guinea?"

"No. The old fool said, 'Put it in your pocket again, my
good lad.' He didn't know me. But he said my feelings did
me credit."

This time the Red Heavies really laughed. It was a
corporate laugh that ought to have been photographed —
sticking-plaster and unexpected shots of pain gave it such
a peculiar character.

However, by-and-by they were ordered to Aldershot; and
with regret, Grandison Lee was left behind, still raving.

But before they went away little Popper had a most academi-
cally earnest interview with his half-sister Mary. Mrs. Popper
and her daughter were staying on at Baddenham indefinitely.

"You ought to know about it, Polly," said Popper; "espe-
cially as he got you out of it without even a scratch — only a
messed frock, and that'll wash right. He does nothing but
shout things about you. He'd rather die, he says, than
really give you pain, and so on; but he can't, can't, can't live
like other fellows if you will get in his way. You've knocked
all the old stuffing out of him, Polly."

Mary had had her bad moments since the ball, and she was
anything rather than free of them yet. They had left their
mark on her, though not on her beauty, which was generally
accounted much improved even by that yotmg horizontal
wrinkle above her gray eyes. She said nothing when Popper
paused for her reply. She looked steadily out of the window.

" Well, what are you going to do ?" he asked. He wished he
dared stiffen his statement by telling her of the Major's con-
fession on the night of the ball.

" Do?" she said drearily. "What is there for any one to do
tmtil — ^he is better?"

"Couldn't you go and see him? You might just hold his
hand or something. I ' ve .read of remarkable cures from little
things of that kind."

"In novels, Peter."

"Well, and aren't they taken from life?"

"I'm afraid not."

383 With the Red Heavies

"Then you propose to do ndhingf he inquired, with an
indignation he had no difficulty in assuming.

"I wish, Peter," she said, '*that you wotdd not take it for
granted that you have inherited aU the family stock of good
imptdses. I have seen Major Lee. Mother and I went to-
gether. And you did not happen to be in that — ^that horrible
little room when the walls — oh, do leave the subject alone —
until he is better." She ended with a sob, and stood close to
the window. She kept even her profile turned from him.

This somewhat mollified her brother. ' 'All right," he said,
' 'I only meant that I hoped you had the usual amoimt of
proper feeUng, and so on. You needn't have been sarcastic.
He'll be no good if he recovers: smashed head, shotdders.
ribs, and — "

But she did not wait for the completion of the catalogue.
She glided from the room, and Peter's * *Well, good-by, old
girl; we're off by the two-ten train!" met with no response
from her.

Still, he went off to Aldershot decefitly satisfied on the
whole. His mother had snubbed him furiously when he used
even still plainer language to her. But he didn't care for
that either. He made his way through the Baddenham
streets with uncommon lightness of foot. He had asked the
station master, and been informed that the latest news from
the hospital was most cheerful. Major Lee was conscious at
last, and healing well everywhere.

* 'What a constitution , sir !" the station master had exclaimed ,
almost reverently, as his eyes ranged over the subaltern, from
his necktie to his boots.

* 'Yes," Peter had said; * 'we're not alllike him. I'm devilish
glad to hear it."

He had two minutes' amusement before leaving. Whom
should he see approaching him, in a blaze of sunshine through
the open skylight of the station roof, and in the very latest
shock of a necktie (scarlet, with black moons), but Mr. Albert
Stiles!

* 'Well,"he said, after an interchange of formal nods, * 'what's
your game?"

* 'What's yours, if it comes to that?" said the other.

"Oh, mine's all right. I'm not in love — with myself, or
any one else, I'm jolly glad to say."

With the Red Heavies 383

* 'That's news, anyway. You don't look sorry for yourself,
whether or not."

Little Popper turned gleefully upon a porter who now
approached them with a superb bouquet of orchids, lilies,
and white roses. * 'Still at it," he chuckled. * 'I don't know
how those Covent Garden chaps would make a living with-
out you."

Young Stiles savagely bade the porter bear the nosegay to
a hansom. ' 'It's my last try, if you care to know," he said.
• 'I've had about enough of it."

" Not you," laughed little Popper. '* I'd lay any one any-
thing you'll be perfuming my sister's atmosphere just the
same this time next year. I call it beastly hard lines she
won't let you get any nearer her than that."

"You'd lose that bet, sharp as we all know you are!" said
Albert Stiles.

Then he hastily followed his flowers. He wotdd have been
much moved had he known their eventual destination.

This encotmter sent little Popper straight to the hospital:
the Regent House folks might await their turn. Here the
station master's report was confirmed. It began at the lodge.
The hall-porter touched his hat and echoed the good news.
The secretary came humming down the corridor and was
hilarity itself in the matter. He said The Lancet had an
article on the case, and the staflF surgeons and physicians
were all stroking themselves openly, ^white in secret (he whis-
pered it) rendering thanks and praise to Major Lee's remark-
able constitution.

**I rather fancy, though," the secretary added, ** that some
one is with him now. I heard his name mentioned a moment
ago."

**I11 soon out him, whoever he is!" said little Popper.

But a nurse now drifted towards him on the staircase and
smiled. **I don't think, sir, you can see the Major yet," sl;e
said.

"Not another operation?" he asked. ''Can't they let well
alone.?"

' * Oh no, sir, not an operation. Not exactly, at least. ' ' She
was as arch with him as even an exhilarated nurse well could
be.

"Er — how do you mean?" he said, frowning impatiently.
"Who is" it?"

384 Witii ike Red Heavies

" Oh, well, I think you might go up and knock at the door,
at any rate," she replied, much in the tone the young woman
found efficacious in the children's ward. "He really is sur-
prisingly improved."

Little Popper accordingly proceeded on his way.

But with the Major's door in sight, who should come
through it, blooming like a June r6se, with the traces of smiles
and imspeakable happiness on her face, her eyes sparkling as
if heaven had just washed them in magic dew as well as the
most beautifying kind of tears — ^not too large a proportion of
tears — ^who, but his sister, Mary Riddelll Alone, tool

" Hullo 1" he cried, for she didn't seem to see him.

She started, and with no diminution of her beauty, clasped
his outstretched hand.

**0h Peter!" she whispered. "Yes, he will see you. He
hoped you would come, when I told him it was your day.
He's so — Oh, but you will hear it from his own lips.
He — But I can't talk now. We shall see you [by-and-by."

Peter broke into a picturesque grin. "I say, Polly," he
began. But she did not wait for the rest; and it occurred
to him in a flash that it was perhaps better so. Albert Stiles
and his bouquet would get their knock-out with the more
nattu-al directness.

Then little Popper tapped at the Major's door, waved aside
the nurse who had turned up in behalf of her duty, and
entered the room.

Grandison Lee was l3ang in a ridiculously small bed, still
in a miimmy's multitude of wrappings, and with a smile on
his lips which might have been a masculine twin of the smile
little Popper had just seen in his sister. He was distinctly a
pale major now; but otherwise he looked much like iiimself ,
temporarily transfigured.

"Well, old chap," cried little Popper, "this is just simply
splendid!"

They looked at each 6ther, and even this frivolous subaltern
felt almost awed by the Major's face. But he soon tmder-
stood thoroughly. Grandison Lee spoke to him coherently
for the first time since the accident.

"Popper, I'm the happiest man on earth!" he said.

SHORT STORIES

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE OF FACT AND FICTION

m^a^a^ This Magazine is planned to cover the story-telling field of the world J^JkJk
lU selections win be of the best procurable in all the languages •^•^•^

Vol. LU

DECEMBER, - 1903

Number 3

CONTENTS

The Face in the Crowd
Thirteen— Red
Nicette

A Question of Obligations
The Soul of Judas
At the Sign of the Sound Pi^
The Captain of the Penguin
The Sergeant's Idea
A Defaulter
The Enchanted Pitcher
^With the Red Heavies

Hden Sherman OrifJUh

Ellen E. H. WHdman

Anonymous

. Clifford Mills

Helen Sterling Thomas

'; Anonymous

J. C. Plummer

G. Stanley Ellis

Oskar Reich

rJmily A. Tovmsend

Charles Edwardes

Copyright. 1903. by The Current Literature Publishing Company

Entered at the New York Post Offioe as second-class matter.

ANECDOTES

stand up in your seats just for a moment
so that I can see you I"

The members of the congregition
arose as one man.

Then the good man shouted again:
"Please be seated. Now all you who
want to go to hell — stand up!" ^

In the midst of the services, a genial
gentleman somewhat under the in-
fluence of stimulants had wandered into
the building, and as soon as he had
found his way to a seat, fell into a peace-
ful slumber. The bustle and confusion
incident to the response to the first call,
wakened the sleeping citizen, who,
realizing where he was and thinking
that the meeting was about to adjourn,
struggled slowly to an upright position,
just as the doctor made his second call.
His muddled brain slowly grasped the
import of the last call, but he did not
exactly realize the gravity of his posi-
tion; bvit. looking around the building
and seeing no one but the good doctor
and himself standing, addressed the
latter as follows:

"Doctor, we seem to be in a hopeless
minority!" — Frank R. Jones, Birming-
ham, Ala.

It Did Not Take.

The venerable rector of St.^J s'

Church recently "visited" the Sunday
School, and peering over his glasses
at the children asked this question:
"If there are any children in the Sim-
day School who have not been bap-
tized, let them hold up their hands."
A small boy over in the "amen"
comer held up a grimy little paw,
whereupon the minister said: "Why,
Johnnie, you have been baptized,
for I baptized you myself." "Yes,"
replied Johnnie, "but it did not take."
— Georgie E. Albers, Knoxville, Tenn.

He Couldn't Pay Too Much.

After an extensive tour through
Europe and a visit with the ^'auld
acquaintance" in Scotland, a jovial
citizen of Detroit (Mich.) decided to
spend a few days in Ireland. On the

iTisi<jrscd by 3.00Q d?£itlst&, is

Uir bffSt

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We Carpet Yonr Floor for $3

To introdoce oar new, senriceable and healthfal ~

BRUSSELETTE ART RUGS

AttractiTe and utlttic pftttema, woren on
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Sanitary Mfj. Co. (Inc.) '^;t:J:'tJS2i5-^Sn?r

AlfECDOTES

Dublin wharf, where^waiting^coachmen
watched the procession crowding from
the gangways, a jolly cabman stepped
aside, espying the gentleman with his
bride, who beckoned 'from the upper
deck. When the other drivers were all '
engaged and starting away he still
stood on Jthe pier, apparently studying
the steamer's rigging, while a familiar
deckhand accosted him, asking:

"Whafs the matter, Pat? You're
slow in getting started today."

"See that foine old man up there?"

Pat pointed at the couple, just leaving
their seats, and added:

"That's my fare; I'll dhrive thim all
day I'm thinkin', or take thim to their
distination for dinner I"

The gentleman was limping with a
cane, his feet being swollen with gout;
as they slowly approached Pat oflFered
his cab, saying:

"You're the man I'm waiting for; I
knew you would like to ride."

As the agreeable pair had not planned
to go anywhere in particular, they made
themselves comfortable in the cab and
instructed the driver to show them the
streets of Dublin. They enjoyed sev-
eral hours in this way, resting at inter-
esting points, and concluded to stop at
an attractive hotel. Standing at the
ciu-b with a handful of coin, the gentle-
an asked:

"Well, Pat, how much is the bill?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the Irishman, "I
didn't think of charging you anything!
I always consider it a great honor to
dhrive such a distinguished gintle-
man "

"Tut, tut, Pat; of course we don't
expect you to take us all over Dublin
for nothing. We want to pay for your
time and "

"Well, if you put it that way," in-
terrupted Pat; "you can't pay me any
too much. Biddy will be glad to get
any little bill you can spare — Biddy and
the childhre can use it at home!"

Pat received more than he could
possibly have asked for his services, the

and
other

Dyspepsia

Stomach Troubles

auickly relieved and positively cured by
le use of

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LEARN PROOFREADING,

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AutuniAtlc&llf iff(?D«riir» fua] *u

TftTm k&roifDp fiij. MiCkUiura Ou

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ANECDOTES

traveler being forced to pay according
to his own liberality, while smiling at
the cabman's cunning scheme. — ^J. C.
Powell, Fort Erie, Ont.

The Wrong Man.

Passing through the White Moun-
tains this Summer, a curious mistake
happened on the "White Mountain
Special" on which I was a passenger.
The car was crowded. People were
talking, laughing and enjoying them-
selves to their heart's content. The
ssat in front of me was occupied t^y a
stem individual who looked to be a
minister or an actor.

The train stopped at a small lunch
station, I think called "Never Left." I
.noticed my sober friend leave the car
without his dress-suit case. The car
started up. I said to a friend I was
with, "that man has left his dress-suit
case, and there he goes through the
station door now." With that I
opened the window, threw out the case,
and called to the trainman to give it to
the man who went into the limch room.
♦ The train started on, I thought nothing
more of this incident until very shortly
in came my sober friend from the
smoking car. Imagine my surprise!
I saw him look for his dress-suit case
and ask the trainmen if they knew
anything about it. I said to him, "I
have made the mistake, I threw your
case out at the last station to a man
who is your double." "Why," he
said, "what shall I do, my full dress
suit is in that case and I am booked to
sing at a concert to-night." I said,
"Here is my card, and if you don't get
that case again I will be responsible and
make good its contents. ' ' We asked the
trainmen what we should do. They said
to telegraph back and have it traced.
Station after station was passed until
finally word came that the lost had been
foimd, and that the singer would get
his dress-suit case before the concert
that night. We all had cause to
thank the "\\Tong man." — Charles L.
Riley, Bensonhurst, L. T«

y4fc^*^t»»»»#»»*#<W^

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a»»»»»»»»^r»##^»<»»»#»w»###»#»#<

Half'B'Dozen Housekeepers

A STORY FOR GIRLS

By Kate Douglas WIggfn

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