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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16222-0.txt b/16222-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c09a91b --- /dev/null +++ b/16222-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8067 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Winter Evening Tales, by Amelia Edith +Huddleston Barr + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Winter Evening Tales + "Cash," a Problem of Profit and Loss; + Franz Müller's Wife; + The Voice at Midnight; + Six and Half-a-Dozen; + The Story of David Morrison; + Tom Duffan's Daughter; + The Harvest of the Wind; + The Seven Wise Men of Preston; + Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money; + Just What He Deserved; + An Only Offer; + Two Fair Deceivers; + The Two Mr. Smiths; + The Story of Mary Neil; + The Heiress of Kurston Chace; + Only This Once; + Petralto's Love Story + +Author: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr + +Release Date: July 6, 2005 [eBook #16222] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Louise Pryor, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(https://www.pgdp.net) + + + +WINTER EVENING TALES + +by + +AMELIA E. BARR + +Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife," +"Friend Olivia," etc., etc. + +Published by +The Christian Herald +Louis Klopsch, Proprietor, +Bible House, New York. + +1896 + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +PREFACE. + + +In these "Winter Evening Tales," Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers +a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. +There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a +luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so +delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"--each a perfect gem +of romance, in an artistic setting--the author has touched many phases +of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the +spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. +Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity +that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women +are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they +move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the +strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not +a make-believe. + +Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She +unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm +that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any +of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, +for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the +misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces +us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble +and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited by the absurd and +incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by +the frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can +only come from pure and noble souls. + +In these "Tales," as in many of her other works, humble life has held a +strong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn +in this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its wide +range, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has but +little relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a strong +love for those whose condition makes life for them something real and +earnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, the +Christian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr and +her work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, but +spiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes for +morality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christian +understands the term. + +G.H. SANDISON. + +_New York, 1896._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + +"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss +Franz Müller's Wife +The Voice at Midnight +Six and Half-a-Dozen +The Story of David Morrison +Tom Duffan's Daughter +The Harvest of the Wind +The Seven Wise Men of Preston +Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money +Just What He Deserved +An Only Offer +Two Fair Deceivers +The Two Mr. Smiths +The Story of Mary Neil +The Heiress of Kurston Chace +Only This Once +Petralto's Love Story + + + + +Winter Evening Tales. + + + + +CASH. + +A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED BY DAVID LOCKERBY. + + +PART I. + + "Gold may be dear bought." + +A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from it +was the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet, +though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor of +old time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and +midway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind it +noble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air of +still delightful studies." + +From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One of +them set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain, +breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, +shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around him and said, mournfully, +"Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! I +never tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it and +Eden." + +"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High street +has its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college, +and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm not +above preaching for my saint." + +"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such a +head and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore, +there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may come +even to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet." + +"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better to +be Lord Provost of Glasgow city." + +"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; and +what now if he had had ten?" + +"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are you +going to Mary Moir's to-night?" + +"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away." + +David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongate +there was no time for further remark. Willie Caird turned eastward +toward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon set +down before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the +back door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmest +shadow of a smile. + +"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?" + +"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anent +you till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mair +sense, or further away." + +"Why should they quarrel about me?" + +"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? But +the mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wad +fain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; while +maister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and add +Ellenmount to Lockerby, and--" + +"And if I could, Janet?" + +"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in a +bottle." + +"But what was the upshot, Janet?" + +"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk." + +Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down again +his face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had been +against the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite familiar to +him; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for the +ministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants of +the King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence which +they enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for her +son. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And were +not even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind a +minister in his gown and bands?" + +Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better. +All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling his +flock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of him +becoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands of +Ellenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. During +these twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to their +several intentions. + +Now David's teachers--without any knowledge of these diverse +influences--had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talents +confided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of God +and humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and had +with all his book-learning the very smallest intimate acquaintance with +himself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and had +not even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love for +gold which really was the ruling passion in his breast. + +The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, and +he was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly down +stairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quite +resolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individual +opinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen of +two-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up and +perfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul." About his +thirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; but +even now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was very +attractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortably +disposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew better +than begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have he +determined to retain. + +After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading, +Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in the +background." + +David leisurely turned to the title page. "'Selections from the Latin +Poets,' father." + +"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or some +book o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie." + +"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: but +there is no way a man may take and not find the humanities good +road-fellows." + +"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you want +him to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can serve +him or no." + +"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife--it's nane +o' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names--and, Davie, your uncle +maks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it." + +"What is it, father?" + +"Twa years you are to serve him for £200 a year; and at the end, if both +are satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buy +you--and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldest +bank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinna +fling awa' good fortune--dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look it +to you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun--for twenty years I +hae been telling mysel' 'my Davie will win again the bonnie braes o' +Ellenmount.'" + +There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled and +warmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they came +nearer to each other than they had ever done before. + +And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sich +temptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' the +Gordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and I +trow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll just +gang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew and +serve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and, +Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing and +every plack and bawbee o' my money." Then, seeing no change in David's +face, she made her last, great concession--"And, Davie, you may marry +Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as may +be." + +"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand, +Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you hae +served your twa years I'se buy you a £20,000 share in the Gordon Bank, +and a man wi' £20,000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. But +I'm aboon bribing you--a fair offer isna a bribe." + +The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved to +make his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtually +granted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worth +having without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now that +he had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little as +ever. + +"The first step binds to the next," he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may +have something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think over +things until the morn." + +A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, and +though it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subject +tedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by the +light in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming out +of the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, the +white-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some cold +moor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked. + +"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," said Janet, "an' the breast o' a +bird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way." David was of +the same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things and +the pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant +and friend--a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyish +troubles or youthful scrapes. + +It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when he +pushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberry +dainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared money +on you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going to +college, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fause +Englishers?" + +"I am going to London, Janet." + +"Whatna for?" + +"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet--it is a +solemn charge." + +"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's council +chamber that I ken of." + +"Mary wants me to go to London." + +"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. I +wouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for a +moment--but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go by +himsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritance +for a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! but +the children o' Esau live for ever." + +"Mary said,"-- + +"I dinna want to hear what Mary said. It would hae been nae loss if +she'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an' +hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir, +dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going to +keep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body." + +Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road to +London as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeply +offended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways very +annoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. His +mother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that was +a constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell him +that "he was clean out o' the way o' duty." + +"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and +the verra tongue o' Apollos--weapons wherewith to reason against all +unrighteousness and to win the souls o' men." + +"Special pleading, Willie." + +"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take the +trouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' a +sword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple took +to the balances and the 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do you +not mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young men +in St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows--every ane o' them to +its mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' on +fire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed you +to the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, +Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold." + +From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it had +not been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seat +by Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendid +dreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty so +bewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her. +Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife, +even if he should take up the cross laid down before him--and as for +giving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be a +possible duty in such a contingency. + +But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to David +by the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on the +morning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together to the +Caledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seat +in his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'se +warrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' should +thrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse." + +"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget to +give according to my prosperings." + +"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and never +forget that money is money's brither--an' you put two pennies in a purse +they'll creep thegither. + +"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and though +rich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'll +tak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that are +God's." + +"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind, +father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leave +the world no better for my living." + +"God bless you, lad; and the £20,000 will be to the fore when it is +called for, and you shall make it £60,000, and I'll see again Ellenmount +in the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers, +and gie without grudging of your increase." + +David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand the +struggle going on in his father's heart--the wish to say something that +might quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarily +tender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby was +miserable and ashamed that morning in the service. + +And yet he was not selfish in the matter--that much in his favor must be +admitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved so +dearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken great +interest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing him +a successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom pride +of lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper than +individual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty was +to the house of Lockerby. + +He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, nor +were his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child to +the same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a great +trial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and though +Mrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment, +everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind of +comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angry +silence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfare +of sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet, +though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin," had been forty +years in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions on +any subject. + +Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as the +Eve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie," +she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' the +sunshine for pounds sterling!" + +From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preached +little daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the very +stem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that +"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir's +temptations." + +"For she just bewitched the laddie," said Janet, angrily; and, +doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet's +administration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir. + + +PART II. + +"God's work is soon done." + +It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he will +only become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight one +morning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours. +It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men sat +silent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought of +the college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and the +symposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had been +days when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with things +impossible," or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon," had not been +unreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's dreary +gospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair to +be tabulated in averages. + +He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritated +him. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not always +welcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was going +one way and he another. They might never see each other again; and-- + + If they should meet one day, + If _both_ should not forget + They could clasp hands the accustomed way. + +For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subject +yet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted in +one twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings of +his home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrant +sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of his +name. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctioned +nothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were of +those well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as +"the sitters in pews." + +In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to opera +and theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; on +fine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten their +dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but there +were none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in the +same degree as they were to David. + +To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been to +him; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories of +wonderful sermons and solemn sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. +Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thames +and humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone could +recall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping +crowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousand +hearthstones: + + O God of Bethel, by whose hand + Thy people still are led. + +He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus," heard above the +witching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's," or the tearful +tenderness of "Communion." + +To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter of +course, as a part of their daily life and education. David had been +obliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and his +mother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to +cultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and he +frankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it was +harder work getting to hell than to heaven. + +But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, and +begin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he had +not heard from Mary for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him that +while he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill and +suffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothing +but sickness would have made Mary forget him. + +The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her, +full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of their +future life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did not +fail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort of +self-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night write +long letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There was +a good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and his +marriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keep +the influence of the old and better life around him to be in closer +communion with it." + +Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and said +cheerily, "Good morning, uncle." + +"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here." + +Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretched +hands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is she +dead?" + +"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething wrang but will turn to right. Mary +Moir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear the +news from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a loss +that's a great gain." + +"Who did she marry?" + +"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as his +gold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi' +the match--or the settlements--and Mary comes o' a gripping kind. +There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' they +werena fastened on." + +Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk on +the subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But it +was a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for a +loftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused to +spring up into active existence a passion which was to rule him +absolutely--a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship had +proved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kinds +were a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for him +than to become a rich man. + +"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby's +name; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking to +David Lockerby as they do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, and +wisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money is +best of all things." + +Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments. +Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for the +first time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged +himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope. +Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told his +brother-in-law that the £20,000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he +choose to advance David in the firm. + +"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime. +The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contented +until he settles cannily doon to his interest tables." + +So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firm +of Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some of +the pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarely +seen among men of his own age--women he never mingled with. He removed +to his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his life +very much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a run +northward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the Continent, but +nearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan or +investment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man, +and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever more +affectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made an +independent woman by his grateful consideration. + +He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he +visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to see +him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of +Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with +the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was +welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I +hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears; +and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for +many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling +element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become +the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed; +the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum of +his daily life. + +Ten years later both his uncle and father were dead, and both had left +David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more +eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of +thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was +the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age +fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and +children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried +Janet continually on this subject. + +"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, +an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his +bargains." + +"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me--an' him sae honored, an' guid +an' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him." + +"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody's +charged him wi' wrangdoing--that's enough. There's nae need to set him +up for a saint." + +"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet." + +"I was that blind--ance." + +"We are blind creatures, Janet." + +"Wi' _excepts_, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers." + +This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the +same time David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, +wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden +crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly +to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public +opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as +the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, +in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service. + +He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions +or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have +allowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than he +could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally +followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old +church in the Canongate. + +Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased +than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place +consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their +purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church +on the Doo Hill in Glasgow--just such a large, bare, solemn-looking +house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the +precentor, the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not +notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he +was holding a session with his own soul. + +A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon was +beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had +been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old +Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in +the wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '_What +shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own +soul_?'" + +For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found +him out again--it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, +David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, +thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. +Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious of +the moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the +trees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and +smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer. + +_What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit_? +David was quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here +was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the +church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to +the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in +nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. +Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a +hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he +looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he +was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering +the ever present thought. + +But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless +his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told +himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had +affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times +with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence. + +The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee +room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No +one hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency, +help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said +the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face. + +And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. +He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own--only his +own--but something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave up +his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak +his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having +losses; and something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave +such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its +hand. + +The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and +almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks +that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost +unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. +William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know +that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and +therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's +library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful +boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and +sports as if he was one of them. + +"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's +greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other's +hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one +had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of +Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are +reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual +experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was +neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their +conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie +had raised. + +But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each +other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and +opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able +to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. + +"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, +that ever you asked yon fearsome question of--and I know it. I have +achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have +wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever +the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have made +money--plenty of it--and it does not pay me. What am I to do?" + +"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave to +the rich man--'distribute unto the poor--and come, follow me!'" + +Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle +Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams +touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid +out in it. + +"You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though +David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded +therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see +the topstone brought on with rejoicing." + +Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the +worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded +"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble building +arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms +of Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, and +into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread. + +In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's +energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other +good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his time +and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's +Hall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir +the cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and their +pocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against +drunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away +from Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a public +meeting and started a subscription list with £1000 down on the table. + +But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of +them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o' +her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie +"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns." + +"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might +live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house." + +"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o' +sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him--" + +"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day." + +"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' +a £1000 argument." + +"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and +who would therefore gie nothing at a'." + +"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his +condition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on +the good work going on." + +"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'--" + +"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in +auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David +Lockerby 'blessed.'" + + + + +FRANZ MÃœLLER'S WIFE. + + +"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant +or Dugald Stewart?" + +"None of them. I am reading _Faust_." + +"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in +the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to +the right about, stick to Shakespeare." + +"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women." + +"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, +condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin +Christine Stromberg." + +"I do not know the young lady." + +"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother +Max was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?" + +"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look +alike." + +"But you will go?" + +"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuse +yourself while I dress." + +"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of +Christine." + +For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. +He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the +careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a +familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of +his life for any clew to this familiarity. + +He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, +thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted +up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still +and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the +regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and +Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Müller. +No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in +love with you." + +Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love +for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but +the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no +one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are +sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally +willing to respect it. + +Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who +fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It +was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never +have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As +soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation +possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a +brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare +exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty +and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching +him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what +questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the +clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her. + +"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured--"I wonder where +it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, +and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was +only to take it up again in dreams. + +As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One +has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness," +he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the +waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but +dawning day. + +"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his +love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any +probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had +found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite +avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again. + +He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. +Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, +and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to have +breakfast," she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Müller, and +have a cup of coffee with us." + +Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it out +as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked in +her long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows of +pale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he +made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had +not the slightest conception. + +A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily suffered +some wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste like +ordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls +became sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite +sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as +that breakfast on the avenue. + +When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride. +They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the +trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and +the spring airs were full of happiness and hope. Christine was arranging +and watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz's +hands and hers had lingered happily together. So now love gave to this +mortal an immortal's confidence. He never thought of sighing and fearing +and trembling. His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believed +that sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say to +her. + +"Shall we ride?" he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at her +with eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness. + +Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of what +people would say. But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, +and laughed at society; and before Christine had decided which of her +costumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door. + +How they rattled up the avenue and through the park! How the green +branches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped about +them! By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgotten +they were mortal. Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidence +of love's exaltation into love's silent tender melancholy, were just as +blissful. + +They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, but +just before they parted Franz said, "I have been waiting thirty years +for you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed." + +And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her +blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave +them to him. + +Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor. Franz +must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet +weeks and months for him. He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and +laid his whole life down at Christine's feet. There was no definite +engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as +surely as the end of the season. + +Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, but +the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched. +And Franz was not anxious at all on this score. His father, a shrewd +business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. "It +is not the boy's fault," he said to his partner, "he gets it from his +grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it." + +So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented +himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and +securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase. He +had bought wisely, and Franz's income was a certain and handsome one, +with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient +to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been +accustomed. + +So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. +All he had should be Christine's and her father should settle the matter +just as he thought best for his daughter. In a general way this was +understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize +with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these +enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm +of their young lives' idyl. + +Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancient +superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect +happiness. Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to +follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to +have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate. + +But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October +days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been +so green and gay, Franz's dream was rudely broken--broken by a Mr. James +Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth _three +millions_. In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of +influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over +Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him. + +Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone knew the whole secret; for of +course money was at the foundation. Indeed, in these days, in all public +and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but "How +much is it?" Franz Müller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on +sight. Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man +could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate +affection. + +In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the +possibility of such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of +such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and +if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations +that she had accepted so happily all summer. As for Christine, she had +constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with +weeping. + +At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a +month with some relative near Boston. A pitiful little note from +Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information +as to the locality of her relative's house, and no invitation to call, +he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him--wait +patiently for their return. + +At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently +written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and +anger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found +the house where Christine was staying. He was received at first very +shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, +the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help +it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very +miserable. + +Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, "just for five +minutes." The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, +weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The five +minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back +to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been +broken in two for this life. + +One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz," +he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old +Clarke?" + +"Yes." + +"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine." + +"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a woman +appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her +forcing her to do it." + +"I thought she was to be your wife." + +"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that. +If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine +Stromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child! +God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his +friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation. + +In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine +and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style +of extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine's +reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but +though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their +suggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna +and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she +went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a +wretched spectre. + +They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a +look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no +recognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered that +she had done very well to herself. + +Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the +world regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and her +father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franz +watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy +coldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily +jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched +passion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" he +asked himself; "and these little ones, what have they done?" So at last +he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to +regard them as part and portion of his love. + +But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected. +Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis came +to tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, for +he had found out that the beaten track is the safest. + +"Franz," he said, "have you heard about Clarke? His affairs are +frightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago." + +"And Christine? Does she know? Who has gone to her?" + +"My wife is with her. Clarke shot himself in his own room. Christine was +the first to reach him. He left a letter saying he was absolutely +ruined." + +"Where will Christine and the children go?" + +"I suppose to her father's. Not a pleasant place for her now. +Christine's step-mother dislikes both her and the children." + +Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling of +disappointment. "I thought he would have done something for her," he +said to his wife. "Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent." + +Ten days after he came home with a different story. "There never was a +woman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine," he said. "Hardy & Hall +sent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on her +before her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It seems the +old gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and in +order to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy's +charge two beautifully furnished cottages. There is something like an +accumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one is +luckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once. I +always thought the property was Hardy's own before. Very thoughtful in +Clarke." + +"It is not Clarke one bit. I don't believe he ever did it. It is some +arrangement of Franz Müller's." + +"For goodness' sake don't hint such a thing, Lizzie! Christine would not +go, and we should have her here very soon. Besides, I don't believe it. +Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since." + +The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife's opinion. "What do +you think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to me to-day and asked if +Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars. I told him Clarke gave +me two thousand about the time we were married." + +"'Say _loaned_, Louis,' he answered, 'to oblige me. Here is two +thousand and the interest for six years. Go and pay it to Christine; she +must need money.' So I went." + +"Is she settled comfortably?" + +"Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz is sure to marry her, and he is +growing richer every day." + +It seemed as if Louis's prediction would come true. Franz began to drive +out every afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he contented himself with just +passing Christine's gate. But he soon began to stop for the children, +and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the +parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea. + +For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others +noticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left +him weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the last +summer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first +one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago +with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only +strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into +her face. + +One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin," he said, +"your friend Müller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days, +perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is near +the last." + +"Does he know it?" + +"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once." + +So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his last +preparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis," he +said; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. I +have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when--when I am +gone. + +"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me: +there are ten of them, every one ten years old." + +"Is that all, dear Franz?" + +"Yes; my will has long been made. Except a legacy to yourself, all goes +to Christine--dear, dear Christine!" + +"You love her yet, then, Franz?" + +"What do you mean? I have loved her for ages. I shall love her forever. +She is the other half of my soul. In some lives I have missed her +altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one." + +"Do you know what you are saying, Franz?" + +"Very clearly, Louis. I have always believed with the oldest +philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permitted +them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to +meet and comfort each other. Do you think I saw Christine for the first +time in your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer and grander memories +of her than any linked to this life. I must leave her now for a little. +God knows when and where we meet again; but _He does know_; that is my +hope and consolation." + +Whatever were Louis's private opinions about Franz's theology it was +impossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend's last +instructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had long +been strange to his-heart. + +In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine's. It was the last +physical effort he was capable of. No one saw the parting of those two +souls. He went with Christine's arms around him, and her lips whispering +tender, hopeful farewells. It was noticed however, that after Franz's +death a strange change came over Christine--a beautiful nobility and +calmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiest +aims. + +Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left. The +ten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went to +the grave with him, but the rest were of such an extraordinary nature +that Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and then +at her request leaving them for her to dispose of. They were indeed +letters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, and +directed to every place in which she had sojourned. In all of them she +was addressed as "Beloved Wife of my Soul," and in this way the poor +fellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart. + +To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these all +referred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned in +Christine's and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he had +written only for his own comfort. But it was perhaps well they fell into +Christine's hands: she could not but be a better woman for reading the +simple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness and +child-like submission as the goal of its duties. + +Seven years after Franz's death Christine and her daughter died together +of the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left sole +inheritor of Franz's wealth. + +"A German dreamer!" + +Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers. And perchance he that seeks +fame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, +when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life "as a dream +when one awaketh." + + + + +THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT. + + +"It is the King's highway that we are in; and know this, His messengers +are on it. They who have ears to hear will hear; and He opens the eyes +of some, and they see things not to be lightly spoken of." + +It was John Balmuto who said these words to me. John was a Shetlander, +and for forty years he had gone to the Arctic seas with the whale boats. +Then there had come to him a wonderful experience. He had been four days +and nights alone with God upon the sea, among mountains of ice reeling +together in perilous madness, and with little light but the angry flush +of the aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that strong faith in the +Unseen which made him an active character in the facts I am going to +relate. + +After his marvelous salvation, he devoted his life to the service of God +by entering that remarkable body of lay evangelists attached to the +Presbyterian Church in Highland parishes, called "The Men," and he +became noted throughout the Hebrides for his labors, and for his +knowledge of the Scriptures. + +Circumstances, that summer, had thrown us together; I, a young woman, +just entering an apparently fortunate life; he, an aged saint, standing +on the borderland of eternity. And we were sitting together, in the gray +summer gloaming, when he said to me, "Thou art silent to-night. What +hast thou, then, on thy mind?" + +"I had a strange dream. I cannot shake off its influence. Of course it +is folly, and I don't believe in dreams at all." And it was then he said +to me, "It is the King's highway that we are in, and know this, His +messengers are on it." + +"But it was only a dream." + +"Well, God speaks to His children 'in dreams, and by the oracles that +come in darkness.'" + +"He used to do so." + +"Wilt thou then say that He has ceased so to speak to men? Now, I will +tell thee a thing that happened; I will tell thee just the bare facts; I +will put nothing to, nor take anything away from them. + +"'Tis, five years ago the first day of last June. I was in Stornoway in +the Lews, and I was going to the Gairloch Preachings. It was rough, +cheerless weather, and all the fishing fleet were at anchor for the +night, with no prospect of a fishing. The fishers were sitting together +talking over the bad weather, but, indeed, without that bitterness that +I have heard from landsmen when it would be the same trouble with them. +So I gathered them into Donald Brae's cottage, and we had a very good +hour. I noticed a stranger in the corner of the room, and some one told +me he was one of those men who paint pictures, and I saw that he was +busy with a pencil and paper even while we were at the service. But the +next day I left for the Preachings, and I thought no more of him, good +or bad. + +"On the first of September I was in Oban. I had walked far and was very +tired, but I went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after I had eat my +kippered herring and drank my tea, I felt better. Then I talked with +John about the resurrection of the body, for he was in a tribulation of +thoughts and doubts as to whether our Lord had a permanent humanity or +not. + +"And I said to him, John, Christ redeemed our whole nature, and it is +this way: the body being ransomed, as well as the spirit, by no less a +price than the body of Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glorified. +Now, then, after I had gone to my room, I was sitting thinking of these +things, and of no other things whatever. There was not a sound but that +of the waves breaking among the rocks, and drawing the tinkling pebbles +down the beach after them. Then the ears of my spiritual body were +opened, and I heard these words, _'I will go with thee to Glasgow!'_ +Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 'I am ready!' I began to +argue with myself thus: 'Whatever for should I go to Glasgow? I know not +anyone there. No one knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to be left. +I have no money for such a journey--' + +"I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then I dreamed of--or I saw--a woman +fair as the daughters of God, and she said, _'I will go with thee to +Glasgow!'_ With a strange feeling of being hurried and pressed I +awoke--wide awake, and without any conscious will of my own, I answered, +'I am ready. I am ready now.' + +"As I left the cottage it was striking twelve, and I wondered what means +of reaching Glasgow I should find at midnight. But I walked straight to +the pier, and there was a small steamer with her steam up. She was +blowing her whistle impatiently, and when the skipper saw me coming, he +called to me, in a passion, 'Well, then, is it all night I shall wait +for thee?' + +"I soon perceived that there was a mistake, and that it was not John +Balmuto he had been instructed to wait for. But I heeded not that; I was +under orders I durst not disobey. She was a trading steamer, with a +perishable cargo of game and lobsters, and so she touched at no place +whatever till we reached Glasgow. One of her passengers was David +MacPherson of Harris, a very good man, who had known me in my +visitations. He was going to Glasgow as a witness in a case to be tried +between the Harris fishers and their commission house in Glasgow. + +"As we walked together from the steamer, he said to me, 'Let us go round +by the court house, John, and I'll find out when I'll be required.' That +was to my mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, whatever road +was taken, and I turned with him the way he desired to go. He found the +lawyer who needed him in the court house, and while they talked together +I went forward and listened to the case that was in hand. + +"It was a trial for murder, and I could not keep my eyes off the young +man who was charged with the crime. He seemed to be quite broken down +with shame and sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the court closed and +the constables took him away. As he passed me our eyes met, and my heart +dirled and burned, and I could not make out whatever would be the matter +with me. All night his face haunted me. I was sure I had seen it some +place; and besides it would blend itself with the dream which had +brought me to Glasgow. + +"In the morning I was early at the court house and I saw the prisoner +brought in. There was the most marvelous change in his looks. He walked +like a man who has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. But now it +troubled me more than ever. Whatever had I to do with the young man? Yet +I could not bear to leave him. + +"I listened and found out that he was accused of murdering his uncle. +They had been traveling together and were known to have been at Ullapool +on the thirtieth of May. On the first of June the elder man was found in +a lonely place near Oban, dead, and, without doubt, from violence. The +chain of circumstantial evidence against his nephew was very strong. To +judge by it I would have said myself to him, 'Thou art certainly +guilty.' + +"On the other side the young man declared that he had quarreled with his +uncle at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He had then taken passage +in a Manx fishing smack which was going to the Lews, but he had +forgotten the name of the smack. He was not even certain if the boat was +Manx. The landlord of the inn, at which he said he stayed when in the +Lews, did not remember him. 'A thing not to be expected,' he told the +jury, 'for in the summer months, what with visitors, and what with the +fishers, a face in Stornoway was like a face on a crowded street. The +young man might have been there'-- + +"The word _Stornoway_ made the whole thing clear to me. The prisoner was +the man I had noticed with a pencil and paper among the fishers in +Donald Brae's cottage. Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I had been +sent to Glasgow. I walked quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet from +my head, I said to the judge, 'My lord, the prisoner _was_ in Stornoway +on the first of June. I saw him there!' + +"He gave a great cry of joy and turned to me; and in a moment he called +out: 'You are the man who read the Bible to the fishers. I remember you. +I have your likeness among my drawings.' And I said, 'I am the man.' + +"Then my lord, the judge, made them swear me, and he said they would +hear my evidence. For one moment I was a coward. I thought I would hide +God's share in the deliverance, lest men should doubt my whole +testimony. The next, I was telling the true story: how I had been called +at midnight--twice called; how I had found Evan Conochie's boat waiting +for me; how on the boat I had met David MacPherson, and been brought to +the court house by him, having no intention or plan of my own in the +matter. + +"And there was a great awe in the room as I spoke. Every one believed +what I said, and my lord asked for the names of the fishers who were +present in Donald Brae's cottage on the night of the first of June. Very +well, then, I could give many of them, and they were sent for, and the +lad was saved, thank God Almighty!" + +"How do you explain it, John?" + +"No, I will not try to explain it; for it is not to be hoped that anyone +can explain by human reason the things surpassing human reason." + +"Do you know what became of the young man?" + +"I will tell thee about him. He is a very rich young man, and the only +child of a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her great goodness to the +Lord's poor. But when his mother died it did not go well and peaceably +between him and his uncle; and it is true that he left him at Ullapool +without a word. Well, then, he fell into this sore strait, and it seemed +as if all hope of proving his innocence was over. + +"But that very night on which I saw him first, he dreamed that his +mother came to him in his cell and she comforted him and told him, +'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall speak for thee.' He never +doubted the heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked me. 'My mother +never deceived me in life; would she come to me, even in a dream, to +tell me a lie? Ah, no!'" + +"Is he still alive?" + +"God preserve him for many a year yet! I'll only require to speak his +name"--and when he had done so, I knew the secret spring of thankfulness +that fed the never-ceasing charity of one great, good man. + +"And yet, John," I urged, "how can spirit speak with spirit?" + +"'_How?_' I will tell thee, that word 'how' has no business in the mouth +of a child of God. When I was a boy, who had dreamed 'how' men in London +might speak with men in Edinburgh through the air, invisible and +unheard? That is a matter of trade now. Can thou imagine what subtle +secret lines there may be between the spiritual world and this world?" + +"But dreams, John?" + +"Well, then, dreams. Take the dream life out of thy Bible and, oh, how +much thou wilt lose! All through it this side of the spiritual world +presses close on the human side. I thank God for it. Yes, indeed! Many +things I hear and see which say to me that Christians now have a kind of +shame in what is mystical or supernatural. But thou be sure of this--the +supernaturalism of the Bible, and of every Christian life is not one of +the difficulties of our faith, _it is the foundation of our faith_. The +Bible is a supernatural book, the law of a supernatural religion; and to +part with this element is to lose out of it the flavor of heaven, and +the hope of immortality. Yes, indeed!" + +This conversation occurred thirty years ago. Two years since, I met the +man who had experienced such a deliverance, and he told me again the +wonderful story, and showed me the pencil sketch which he had made of +John Balmuto in Donald Brae's cottage. He had painted from it a grand +picture of his deliverer, wearing the long black camlet cloak and +head-kerchief of the order of evangelists to which he belonged. I stood +reverently before the commanding figure, with its inspired eyes and rapt +expression; for, during those thirty years, I also had learned that it +was only those + + Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours + Weeping upon their bed have sate, + Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers. + + + + +SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN. + + +Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and fallen, trampled in the mire +and mud of the conflict, then the ranks closed again and left no place +for her. So she crawled aside to die. With a past whose black despair +was as the shadow of a starless night, a future which her early +religious training lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the strong +bands of a pitiless death dragging her to the grave--still she craved, +as the awful hour drew near, to see once more the home of her innocent +childhood. Not that she thought to die in its shelter--any one who knew +David Todd knew also that was a hopeless dream; but if, IF her +father should say one pardoning word, then she thought it would help her +to understand the love of God, and give her some strength to trust in +it. + +Early in the evening, just as the sun was setting and the cows were +coming lowing up the little lane, scented with the bursting lilac +bushes, she stood humbly at the gate her father must pass in order to go +to the hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. Very soon she saw +him coming, his Scotch bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps steadied +by his shepherd's staff. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyes +looked far over the hills; for David was a mystic in his own way, and +they were to him temples not made with hands in which he had seen and +heard wonderful things. Here the storehouses of hail and lightning had +been opened in his sight, and he had watched in the sunshine the tempest +bursting beneath his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and been waited +upon by spectral mists. The voices of winds and waters were in his +heart, and he passionately believed in God. But it was the God of his +own creed--jealous, just and awful in that inconceivable holiness which +charges his angels with folly and detects impurity in the sinless +heavens. So, when he approached the gate he saw, but would not see, the +dying girl who leaned against it. Whatever he felt he made no sign. He +closed it without hurry, and then passed on the other side. + +"Father! O, father! speak one word to me." + +Then he turned and looked at her, sternly and awfully. + +"Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken naught o' thee." + +Without another glance at the white, despairing face, he walked rapidly +on; for the spring nights were chilly, and he must gather his lambs into +the fold, though this poor sheep of his own household was left to +perish. + +But, if her father knew her no more, the large sheep-dog at his side was +not so cruel. No theological dogmas measured Rover's love; the stain on +the spotless name of his master's house, which hurt the old man like a +wound, had not shadowed his memory. He licked her hands and face, and +tried with a hospitality and pity which made him so much nearer the +angels than his master to pull her toward her home. But she shook her +head and moaned pitifully; then throwing her arms round the poor brute +she kissed him with those passionate kisses of repentance and love which +should have fallen on her father's neck. The dog (dumb to all but God) +pleaded with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic gestures; but she turned +wearily away toward a great circle of immense rocks--relics of a +religion scarcely more cruel than that which had neither pity nor +forgiveness at the mouth of the grave. Within their shadow she could die +unseen; and there next morning a wagoner, attracted by the plaintive +howling of a dog, found her on the ground, dead. + +There are set awful hours between every soul and heaven. Who knows what +passed between Lettice Todd and her God in that dim forsaken temple of a +buried faith? Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of tears, and +her face was beautiful with a strange peace, though its loveliness was +marred and its youth "seared with the autumn of strange suffering." + +At the inquest which followed, her stern old father neither blamed nor +excused himself. He accepted without apology the verdict of society +against him; only remarking that its reproof was "a guid example o' +Satan correcting sin." + +Scant pity and less ceremony was given to her burial. Death, which draws +under the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty and ambition of men, +covering them with those two narrow words _Hic jacet_! gives also to the +woman who has been a sinner all she asks--oblivion. In no other way can +she obtain from man toleration. The example of the whitest, purest soul +that ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is ignored in the church +He founded. The tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely woman stooped to +folly," found no way of escape for her but to "die;" and those closet +moralists, with filthy fancies and soiled souls, who abound in every +community, regard her with that sort of scorn which a Turk expresses +when he says "Dog of a Christian." Poor Lettice! She had procured this +doom--first by sacrificing herself to a blind and cruel love, and then +to the importunate demands of hunger, "oldest and strongest of +passions." Ah! if there was no pity in Heaven, no justice beyond the +grave, what a cruel irony this life would be! For, while the sexton +shoveled hastily over the rude coffin the obliterating earth, there +passed the graveyard another woman equally fallen from all the apostle +calls "lovely and of good report." One whose youth and hopes and +marvelous beauty had been sold for houses and lands and a few thousand +pounds a year. But, though her life was a living lie, the world praised +her, because she "had done well unto herself." Yet, at the last end, the +same seed brought forth the same fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Hall +learned, with bitter rapidity, that riches are too poor to buy love. +Scarcely had she taken possession of her splendid home before she longed +for the placid happiness of her mother's cottage, and those evening +walks under the beech-trees, whose very memory was now a sin. Over her +beautiful face there crept a pathetic shadow, which irritated the rude +and noisy squire like a reproach. He had always had what he wanted. Not +even the beauty of all the border counties had been beyond his means to +buy but somehow he felt as if in this bargain he had been overreached. +Her better part eluded his possession, and he felt dissatisfied and +angry. Expostulations grew into cruel words; cruel words came to cruder +blows. _Yes, blows_. English gentlemen thirty years ago knew their +privileges; and that was one of them. She was as much and as lawfully +his as the horses in his stables or the hounds in his kennels. He beat +them, too, when they did not obey him. Her beauty had betrayed her into +the hands of misery. She had wedded it, and there was no escape for her. +One day, when her despair and suffering was very great, some tempting +devil brought her a glass of brandy, and she drank it. It gave her back +for a few hours her departed sceptre; but at what a price! Her slave +soon became her master. Stimulus and stupefaction, physical exhaustion +and mental horrors, the abandonment of friends and the brutality of a +coarse and cruel husband, brought her at last to the day of reckoning. +She died, seven years after her marriage, in the delirium of opium. +There were physicians and servants around her, and an unloving husband +waiting for the news of his release. I think I would rather have died +where Lettice did--under the sky, with the solemn mountains lifting +their heads in a perpetual prayer around me, and that faithful dog +licking my hands, and mourning my wasted life. + +Now, wherein did these two women differ? One sinned through an intense +and self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the strongest calls of +want. Her sin, though it was beyond the pale of the world's toleration, +was yet one _according to Nature_. The other, in a cold spirit of +barter, voluntarily and deliberately exchanged her youth and beauty, the +hopes of her own and another's life, for carriages, jewels, fine +clothing and a luxurious table. She loathed the price she had to pay, +and her sin was an unnatural one. For this kind of prostitution, which +religion blesses and society praises, there seems to be no redress; but +for that which results as the almost inevitable sequence of one lapse of +chastity _we_, the pious, the virtuous, the irreproachable, are all to +blame. Who or what make it impossible for them to retrace their steps? +Do they ever have reason to hope that the family hearth will be open to +them if they go back? Prodigal sons may return, and are welcomed with +tears of joy and clasped by helping hands; but alas! how few parents +would go to meet a sinning daughter. Forgetting our Master's precepts, +forgetting our human frailty, forgetting our own weakness, we turn +scornfully from the weeping Magdalen, and leave her "alone with the +irreparable." Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. We would +deprecate _any_ loosening of this great house-band of society; but we +do say that where it is the _only distinction_ between two women, one of +whom is an honored matron, and the other a Pariah and an outcast, there +is "something in the world amiss"--something beyond the cure of law or +legislation, and that they can only be reached by the authority of a +Christian press and the influence of Christian example. + + + + +THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON. + + +I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the +face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a +man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with +something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe +of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob +Roryson fashion. + +The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he +and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood +together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious +headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had +been cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed. + +"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in +Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is +the day!" + +So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, +candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is +his true history I am telling to-day. + +Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger +and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified +in his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whom +he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him +bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet. + +When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a +"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the +plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would +help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their +hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The +American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and +kin, and offered to teach them his own craft. + +For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an +ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt +sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great +West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his +brother to its dangers and privations. + +"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're +no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune, +and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll +spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad." + +"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?" + +"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no +shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a +loving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as he +could see it. + +It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidence +and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise. +After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings +after his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost each +other." For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered +his loyal heart. + +He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long years +of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble +as Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was +scattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence very +frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, +so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him. + +Then seven years after Sandy's departure the very house in which they +had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and +probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have +told anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should +come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a +letter reaching him less and less likely. + +Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more of +a dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simple +little body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. They +had one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whom +Davie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits were +faithfully reproduced. + +It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled. +Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "Little +Sandy." Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itself +became to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy's +pleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yet +through it ran one golden thread of romance. + +In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and in +winter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to his +wife and child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look for +fortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and the +enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale. + +Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life with +a glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find Uncle +Sandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and no +end of them in some safe bank, besides. + +But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade and +began to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated all +their hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in his +own name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home. + +He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. There +was nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain. +She was bright and capable, but they _felt_ a want they were not able to +analyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the ruling +spirit of their own lives. + +This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did right +because it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure to +do it. When they had been married three years the war broke out, and +soon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, who +was daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and, +indeed, their case looked hard enough. + +At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but a +family consultation soon showed that this was impossible without +hopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silence +which follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of an +irremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a very +unexpected manner. + +"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd +find your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had more +than twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now, +isn't it?" + +He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really was +asking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offer +into fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroic +than the perfect self-abnegation of his manner. + +The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had been +practicing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Davie +went to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home. + +This was the break-up of Davie's life. His wife went to live with Sandy +and Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold. + +Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affected +to be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the parting +came, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sad +enough to the one old heart who had counted its cost. + +In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein of +romance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lost +brother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, and +he had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemed +possible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enough +apart. + +Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grew +poorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort for +all his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poor +Sandy." + +Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie. +There was no wife to meet him--she had been three months in the grave +when he got back to New York--and going to his daughter-in-law's home +was not--well, it was not like going to his own house. + +Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she was grateful to Davie, but she +did not _love_ the old man. + +He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless. +He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Other +men could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step out +from the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions as +his failing strength permitted him to fill. + +Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both," he +said, "and he thought father had deserved his rest." + +But Davie shook his head--"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earn +it now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough." He was +still cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke of +his brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with many +others. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. I +am not going to write its history. + +It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spite +of its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place--not +pleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass, +when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narrowed +down to a fight with actual cold and hunger. + +It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonely +claim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, the +tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks, +threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children's +wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom +they once were very tender. + +David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie counted +grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His little +newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer +papers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made little +losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it +would "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is +now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own." + +This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through +the summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie's +plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, +and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought +which haunted his own--_would they commit him, then, to the care of +public charities?_ + +"We have no time to love each other," he muttered, sadly, "and my bite +and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'll +speak to Sandy myself about it--poor lad! It will come hard on him to +say the first word." + +The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that +night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandy +came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie +began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, +and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that +had been discussed many times before. + +"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventy +cents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off +what is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee +to-night, and _his_ bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. It +is very hard on us all!" + +"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves the +old man--God bless him! He was a good father to me." + +"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children's +bread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him down +to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will be +better off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must do +it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer." + +"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year's +presents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearly +eighteen dollars, you know." + +"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can take +the business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worse +and worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie's +earnings besides. Sandy, _it has got to be_! Do it while we can make +something by the step." + +"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if I +take it," and David could hear that his son's voice trembled. + +In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and his +father knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart was +yet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into a +happy sleep. + +In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of the +argument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neither +astonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the day +and asked him to "go down the avenue a bit." + +He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and the +sorrow of it; but something would not let him do it. In the first +place, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all the +gay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streets +gave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciously +into his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly +determined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal with +his father. + +Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of +days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank, +and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they +were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the +last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never +have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it. + +As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent; +his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and +the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost +more pitiful than tears. + +At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a +start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were +sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he +turned Davie quickly round, and said: + +"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no, +by heaven! though I die for it!" + +"Just a little further, Sandy." + +And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very +well understood. + +"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!" + +Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and +resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been +going. + +Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children and +the trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thing +to him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to the +father whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all their +lives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand, +they climbed the dark tenement stair together. + +Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair aside +hastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her very +first words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!--so glad!" + +She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, and +he made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery for +the little extras with which she celebrated his return at supper. He +understood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleep +that night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial and +come out conqueror. + +The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heart +there was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered the +poor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with the +children. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him still +softened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round his +papers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup of +coffee and a bit of bread and bacon. + +Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So then +he took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate and +drank. + +In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in his +pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, went +out without a word to anyone. + +The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbed +him. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in +18--, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wall +street, he would hear of something to his advantage." + +His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was going +now to hear something about Sandy. + +"He said 'sure as death,' and he would mind that promise at the last +hour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtless +send, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a lad +like him!" + +When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to stand +unnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sank +to their usual placid level. At length some one said: + +"Well, old man, what do _you_ want?" + +"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what _you_ wanted." + +"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward--I think you will find +out, then, what we want." + +He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, without +answering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it. + +An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking into +the fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk. +The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with an +annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door. + +"I am David Morrison, sir." + +"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, +lad!" + +As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that it +was like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he became +conscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were two +physicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish and +anxiety. + +"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a +system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of +wine." + +Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it +what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad +history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, +and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys. + +But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration +with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood +pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken. + +"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, +in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just +handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too." + +Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very +handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor +and sorrow on his face; and he had known both. + +For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle +to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie +had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two. + +When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, +carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his +brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle +equally hopeless and poor. + +But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call +of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania +village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was +successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, +and went into the oil business. + +"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it +is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from +time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we +would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your +share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury." + +It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any +further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest +compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly +believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly +believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie +looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to +fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the +credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a +schoolboy: + +"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?" + +"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. +Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but +the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I +think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at +it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know." + +"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and +we'll live together--that is, if you would like it." + +"What would I like better?" + +"Maybe you have a wife, and then--" + +"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have no +one but you." + +"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest +dairy in the State, Sandy." + +"That is just my idea, Davie." + +Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, +and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than +uneasy about him. + +"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself +to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from +them so long." + +So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers +parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought +they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to +get out and run home. + +When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire +in the stove and wee Davie--his namesake--was sitting, half crying, +before it. + +The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and +tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place. + +"What's the matter, Davie?" + +"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack +Dacey gave me a beating besides; and--and I really do think my toes are +frozen off." + +Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered + +"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new +clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes +mammy." + +Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach +when she saw Davie. + +"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft +about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where--" + +Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a +new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only +say: "Father! father! what is it?" + +"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just +given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear +lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God." + +By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and +Sallie said: + +"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father." + +Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had +seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something +wonderful had happened. + +"What is the matter, father?" + +"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort +and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy +home for us all in some nice country place." + +When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face +with his hands, sobbed out: + +"Thank God! thank God!" + +It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go +to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going +to buy together, and then he said to his son: + +"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?" + +"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow +fast." + +"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a +month." + +"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be +work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children +can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often +dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true." + +But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother +were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander +Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and +had begun to do very well. + +Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie +presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit +garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best +of all, _it was their own_--a New Year's gift from the kindest of +grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the +Brothers Morrison. + +They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. +What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears +both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, +for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David +agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to +say," etc. + +Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be +lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of +quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have +each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both +very fond of young Sandy and the children. + +Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked +over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and +holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as +much as they do Sallie. + +As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with +care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity +was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She +has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to +her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her +husband's heart trusts in her. + +Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give +cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing +on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand +may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune +through all the years of life. + + + + +TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER. + + +Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you +would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you +saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's +parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for +the habit. + +One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a +comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was +busily painting. His cheery little wife--pretty enough in spite of her +thirty-seven years--was reading the interesting items in the morning +papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite +tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when +the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, +dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of +"Ah! che la morte ognora." + +But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very +middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor +door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan +painted stood in the aperture--a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning +gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair +falling around her. + +"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a +newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most +becoming with my new seal-skin set." + +"Ask papa." + +"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a +poor live girl, it does not interest him." + +"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically." + +"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists +don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?" + +"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it +will do you good to hear it." + +"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I +prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan +skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la +morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted. + +"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?" + +"See here." + +"Tickets for Booth's?" + +"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just +about the same numbers." + +"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?" + +Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different +things. + +"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?" + +"Of course I did mamma--I told him in the nicest kind of way that we +must only be dear friends, and so on." + +"Then why did he send these tickets?" + +"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men +enjoy burning." + +"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of +being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from +papa simply to tell me this?" + +"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's +daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all +the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's +engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting." + +It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan +took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about wedding +dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if +they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of +grown-up fairy lore. + +But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was +worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and +the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the +tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon +it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture +as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she +tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning +subjects, for a "good-by" kiss. + +"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed +in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed +it." + +"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, +and take to studying _Harper's Bazar_ for effects; then your women will +look a little more natural." + +"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!" + +"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of +papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look +like?" + +"Frights, Miss Kitty." + +"Of course they do. Now, papa." + +"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack +and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh +wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle +and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, +"You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, +Kitty, I am afraid." + +"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian +Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You +know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm +clear on that subject, Jack." + +"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do." + +"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the +country. I am sure that would not do." + +Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he +sighed, and was silent. + +Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought +to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked +you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!" + +"You don't dislike me, Kitty?" + +"Not at all. I think you are first-rate." + +"It is my profession, then?" + +"Exactly." + +"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?" + +"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will +Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful." + +"Now, Kitty!" + +"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at +nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to +jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid +passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his +manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!" + +"But she thoroughly enjoys it." + +"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be +real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was +splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book." + +"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor--at the altar, if you like--never to +bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my +profession." + +"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, +perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use +of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the +manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were +_mine_, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was." + +Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed +Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was +forced to pretend he had ruined her glove. + +"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am +quite sure I could make plenty of money for you." + +"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not +go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in +calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am +mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm +fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the +time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms +of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty +occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us +they are." + +"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?" + +"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that +loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every +summer to see views." + +"To see views?" + +"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and +jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand +landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or +the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know +papa _will_ go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown +away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one +kind or another." + +Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush +that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he +meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some +third party. + +"Why, Max, when did you get home?" + +"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry +words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the +rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone. + +But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, +though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as she +had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into +being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes +claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became +suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, +saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max +Raymond. + +It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then +he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether +he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a +change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take +possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal +of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than +might have been expected. + +For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; +Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she +submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when +she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him. + +But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening--those grand old Romans walking +on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the +calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, and +looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and +present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream. + +She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back +into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable +stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old +radiant, careless Kitty. + +"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut ----'s +criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?" + +"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and +Barrett backed him up handsomely." + +"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear +it." + +"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good +night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning." + +"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?" + +"Jack Warner, I expect." + +"Hum! I don't think so." + +"Men don't know everything, Tom." + +"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line +are only guesses at truth." + +"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will +explain herself in the morning." + +But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more +inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read +them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with +her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and +inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures +and literary societies: Max took her. + +Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of +men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. +He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty +willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty. + +"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, +after studying his daughter reading the _Endymion_ without a yawn. + +"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on +painting. Kitty is in love." + +"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible." + +"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!" + +"With whom?" + +"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was +pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born +thought with his favorite melody. + +Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's +delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, +intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; +and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods +box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and +when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question. + +"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she +would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along +without it." + +"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down." + +"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss." + +"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May +or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you +just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a +step in your direction." + +Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a +pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, +Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or +Saratoga?" + +"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak." + +"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my +little daughter to have her whim for once." + +"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want +either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch +with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not +going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at +Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I +couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation." + +"Where must we go, then?" + +"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many +new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, +you deserve your own way about your holiday." + +And Tom Duffan said, "_Thank you, Kitty_," in such a peculiar way that +Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally +left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, +"Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past +ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I +shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the +Branch, and asked you for a $500 check--serve you right, too." + +But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty +went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, +straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, +sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end +of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no +will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never +to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only +him, to the end of her life. + +All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent +little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she +had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's +respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She +remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said +something about studying law together; and with these items, and the +satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given +her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages. + +Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it +was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. +When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents and +preparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a great +deal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she would +not suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with," +she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen +and a straight petticoat." + +Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and +talked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, +went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphant +in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. +She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose +congratulations found their climax in the following statement: + +"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary +piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do say +that Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful." + +"_Mr. Raymond's last book_!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, +with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand. + +"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear." + +Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her +visitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, +and said, "What is Max's business--a lawyer?" + +"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, and +a great--" + +"_Writer?_" + +"Yes." + +"Writes books and magazine articles and things?" + +"Yes." + +Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "_I thought +so._ I wish Jack Warner was at home." + +"What for?" + +"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will +keep." + +Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he +returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. +His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting and +singing and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times that +Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. +Raymond. + +"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the +city. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?" + +Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see what +other miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty. So he went, and came +back wondering. + +"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the +professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?" + +"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts +his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies +his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through +thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt +spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on +earth should ever induce her to marry a writer." + +"What did she say?" + +"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, +you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married _the +man_.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is +your offering toward the advancement of science and social +regeneration?'" + +"What then?" + +"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; _it +is a labor of love_.'" + +"Well I never!" + +"Nor I either." + + + + +THE HARVEST OF THE WIND. + +CHAPTER I. + + "As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no + rule over his own spirit." + + + "My soul! Master Jesus, my soul! + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, + An' de more I dig him de better he spring: + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart + An' he sets my soul on fire: + My soul! + Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!" + +The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and +he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as +he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he +rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his +left hand. + +"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef +he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He +communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then +threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of +growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the +field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among +the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the +cypress. + +Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy--a very +handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned +upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid +switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He +said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame. + +"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat +kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present +time." + +"My father objects to every one I like." + +"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his +good." + +"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he +asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this +letter." + +"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message +from you, Massa Davie." + +In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable +passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike. + +"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done +carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!" + +"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the +trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. +Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs +chiming to his uneven, crashing tread. + +Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de +drefful temper; got it each side ob de house--father and mother, bofe. I +hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man--got it +bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring +hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving +unselfishness of a prayer in them. + +In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from +father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and +self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio--a +daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a +happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life +away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David +remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he +had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between +father and son, a great gulf. + +He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all +control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. +But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had +been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had +been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives +commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere +exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not +forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special +creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made +any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; +he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not +yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary. + +He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and +he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing +in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself +out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan +architecture--broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to +rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every +side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro +cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the +hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it +was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum +and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip +trees. + +The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his +national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as +it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the +grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His +household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good +management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied +upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, +there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would +rise to every occasion. + +And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved +his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but +when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly +taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his +sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on +which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one +another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate +independence on the other, kept them far apart. + +Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel +than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house +until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David +joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the +road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand. + +This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than +he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was +a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he +regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard +of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake +it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, +smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he +ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could +tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, +relieve his own conscience of a burden. + +Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu +leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He +regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. +The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing +white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the +bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He +was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman +must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just +such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a +recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice. + +"Lulu!" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?" + +"Not since you forbid me." + +He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not +have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people +for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their +intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James +Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the +question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to have +kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?" +For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that +he might have made a mistake. + +The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, +the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The +swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge +of the prairie--the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded +world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In +his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, +let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware +that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a +thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, +all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention. + +He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking +of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had +given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into +his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there +with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered +higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of it +than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. +Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the +affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should +understand one another. + +But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own +traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently +settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen +and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy +appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its +advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both +fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and +declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this +subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, +James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and +not make an effort to save him. + +At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined +to ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then he +could talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight the +great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft, +but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp--a ten-acre patch of +grass on the summit of some low hills. + +The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight men +were slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediately +challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaley +rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand +to his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before. +He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed look +about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a +determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a +six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife. + +"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer." + +"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. David +Lorimer is on watch till midnight." + +He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating +in the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silent +before the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer, +your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter you +make your palaver the better it will suit me." + +Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and the +retort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man of +Whaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him he +was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance. + +Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever galloped +through Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. He +was the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellow +hair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley. + +"Davie," and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to +your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o' +life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude father +to ye." + +It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quite +appreciated the concession, but he answered-- + +"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up." + +"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en do +sae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth to +plague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' ye +anent some decenter way of life than this." + +The talk was not altogether a pleasant one; but both yielded something, +and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man to +fill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not linger +after this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without the +ceremony of a "good-bye," he turned his horse's head eastward again. + +Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers from +emigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemed +determined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeply +offended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that he +kept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked me +how I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square," +he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that David +began to feel it impossible to restrain his temper. + +Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, grows +rapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began to +notice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the young +Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying. + +"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long," remarked an old +drover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with such a vim that +he's no appetite for his food left." + +"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it." + +At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen men +among them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer any +pretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, low +spurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, +gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. All +the lower ridges were savagely bald and hot--a glen, paved with gold and +walled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake down +into the breathless valley! + +The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David was +weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch. +It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather was +gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving +clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle. + +The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no +lightning. + +"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night," said one of the men. +"I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights +as this one." + +"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a cayote frightens one in a drove the +panic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run.'" + +"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of ten +thousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same +moment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. But +you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin' +was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'd +keep clear of him, ef I was you." + +"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!" + +"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out. +Take your own way now." + +For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own +heart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned a +deaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he +passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. David +asked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?" + +"I was." + +"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!" + +Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight +thousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of +them exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind leveling +a forest, they were off in the darkness. + +The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering +of hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worth +of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and +gave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders," and then he +sprang for his own mule. + +David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight and +stood still. + +"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you have +Spanish blood in you." + +A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fell +without a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a +minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed one +instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself +up to the wild passion of the pursuit. + +By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, +clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant +becoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; he +knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing along +by the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined +the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the +left so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turned +the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the +right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag +end of the line. + +Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, +and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and +were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Men +who had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work were +amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round the +mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, +and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The +"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and +exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle. + +"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job like +this himself." + +"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?" + +"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run' +commenced." + +No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for +conversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were +weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices +had been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a +messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and he +knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him. + +He offered to return to camp and report "all right," and the offer was +accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a +belt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of +unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the +underwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made +all natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him. +He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in every +moments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from +which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the +shameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father's +love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for +it came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, +the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's passionate +revenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, +cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked. +Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours +gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not +daring-- + + "--to search through what sad maze, + Thenceforth his incommunicable ways + Follow the feet of death." + + +CHAPTER II. + + "--and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. + 15. + +Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments +when she appears to be asleep--when the stars, large and white, bend +stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or +flower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah +smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia +flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were little +ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their +quarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence had +passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the +dreaming earth. + +There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In ten +days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in +the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does +grow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing +for David's return, and forming plans through which the future might +atone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, +rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless +sleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and +thought with him. + +Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue, +and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow +was there in it? + +"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?" + +Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and +the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went to +the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to +greet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and +stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father. + +In a moment all the new tenderness was gone. + +In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter? +What hae ye been doing now?" + +"I have shot Whaley!" + +The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly +audible. The father rose and faced his wretched son. + +Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?" + +"Dead!" + +"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shot +you?--it was in self-defence?--it was an accident? Speak, dear!" + +"He called me a coward, and--" + +"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and +having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to +come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down your +rifle, sir!" + +Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you come +here? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I do +Davie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed it +with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, +all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that the +indulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him. + +"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it is +my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession." + +"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done your +duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do. +Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole +care. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and +stand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadful +Christian!" + +"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!" + +"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!--you will get no pity here. Fly!" + +"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!" + +"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do +as you will with me." And he laid his rifle upon the table. + +Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair +beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity. + +"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nor +deceptions." + +"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run,' just as my time was +out. Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the +leaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with my +Spanish blood--it was my dear mother's." + +"That is it," answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for +its restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolish +pride." + +"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no +right to insult me." + +The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was the +collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental +anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, +believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but +assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. First +he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the +quarters to arouse Plato. + +When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious +youth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he +felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at +his feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slight +reaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted; +bring some wine here!" Then he remembered the weakness of the voice +which had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched." + +When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father. +There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart +of hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even when +he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself +from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach. + +Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. He +was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the +uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body. + +"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be +allowed to leave the house." + +"Yes, sar." + +"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences." + +No answer. + +"You understand that, Plato?" + +"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout de +consequences." + +"Go, and do as I bid you!" + +When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to do +right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great +tempest: he could not see any road at all. There was a Bible on his +dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and +the sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the Great +Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it. +He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would +escape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair +character mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings were +so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, +to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as a +father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" he +thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and +honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign +there supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten and +astonished on a threshold he could not pass. + +In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him. +Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt +refreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful +death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what +chance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulu +sat by his side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expression +of suffering, at once defiant and despairing--a barren suffering, +without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they +had to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with few +words. + +"You must go now, beloved." + +He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. The +next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished +face. Then he was alone with Plato. + +"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?" + +"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some +bread and meat, and _dis_, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato." +Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his +lifetime. + +"How much is there, Plato?" + +"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little." + +"It was for your freedom, Plato." + +"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef you +git free, dat is all I want." + +They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. The +brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside +her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food. +The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, +and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but when +he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror +and his mental suffering. + +Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black +spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. They +had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; +they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Both +were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for +James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would +hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience. + +Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little +trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of +those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind +whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain. + +"Tell Master David to come here." + +"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were +trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked +his master calmly in the face. + +"Did I not tell you to stop him?" + +"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the +messenger--Plato could not do it!" + +"How did he go?" + +"On de little brown mare--his own horse done broke all up." + +"How much money did you give him?" + +"Money, sar?" + +"How much? Tell the truth." + +"Four hundred dollars." + +"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast." + +At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In the +house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold +and left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning was +going on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and +motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and +pretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day, +pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfall +made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further +bad news. + +On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word of +comfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the +wall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in the +atmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be made +so wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became a +reproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed; +he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the +probability of pursuit. + +On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer's +house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. He +tried to forget that _something_ had happened which made life appear a +different thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. The +negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their +last basket of cotton--all of them silent, depressed with their +weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the +autumn twilight. + +Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their +cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then +he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At +the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep. + +"Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, +but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging. + +"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be +wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning." + +He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his +soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down. + +"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I +brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can +make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about as +likely a young man as I ever saw." + +Still no answer. + +"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may +make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the +morning?--say about ten o'clock." + +"Yes. Will you have some supper?" + +"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the +circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. +Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?" + +"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff." + +He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his +hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be +tried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had not +confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his +evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him. + +At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the +course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles +distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained +clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His +heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, +by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of +saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, +"So this is the end of it, David?" + +"Yes. It is the end." + +"You ought not to have run away." + +"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have +put you all right." + +"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the +act." + +"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end +possible." + +"Have you then confessed the murder?" + +He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. +"Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with +the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in +the house." + +"But you have not yourself confessed?" + +"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you +would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of +denouncing your own son!" + +"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae +gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?" + +"How could I, father?" + +He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. +After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, +until--all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!" + +The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the +outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The +sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of +David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were +extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their +sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the +discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the +continent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only +refused assistance, but had shot his employer. + +"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravating +name." + +The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in +Texas that epithet would justify a murder; "but," he added, "most any +Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand +head of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so +myself." + +He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after many +hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice! +Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mental +constitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was +meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming +eyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard +something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, +"Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!" + +Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his +duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the +seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth +their natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became +clear to him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He cried +out with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!" + +The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was only +able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At the +earliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm, +almost cheerful. "The worst is over father," he said. "I have done a +great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing +to suffer it." + +"But after death! Oh, David, David--afterward!" + +"I shall dare to hope--for Christ also has died, the just for the +unjust." + +Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that +eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would +shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened; +for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, +and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least +part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine +vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ with +him that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; and +though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared +to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men +cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to +believe. + +"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, +there is nae doubt o' that." + +"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater." + +"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, +David, David!" + +"I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only +believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't +take it from me." + +Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray +when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the +twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was +opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long +irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of +the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse +to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the +scornful mention of his mother's race. + +There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder +Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular +man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; +and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had +honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of +the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very +nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a +coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative +moment. + +As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. +There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, +there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches +itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a +trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had +accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for +his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on +the death-sentence before they left their seats. + +And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying +it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient +number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for +any length of time. David was to die at sunset. + +Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all +pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But +these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What +confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses +were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of +mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the +Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of +those royal compassions which astonish even the angels. + +When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his +father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with +eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it +is." + +Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale +as ashes when he read the contents. + +"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered. + +"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you." + +The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared +to voice it. It was this-- + +"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I +dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life." + +For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose +and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry +trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their +verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no +pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty. + +Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He +pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully +satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim." + +But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he +must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the +punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death +like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every +rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they +were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially +false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men +gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further +pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his +hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request +would be granted. + +Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the +prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope +on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and +abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned +with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of +mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. +There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the +party walked. + +Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: +and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and +deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was +willing to pay the penalty of his crime." + +Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! +His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind +him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of +exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a +touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary +days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless. + +Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though +silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched +father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful +hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few +minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a +clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the +branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; +perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood. + +The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which +covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his +father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! _Now_!" As +the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. +He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's +groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of +suffering about him which no one thought of resisting. + +He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and +wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all +fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they +untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of +dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of +man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is +indifferent to all outside itself. + +When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the +house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to +him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a +companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff +having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, +Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room +and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead +opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw +all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what +it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over +and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing +repentance. + +In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. +But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. +Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces +and words. She was quite aware _what_ was in her uncle's lonely room. +Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came +to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," +and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dying +message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the +dead. + +At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an +urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing +in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu +had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the +slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, +more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, +the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind +them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves +across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last +it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth. + +When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, +their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air +with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl +was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's +unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the +winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own +consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept +her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her +with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, +she died. + +One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very +soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want +your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?" + +He winced visibly, and remained silent. + +"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. +They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you +must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this +time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?" + +"I will do my best, dear." + +"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will +need company soon." + +"Do you think you are dying, dear?" + +"I know I am dying." + +"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?" + +She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and +then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could +press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone +away"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting +by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The +fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been +too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's +doing. What was there for him to say? + +The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfully +at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he +persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they +loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave +them his own name, and suffered them to call him father. + +As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy +of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present +to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the +stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour +of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no +sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he +understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and +that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins +be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come +to the holy land: for-- + + "Down in the valley of death + A cross is standing plain; + Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, + And the ground has a deep red stain. + This cross uplifted there + Forbids, with voice Divine, + Our anguished hearts to break for the dead + Who have died and made no sign. + As they turned at length from us, + Dear eyes that were heavy and dim, + May have met his look, who was lifted there, + May be sleeping safe in Him." + + + + +THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON. + + +Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present +century--the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge. + +The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short +consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career +will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which +gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year +1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a +parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution +still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political +animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and +the prostration of the manufacturing business. + +His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his +grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton +spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition +with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder +Livesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and +spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the +first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of +calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no +certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to +improvements and ready to test an advance movement. + +That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. +The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so that +wealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of it +one-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinful +extravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmers +for raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist in +threshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for a +bare existence. + +Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Joseph +managed, "by hook or crook," to learn how to read, write and count a +little, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would have +been fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will. + +Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, +which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp that its walls +were constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark days +dared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacy +of £30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hard +apprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years. + +But the troubles that had begun before his birth--and which did not +lighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832--had +then attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of both +private charities and the national government. + +The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, +and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, near +Manchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of the +English weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the following +year, thousands of starving men started _en masse_ to London. They were +followed by the military and brought back for punishment or died +miserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a +smaller number Derby. + +But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined no +body of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; then +cutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets, +Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profit +from this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him to +make at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginning +founded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote a +long life to public usefulness and benevolence. + +But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his family +increased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; so +disastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorize +the Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on large +works of from £500 to £10,000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade was +everywhere stagnant, £60,000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feed +the starving, and the government issued 40,000 articles of clothing. The +quarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, mills +were everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30,000 "hands" turned +out. + +During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how much +misery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to public +houses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men of +the working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged in this +work. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directed +entirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then a +necessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and important +a duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; and +clergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one," "two" or +"three-bottle men." + +But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures were +doing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him to +take a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person on +business; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. +Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. +He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that of +others, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions. + +He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partial +reforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon the +association the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with his +efforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean" +was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed. + +The disputes were very angry and bitter; far more so than we at this +day can believe possible, unless we take into account the universal +national habits and its poetic and domestic associations with every +phase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his views +though it was not until the following year he was able to take another +step forward. + +It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge of +total abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering the +matter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come in +and talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey asked +King if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from all +liquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, +laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, +Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged to +one of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken. + +A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the main +part of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue the +argument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew up +and signed the following document, which is still preserved: + + "We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, + whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as + medicine. + + "JOHN GRATREX, + EDWARD DICKINSON, + JOHN BROADBENT, + JNO. SMITH, + JOSEPH LIVESEY, + DAVID ANDERTON, + JNO. KING." + +All these reformers were virtually _working_ men, though most of them +rose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of the +origin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, +within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in right +of their convictions. + +But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prospered +just where it was most needed--among the operatives and "the common +people." One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, +stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. +Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadest +patois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. He +always spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coined +what he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said: +"No half-way measures here. Nothing but the _te-te total_ will do." + +Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as the +name of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiastic +cheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforward +known as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate of +the cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds and +thousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston and +followed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly his +name and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known now +wherever Christianity and civilization are known. + + + + +MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT MONEY. + + +"It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna win by it." + +"Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whiskey that turned ma boat +tapsalteerie, Geordie Twatt." + +"Thou had better blame Hacon; he turned the boat _Widdershins_ an' what +fule doesna ken that it is evil luck to go contrarie to the sun?" + +"It is waur luck to have a drunken, superstitious pilot. Twatt, that +Norse blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. Fear God, an' mind thy +wark, an' thou needna speir o' the sun what gate to turn the boat." + +"My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot stirring it up, Sinclair. I come +o' a mighty kind--" + +"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full about their ancestors having been +horses. It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be laird o' theesel' +before I'll trust thee again with ony craft o' mine." Then Peter +Sinclair lifted his papers, and, looking the discharged sailor steadily +in the face, bid him "go on his penitentials an' think things o'er a +bit." + +Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased with +himself; he believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. +And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind of +even to increase his satisfaction. The gray old town of Kirkwall lay in +supernatural glory, the wondrous beauty of the mellow gloaming blending +with soft green and rosy-red spears of light that shot from east to +west, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring fleet outside +the harbor was as motionless as "a painted _fleet_ upon a painted +ocean"--the men were sleeping or smoking upon the piers--not a foot fell +upon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round the +public fountains, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, +knitting and gossiping. + +Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man inclined to analyze such things, +but they had their influence over him; for, as he drifted slowly home in +his skiff, he began to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, and to +wonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been. "An' +yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, +and the boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to life! Na, na, I'm no +called upon to put life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey." + +Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood his +daughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as he +looked at her, for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women of +the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastened +his skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springy +heath toward a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, +and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as of +its tiny garden; for there, with great care and at great cost, he had +managed to rear a few pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, and +other hardy English flowers. Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, +and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gently +the great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geese and +fish, touched these frail, trembling blossoms. + +"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to see the bonnie bit things; +when I can get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh; I'd like weel to +see such fields an' gardens an' trees as I hear thee tell on." + +Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows and +wheat fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she had seen during her +school days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling a +wonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and, as he cut slice after slice +from his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses and apple-blossoms, +and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, +and said, "It tasted, father, as if it had been grown in the Garden of +Eden." + +After such conversations Peter was always stern and strict. He felt an +actual anger at Adam and Eve; their transgression became a keenly +personal affair, for he had a very vivid sense of the loss they had +entailed upon him. The vague sense of wrong made him try to fix it, and, +after a short reflection, he said in an injured tone: + +"I wonder when Ronald's coming hame again?" + +"Ronald is all right, father." + +"A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to be +loaded, an' the books sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing or +saving. Where is he?" + +"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some time +with an Englishman he fell in with at Perth." + +"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auld +world notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 'tween John O'Groat's an' +Lambaness he doesna run after. I wish he were as anxious to serve in +the Lord's temple--I would build him a kirk an' a manse for it." + +"We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fighting +and making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholar +and a poet at last among them." + +Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, +and, as for scholarship, he asserted that the books were better kept +when he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he remembered +Geordie Twatt's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on this +subject: "Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' the +lives o' Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an' a' for the sake o' +liquor!" + +Margaret looked at the brandy bottle standing at her father's elbow, +and, though she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter. + +"You arna to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop--Geordie +never does." + +"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When Magnus +Hay has struck the first blow he is quite ready to draw his dirk and +strike the last one; and Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and to +spare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balances out of +his hands. There are few folks that in all things offend not." + +She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hair +yellow as down, her eyes cool and calm and blue as night; her whole +attitude so serene, assured and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left +his glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "good night." + +In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his office, was to +send for the offending sailor. + +"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, +thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be ready to sail +her--or upset her--i' ten days again." + +"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake--tell her I +said that, Master." + +"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is a +lang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an' +thou wilt mind this--_things promised are things due_." + +Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he was +good-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment. +When night came, and he watched for Margaret on the sands, he was +delighted to see that Ronald was with her. The lad had come home and +nothing was now remembered against him. That night it was Ronald told +him fairy-stories of great cities and universities, of miles of books +and pictures, of wonderful machinery and steam engines, of delicious +things to eat and drink. Peter felt as if he must start southward by the +next mail packet, but in the morning he thought more unselfishly. + +"There are forty families depending on me sticking to the shop an' the +boats, Ronald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is ane to step into +my shoes." + +Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately beauty and noble presence of +his sister, but yet there was some lack about him easier to feel than to +define. Perhaps no one was unconscious of this lack except Margaret; but +women have a grand invention where their idols are concerned, and create +readily for them every excellency that they lack. Her own two years' +study in an Edinburgh boarding-school had been very superficial, and she +knew it; but this wonderful Ronald could read Homer and Horace, could +play and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and write poetry. If he could +have done none of these things, if he had been dull and ugly, and +content to trade in fish and wool, she would still have loved him +tenderly; how much more then, this handsome Antinous, whom she credited +with all the accomplishments of Apollo. + +Ronald needed all her enthusiastic support. He had left heavy college +bills, and he had quite made up his mind that he would not be a minister +and that he would be a lawyer. He could scarcely have decided on two +things more offensive to his father. Only for the hope of having a +minister in the family had Peter submitted to his son's continued +demands for money. For this end he had bought books, and paid for all +kinds of teachers and tours, and sighed over the cost of Ronald's +different hobbies. And now he was not only to have a grievous +disappointment, but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair shared +fully in the Arcadean dislike and distrust of lawyers, and would have +been deeply offended at any one requiring their aid in any business +transaction with him. + +His son's proposal to be a "writer" he took almost as a personal insult. +He had formed his own opinion of the profession and the opinion of any +other person who would say a word in favor of a lawyer he considered of +no value. Margaret had a hard task before her, that she succeeded at all +was due to her womanly tact. Ronald and his father simply clashed +against each other and exchanged pointed truths which hurt worse than +wounds. At length, when the short Arcadean summer was almost over, +Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent. + +"The lad is fit for naething better, I suppose"--and the old man turned +away to shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. They shocked +Margaret; she was terrified at her success, and, falling humbly at his +feet, she besought him to forget and forgive her importunities, and to +take back a gift baptized with such ominous tears. + +But Peter Sinclair, having been compelled to take such a step, was not +the man to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, hopeless way: "He +couldna say 'yes' an' 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en drink as he +brewed." + +These struggles, so real and sorrowful to his father and sister, Ronald +had no sympathy with--not that he was heartless, but that he had taught +himself to believe they were the result of ignorance of the world and +old-fashioned prejudices. He certainly intended to become a great +man--perhaps a judge--and, when he was one of "the Lords," he had no +doubt his father would respect his disobedience. He knew his father as +little as he knew himself. Peter Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair's +opinions incorporate; and he could no more have changed them than he +could have changed the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose; and +the difference between a common lawyer and a "lord," in his eyes, would +only have been the difference between a little oppressor and a great +one. + +For the first time in all her life Margaret suspected a flaw in this +perfect crystal of a brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt her. Even +if her father's objections were ignorant prejudices, they were positive +convictions to him, and she did not like to see them smiled at, +entertained by the cast of the eye, and the put-by of the turning hand. +But loving women are the greatest of philistines: knock their idol down +daily, rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and head, and they will +still "set it up in its place," and fall down and worship it. + +Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the blindest of these characters, but +the world may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. It is faith of +this sublime integrity which, brought down to personal experience, +believes, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves on to the end, winning +finally what never would have been given to a more prudent and +reasonable devotion. So, if Margaret had her doubts, she put them +arbitrarily down, and sent her brother away with manifold tokens of her +love--among them, with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for sixty pounds, +the whole of her personal savings. + +To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed a large sum, but she hoped by the +sacrifice to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus enable him to +start his new race unweighted. It was but a mouthful to each creditor, +but it put them off for a time, and Ronald was not a youth inclined to +"take thought" for their "to-morrow." + +He had been entered for four years' study with the firm of Wilkes & +Brechen, writers and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. Her father +had paid the whole fee down, and placed in the Western Bank to his +credit four hundred pounds for his four years' support. Whatever Ronald +thought of the provision, Peter considered it a magnificent income, and +it had cost him a great struggle to give up at once, and for no evident +return, so much of his hard-earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing of +this reluctance; he simply put vouchers for both transactions in his +hand, and asked him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as it had been +earned." + +But to Margaret he fretted not a little. "Fourteen hun'red pounds a' +thegither, dawtie," he said in a tearful voice. "I warked early an' late +through mony a year for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I hae +naught but words an' promises for it. I ken, Margaret, that I am an auld +farrant trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well into which are +must put water." + +When Ronald went, the summer went too. It became necessary to remove at +once to their rock-built house in one of the narrow streets of +Kirkwall. Margaret was glad of the change; her father could come into +the little parlor behind the shop any time in the day and smoke his pipe +beside her. He needed this consolation sorely; his son's conduct had +grieved him far more deeply than he would allow, and Margaret often saw +him gazing southward over the stormy Pentland Frith with a very mournful +face. + +But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune and Peter had a good heart, +sound and sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and full of faith in +God. It is true that his creed was of the very strictest and sternest; +but men are always better than their theology and Margaret knew from the +Scriptures chosen for their household worship that in the depth and +stillness of his soul his human fatherhood had anchored fast to the +fatherhood of God. + +Arcadean winters are long and dreary, but no one need much pity the +Arcadeans; they have learned how to make them the very festival of +social life. And, in spite of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaret +thoroughly enjoyed this one--perhaps the more because Captain Olave +Thorkald spent two months of it with them in Kirkwall. There had been a +long attachment between the young soldier and Margaret; and having +obtained his commission, he had come to ask also for the public +recognition of their engagement. Margaret was rarely beautiful and +rarely happy, and she carried with a charming and kindly grace the full +cup of her felicity. The Arcadeans love to date from a good year, and +all her life afterward Margaret reckoned events from this pleasant +winter. + +Peter Sinclair's house being one of the largest in Kirkwall, was a +favorite gathering place, and Peter took his full share in all the +home-like, innocent amusements which beguiled the long, dreary nights. +No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite Ossian with more passion and +tenderness, and he enjoyed his little triumph over the youngsters who +emulated him. No one could sing a Scotch song with more humor, and few +of the lads and lassies could match Peter in a blithe foursome reel or a +rattling strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that good Dr. Ogilvie had a +more graceful spring and a longer breath, but Peter always insisted that +his inferiority to the minister was a voluntary concession to the +Dominie's superior dignity. It was, however, a rivalry that always ended +in a firmer grip at parting. These little festivals, in which young and +old freely mingled, cultivated to perfection the best and kindest +feelings of both classes. Age mellowed to perfect sweetness in the +sunshine of youthful gayety, and youth learned from age how at once to +be merry and wise. + +At length June arrived; and though winter lingered in _spates_, the song +of the skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. When the dream-like +voice of the cuckoo should be heard once more, Peter and Margaret had +determined to take a long summer trip. They were to go first to Perth, +where Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then to Glasgow and see +Ronald. But God had planned another journey for Peter, even one to a +"land very far off." A disease, to which he had been subject at +intervals for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal character and Peter +needed no one to tell him that his days were numbered. + +He set his house in order, and then, going with Margaret to his summer +dwelling, waited quietly. He said little on the subject, and as long as +he was able, gave himself up with the delight of a child to watching the +few flowers in his garden; but still one solemn, waylaying thought made +these few last weeks of life peculiarly hushed and sacred. Ronald had +been sent for, and the old man, with the clear prescience that sometimes +comes before death, divined much and foresaw much he did not care to +speak about--only that in some subtle way he made Margaret perceive that +Ronald was to be cared for and watched over, and that to her this +charge was committed. + +Before the summer was quite over Peter Sinclair went away. In his +tarrying by the eternal shore he became, as it were, purified of the +body, and one lovely night, when gloaming and dawning mingled, and the +lark was thrilling the midnight skies, he heard the Master call him, and +promptly answered, "Here am I." Then "Death, with sweet enlargement, did +dismiss him hence." + +He had been considered a rich man in Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald--who +had become accustomed to a Glasgow standard of wealth--was much +disappointed. His whole estate was not worth over six thousand pounds; +about two thousand pounds of this was in gold, the rest was invested in +his houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cottage in Stromness, where +Peter's wife had been born. He gave to Ronald £1800, and to Margaret +£200 and the life rent of the real property. Ronald had already received +£1400, and, therefore, had no cause of complaint, but somehow he felt as +if he had been wronged. He was older than his sister, and the son of the +house, and use and custom were not in favor of recognizing daughters as +having equal rights. But he kept such thoughts to himself, and when he +went back to Glasgow took with him solid proof of his sister's +devotion. + +It was necessary, now, for Margaret to make a great change in her life. +She determined to remove to Stromness and occupy the little four-roomed +cottage that had been her mother's. It stood close to that of Geordie +Twatt, and she felt that in any emergency she was thus sure of one +faithful friend. "A lone woman" in Margaret's position has in these days +numberless objects of interest of which Margaret never dreamed. She +would have thought it a kind of impiety to advise her minister, or +meddle in church affairs. These simple parents attended themselves to +the spiritual training of their children--there was no necessity for +Sunday Schools, and they did not exist. She was not one of those women +whom their friends call "beings," and who have deep and mysterious +feelings that interpret themselves in poems and thrilling stories. She +had no taste for philosophy or history or social science, and had been +taught to regard novels as dangerously sinful books. + +But no one need imagine that she was either wretched or idle. In the +first place, she took life much more calmly and slowly than we do; a +very little pleasure or employment went a long way. She read her Bible +and helped her old servant Helga to keep the house in order. She had +her flowers to care for,--and her brother and lover to write to. She +looked after Geordie Twatt's little motherless lads, went to church and +to see her friends, and very often had her friends to see her. It +happened to be a very stormy winter, and the mails were often delayed +for weeks together. This was her only trouble. Ronald's letters were +more and more unsatisfactory; he was evidently unhappy and dissatisfied +and heartily tired of his new study. Posts were so irregular that often +their letters seemed to be playing at cross purposes. She determined as +soon as spring opened to go and have a straightforward talk with him. + +So the following June Geordie Twatt took her in his boat to Thurso, +where Captain Thorkald was waiting for her. They had not met since Peter +Sinclair's death, and that event had materially affected their +prospects. Before it their marriage had been a possible joy in some far +future; now there was no greater claim on her care and love than the +captain's, and he urged their early marriage. + +Margaret had her two hundred pounds with her, and she promised to buy +her "plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. In those days girls made +their own trousseau, sewing into every garment solemn and tender hopes +and joys. Margaret thought that proper attention to this dear stitching +as well as proper respect for her father's memory, asked of her yet at +least another year's delay; and for the present Captain Thorkald thought +it best not to urge her further. + +Ronald received his sister very joyfully. He had provided lodgings for +her with their father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a tea merchant +in the Cowcaddens. The Cowcaddens was then a very respectable street, +and Margaret was quite pleased with her quarters. She was not pleased +with Ronald, however. He avowed himself thoroughly disgusted with the +law, and declared his intention of forfeiting his fee and joining his +friend Walter Cashell in a manufacturing scheme. + +Margaret could _feel_ that he was all wrong, but she could not reason +about a business of which she knew nothing, and Ronald took his own way. +But changing and bettering are two different things, and, though he was +always talking of his "good luck" and his "good bargains", Margaret was +very uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was partly to blame for this; his +pawky face and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents to all such +boasts; nor did he scruple to say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, +Ronald, an' it is at the _guid bargains_ I aye pause an' ponder." + +The following winter was a restless, unhappy one; Ronald was either +painfully elated or very dull; and, soon after the New Year, Walter +Cashell fell into bad health, went to the West Indies, and left Ronald +with the whole business to manage. He soon now began to come to his +sister, not only for advice, but for money. Margaret believed at first +that she was only supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when her cash was +all gone, and Ronald urged her to mortgage her rents she resolutely shut +her ears to all his plausible promises, and refused to "throw more good +money after bad." + +It was the first ill-blood between them, and it hurt Margaret sorely. +She was glad when the fine weather came, and she could escape to her +island home, for Ronald was cool to her, and said cruel things of +Captain Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his sister had refused to +help him. + +One day, at the end of the following August, when most of the +towns-people--men and women--had gone to the moss to cut the winter's +peat, she saw Geordie Twatt coming toward the house. Something about his +appearance troubled her, and she went to the open door and stood waiting +for him. + +"What is it, Geordie?" + +"I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o' +Stennis to-night at eleven o'clock." + +"Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such an hour?" + +"Thy brother; but thou'lt come--yes, thou wilt." + +Margaret's very lips turned white as she answered: "I'll be there--see +thou art, too." + +"Sure as death! If naebody spiers after me, thou needna say I was here +at a', thou needna." + +Margaret understood the caution, and nodded her head. She could not +speak, and all day long she wandered about like a soul in a restless +dream. + +Fortunately, every one was weary at night, and went early to rest, and +she found little difficulty in getting outside the town without notice; +and one of the ponies on the common took her speedily across the moor. + +Late as it was, twilight lingered over the silent moor, with its old +Pictish mounds and burial places, giving them an indescribable aspect of +something weird and eerie. No one could have been insensible to the +mournful, brooding light and the unearthly stillness, and Margaret was +trembling with a supernatural terror as she stood amid the solemn circle +of gray stones and looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, brown +hills of Harray. + +From behind one of these gigantic pillars Ronald came toward +her--Ronald, and yet not Ronald. He was dressed as a common sailor, and +otherwise shamefully disguised. There was no time to soften things--he +told his miserable story in a few plain words: + +"His business had become so entangled that he knew not which way to +turn, and, sick of the whole affair, he had taken a passage for +Australia, and then forged a note on the Western Bank for £900. He had +hoped to be far at sea with his ill-gotten money before the fraud was +discovered, but suspicion had gathered around him so quickly, that he +had not even dared to claim his passage. Then he fled north, and, +fortunately, discovering Geordie's boat at Wick, had easily prevailed on +him to put off at once with him." + +What cowards sin makes of us! Margaret had seen this very lad face death +often, among the sunken rocks and cruel surfs, that he might save the +life of a ship-wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet the creditors +whom he had wronged, he had committed a robbery and was flying from the +gallows. + +She was shocked and stunned, and stood speechless, wringing her hands +and moaning pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. Often the first +result of a bitter sense of sin is to make the sinner peevish and +irritable. + +"Margaret," he said, almost angrily, "I came to bid you farewell, and +to promise you, _by my father's name_! to retrieve all this wrong. If +you can speak a kind word speak it, for God's sake--if not, I must go +without it!" + +Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid sobs and kisses, said all that +love so sorely and suddenly tried could say. He could not even soothe +her anguish by any promise to write, but he did promise to come back to +her sooner or later with restitution in his hand. All she could do now +for this dear brother was to call Geordie to her side and put him in his +care; taking what consolation she could from his assurance that "he +would keep him out at sea until the search was cold, and if followed +carry him into some of the dangerous 'races' between the islands." If +any sailor could keep his boat above water in them, she knew Geordie +could; _and if not_--she durst follow that thought no further, but, +putting her hands before her face, stood praying, while the two men +pulled silently away in the little skiff that had brought them up the +outlet connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. Margaret would have +turned away from Ronald's open grave less heart-broken. + +It was midnight now, but her real terror absorbed all imaginary ones; +she did not even call a pony, but with swift, even steps walked back to +Stromness. Ere she had reached it, she had decided what was to be done, +and next day she left Kirkwall in the mail packet for the mainland. +Thence by night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and a week after her +interview with Ronald she was standing before the directors of the +defrauded bank and offering them the entire proceeds of her Kirkwall +property until the debt was paid. + +The bank had thoroughly respected Peter Sinclair, and his daughter's +earnest, decided offer won their ready sympathy. It was accepted without +any question of interest, though she could not hope to clear off the +obligation in less than nine years. She did not go near any of her old +acquaintances; she had no heart to bear their questions and condolences, +and she had no money to stay in Glasgow at charges. Winter was coming on +rapidly, but before it broke over the lonely islands she had reached her +cottage in Stromness again. + +There had been, of course, much talk concerning her hasty journey, but +no one had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pursuit after Ronald had +been entirely the bank's affair, had been committed to private +detectives and had not been nearly so hot as the frightened criminal +believed. His failure and flight had indeed been noticed in the Glasgow +newspapers, but this information did not reach Kirkwall until the +following spring, and then in a very indefinite form. + +About a week after her return, Geordie Twatt came into port. Margaret +frequently went to his cottage with food or clothing for the children, +and she contrived to meet him there. + +"Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he," he said, with an assumption of +indifference. + +"Oh, Geordie! where?" + +"A ship going westward took him off the boat." + +"Thank God! You will say naught at all, Geordie?" + +"I ken naught at a' save that his father's son was i' trouble, an' +trying to gie thae weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was fain eneuch +mesel' to balk them." + +But Margaret's real trials were all yet to come. The mere fact of doing +a noble deed does not absolve one often from very mean and petty +consequences. Before the winter was half over she had found out how +rapid is the descent from good report. The neighbors were deeply +offended at her for giving up the social tea parties and evening +gatherings that had made the house of Sinclair popular for more than one +generation. She gave still greater offence by becoming a workingwoman, +and spending her days in braiding straw into the (once) famous Orkney +Tuscans, and her long evenings in the manufacture of those delicate +knitted goods peculiar to the country. + +It was not alone that they grudged her the money for these labors, as so +much out of their own pockets--they grudged her also the time; for they +had been long accustomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for their +children's garments, for nursing the sick and for help in weddings, +funerals and all the other extraordinary occasions of sympathy among a +primitively social people. + +Little by little, all winter, the sentiment of disapproval and dislike +gathered. Some one soon found out that Margaret's tenants "just sent +every bawbee o' the rent-siller to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was a +double offence, as it implied a distrust of her own townsfolk and +institutions. If from her humble earnings she made a little gift to any +common object its small amount was a fresh source of anger and contempt; +for none knew how much she had to deny herself even for such curtailed +gratuities. + +In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden stinginess and indifference to her +townsfolk was the common wonder and talk of every little gathering. Old +friends began to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly ignore her; +and at last even old Helga took the popular tone and said, "Margaret +Sinclair had got too scrimping for an auld wife like her to bide wi' +langer." + +Through all this Margaret suffered keenly. At first she tried earnestly +to make her old friends understand that she had good reasons for her +conduct; but as she would not explain these good reasons, she failed in +her endeavor. She had imagined that her good conscience would support +her, and that she could live very well without love and sympathy; she +soon found out that it is a kind of negative punishment worse than many +stripes. + +At the end of the winter Captain Thorkald again earnestly pressed their +marriage, saying that, "his regiment was ordered to Chelsea, and any +longer delay might be a final one." He proposed also, that his father, +the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, should have charge of her Orkney +property, as he understood its value and changes. Margaret wrote and +frankly told him that her property was not hers for at least seven +years, but that it was under good care, and he must accept her word +without explanation. Out of this only grew a very unsatisfactory +correspondence. Captain Thorkald went south without Margaret, and a very +decided coolness separated them farther than any number of miles. + +Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, and his remarks about Margaret +Sinclair's refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid hands as her +own" increased very much the bitter feeling against the poor girl. At +the end of three years the trial became too great for her; she began to +think of running away from it. + +Throughout these dark days she had purposely and pointedly kept apart +from her old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his influence over her +might tempt her to confidence. Latterly the doctor had humored her +evident desire, but he had never ceased to watch over and, in a great +measure, to believe in her; and, when he heard of this determination to +quit Orkney forever, he came to Stromness with a resolution to spare no +efforts to win her confidence. + +He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to her, reminded her of her father's +generosity and good gifts to the church and the poor, and said: "O, +Margaret, dear lass! what good at a' will thy silent money do thee in +_that Day_? It ought to speak for thee out o' the mouths o' the +sorrowfu' an' the needy, the widows an' the fatherless--indeed it ought. +And thou hast gien naught for thy Master's sake these three years! I'm +fair 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a name as thy father's." + +What could Margaret do? She broke into passionate sobbing, and, when the +good old man left the cottage an hour afterward there was a strange +light on his face, and he walked and looked as if he had come from some +interview that had set him for a little space still nearer to the +angels. Margaret had now one true friend, and in a few days after this +she rented her cottage and went to live with the dominie. Nothing could +have so effectually reinstated her in public opinion; wherever the +dominie went on a message of help or kindness Margaret went with him. +She fell gradually into a quieter but still more affectionate +regard--the aged, the sick and the little children clung to her hands, +and she was comforted. + +Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonderfully narrowed, but when the tide +is fairly out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year of her poverty +there was from various causes, such an increase in the value of real +estate, that her rents were nearly doubled, and by the end of the +seventh year she had paid the last shilling of her assumed debt, and was +again an independent woman. + +It might be two years after this that she one day received a letter that +filled her with joy and amazement. It contained a check for her whole +nine hundred pounds back again. "The bank had just received from Ronald +Sinclair, of San Francisco, the whole amount due it, with the most +satisfactory acknowledgment and interest." It was a few minutes before +Margaret could take in all the joy this news promised her; but when she +did, the calm, well-regulated girl had never been so near committing +extravagances. + +She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, and, throwing herself at his +knees, cried out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! father! Here is your +money! Here is the poor's money and the church's money! God has sent it +back to me! Sent it back with such glad tidings!"--and surely if angels +rejoice with repenting sinners, they must have felt that day a far +deeper joy with the happy, justified girl. + +She knew now that she also would soon hear from Ronald, and she was not +disappointed. The very next day the dominie brought home the letter. +Margaret took it upstairs to read it upon her knees, while the good old +man walked softly up and down his study praying for her. Presently she +came to him with a radiant face. + +"Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?" + +"Yes, father; it is very well." Then she read him the letter. + +Ronald had been in New Orleans and had the fever; he had been in Texas, +and spent four years in fighting Indians and Mexicans and in herding +cattle. He had suffered many things, but had worked night and day, and +always managed to grow a little richer every year. Then, suddenly, the +word "California!" rung through the world, and he caught the echo even +on the lonely southwestern prairies. Through incredible hardships he had +made his way thither, and a sudden and wonderful fortune had crowned his +labors, first in mining and afterward in speculation and merchandising. +He said that he was indeed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest to +her Arcadean views the sum might appear incredible. + +Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and clasped her hands above it. +Her face was beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister she must have +looked just as Margaret looked when they brought in her lost brother, in +the best robe and the gold ring. + +The dominie was not so satisfied. A good many things in the letter +displeased him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and went away from her. +"It is a' _I_ did this, an' _I_ did that, an' _I_ suffered you; there is +nae word o' God's help, or o' what ither folk had to thole. I'll no be +doing ma duty if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en." + +The old man was little used to writing, and the effort was a great one, +but he bravely made it, and without delay. In a few curt, idiomatic +sentences he told Ronald Margaret's story of suffering and wrong and +poverty; her hard work for daily bread; her loss of friends, of her +good name and her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, ma lad, that ye +dinna acknowledge God in; an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'er +late for thy credit. I wad hae thought better o' it had thou made it +when it took the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy great wealth, a few +hun'red pounds is nae matter to speak aboot." + +But people did speak of it. In spite of our chronic abuse of human +nature it is, after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in good more than +in evil. The story of Ronald's restitution is considered honorable to +it, and it was much made of in the daily papers. Margaret's friends +flocked round her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" as simply and +honestly as little children, and the dominie did not fail to give them +the lecture on charity that Margaret neglected. + +Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to his son anent these transactions, +or whether the captain read in the papers enough to satisfy him, he +never explained; but one day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's and +asked for Margaret. He had probably good excuses for his conduct to +offer; if not, Margaret was quite ready to invent for him--as she had +done for Ronald--all the noble qualities he lacked. The captain was +tired of military life, and anxious to return to Orkney; and, as his +own and Margaret's property was yearly increasing: in value, he foresaw +profitable employment for his talents. He had plans for introducing many +southern improvements--for building a fine modern house, growing some of +the hardier fruits and for the construction of a grand conservatory for +Margaret's flowers. + +It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald was a very ordinary lord for a +woman like Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and obey;" but few men +would have been worthy of her, and the usual rule which shows us the +noblest women marrying men manifestly their inferiors is doubtless a +wise one. + +A lofty soul can have no higher mission than to help upward one upon a +lower plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, as the dominie said, +"_no that bad_," had the fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret's +stature in Margaret's atmosphere. + +While these things were occurring, Ronald got Margaret's letter. It was +full of love and praise, and had no word of blame or complaint in it. He +noticed, indeed, that she still signed her name "Sinclair," and that she +never alluded to Captain Thorkald, and the supposition that the stain on +his character had caused a rupture did, for a moment, force itself upon +his notice; but he put it instantly away with the reflection that +"Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after all, and quite unworthy of his +sister." + +The very next mail-day he received the dominie's letter. He read it +once, and could hardly take it in; read it again and again, until his +lips blanched, and his whole countenance changed. In that moment he saw +Ronald Sinclair for the first time in his life. Without a word, he left +his business, went to his house and locked himself in his own room. + +_Then Margaret's silent money began to speak._ In low upbraidings it +showed him the lonely girl in that desolate land trying to make her own +bread, deserted of lover and friends, robbed of her property and good +name, silently suffering every extremity, never reproaching him once, +not even thinking it necessary to tell him of her sufferings, or to +count their cost unto him. + +What is this bitterness we call remorse? This agony of the soul in all +its senses? This sudden flood of intolerable light in the dark places of +our hearts? This truth-telling voice which leaves us without a particle +of our self-complacency? For many days Ronald could find no words to +speak but these, "O, wretched man that I am!" + +But at length the Comforter came as swiftly and surely and mysteriously +as the accuser had come, and once more that miracle of grace was +renewed--"that day Jesus was guest in the house of one who was a +sinner." + +Margaret's "silent money" now found a thousand tongues. It spoke in many +a little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair held in his arms until it +was strong enough to stand alone. It spoke in schools and colleges and +hospitals, in many a sorrowful home and to many a lonely, struggling +heart--and at this very day it has echoes that reach from the far West +to the lonely islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, and the +sea-shattering precipices of Duncansbay Head. + +It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip to +the Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso--the old town of +Thor--for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a week +for Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was a +gift from an old friend in California, and is called "The Margaret +Sinclair." + + + + +JUST WHAT HE DESERVED. + + +There is not in its own way a more distinctive and interesting bit of +Scotland than the bleak Lothian country, with its wide views, its brown +ploughed fields, and its dense swaying plantations of fir. The +Lammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and the veils of smoke that lie about +Edinburgh are on its horizon, and within that circle all the large +quietude of open grain fields, wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, and +far-stretching pastures where the red and white cows ruminate. The +patient processes of nature breed patient minds; the gray cold climate +can be read in the faces of the people, and in their hearts the seasons +take root and grow; so that they have a grave character, passive, yet +enduring; strong to feel and strong to act when the time is full ready +for action. + +Of these natural peculiarities Jean Anderson had her share. She was a +Lothian lassie of many generations, usually undemonstrative, but with +large possibilities of storm beneath her placid face and gentle manner. +Her father was the minister of Lambrig and the manse stood in a very +sequestered corner of the big parish, facing the bleak east winds, and +the salt showers of the German ocean. It was sheltered by dark fir woods +on three sides, and in front a little walled-in garden separated it from +the long, dreary, straight line of turnpike road. But Jean had no +knowledge of any fairer land; she had read of flowery pastures and rose +gardens and vineyards, but these places were to her only in books, while +the fields and fells that filled her eyes were her home, and she loved +them. + +She loved them all the more because the man she loved was going to leave +them, and if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful to her, then it was +like to be that she also would go far away from the blue Lammermuirs, +and the wide still spaces of the Lothians. She stood at the open door of +the manse with her lover thinking of these things, but with no real +sense of what pain or deprivation the thought included. She was tall and +finely formed, a blooming girl, with warmly-colored cheeks, a mouth +rather large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. But the best of all +her beauty was the soul in her face; its vitality, its vivacity and +immediate response. + +However, the time of love had come to her, and though her love had grown +as naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could tell what changes it +would make. For Gavin Burns had been educated in the minister's house +and Jean and he had studied and fished and rambled together all through +the years in which Jean had grown from childhood into womanhood. Now +Gavin was going to New York to make his fortune. They stepped through +the garden and into the long dim road, walking slowly in the calm night, +with thoughtful faces and clasped hands. There was at this last hour +little left to say. Every promise known to Love had been given; they had +exchanged Bibles and broken a piece of silver and vowed an eternal +fidelity. So, in the cold sunset they walked silently by the river that +was running in flood like their own hearts. At the little stone bridge +they stopped, and leaning over the parapet watched the drumly water +rushing below; and there Jean reiterated her promise to be Gavin's wife +as soon as he was able to make a home for her. + +"And I am not proud, Gavin," she said; "a little house, if it is filled +with love, will make me happy beyond all." + +They were both too hopeful and trustful and too habitually calm to weep +or make much visible lament over their parting; and yet when Gavin +vanished into the dark of the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy house +door very slowly. She felt as if she was shutting part of herself out of +the old home forever, and she was shocked by this first breaking of the +continuity of life; this sharp cutting of regular events asunder. +Gavin's letters were at first frequent and encouraging, but as the +months went by he wrote more and more seldom. He said "he was kept so +busy; he was making himself indispensable, and could not afford to be +less busy. He was weary to death on the Saturday nights, and he could +not bring his conscience to write anent his own personal and earthly +happiness on the Sabbath day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, +whether he wrote or not; and they were past being bairns, always telling +each other the love they were both so sure of." + +Late in the autumn the minister died of typhoid fever, and Jean, +heartbroken and physically worn out, was compelled to face for her +mother and herself, a complete change of life. It had never seemed to +these two women that anything could happen to the father and head of the +family; in their loving hearts he had been immortal, and though the +disease had run its tedious course before their eyes, his death at the +last was a shock that shook their lives and their home to the very +centre. A new minister was the first inevitable change, and then a +removal from the comfortable manse to a little cottage in the village of +Lambrig. + +While this sad removal was in progress they had felt the sorrow of it, +all that they could bear; and neither had dared to look into the future +or to speculate as to its necessities. Jean in her heart expected Gavin +would at once send for them to come to America. He had a fair salary, +and the sale of their furniture would defray their traveling expenses. + +She was indeed so sure of this journey, that she did not regard the +cottage as more than a temporary shelter during the approaching winter. +In the spring, no doubt, Gavin would have a little home ready, and they +would cross the ocean to it. The mother had the same thought. As they +sat on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, they talked of this +event, and if any doubts lurked unconsciously below their love and trust +they talked them away, while they waited for Gavin's answer to the +sorrowful letter Jean had sent him on the night of her father's burial. + +It was longer in coming than they expected. For a week they saw the +postman pass their door with an indifference that seemed cruel; for a +week Jean made new excuses and tried to hold up her mother's heart, +while her own was sinking lower and lower. Then one morning the +looked-for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart to read it alone; Mrs. +Anderson sat down and waited, with dropped eyes and hands tightly +clasped. She knew, before Jean said a word, that the letter had +disappointed her. She had remained alone too long. If all had been as +they hoped the mother was certain Jean would not have deferred the good +tidings a moment. But a quarter of an hour had passed before Jean came +to her side, and then when she lifted her eyes she saw that her daughter +had been weeping. + +"It is a disappointment, Jean, I see," she said sadly. "Never mind, +dearie." + +"Yes, mother; Gavin has failed us." + +"We have been two foolish women, Jean. Oh, my dear lassie, we should +have lippened to God, and He would not have disappointed us! What does +Gavin Burns say?" + +"It is what he does _not_ say, that hurts me, mother. I may as well tell +you the whole truth. When he heard how ill father was, he wrote to me, +as if he had foreseen what was to happen. He said, 'there will be a new +minister and a break-up of the old home, and you must come at once to +your new home here. I am the one to care for you when your father is +gone away; and what does it matter under what sun or sky if we are but +together?' So, then, mother, when the worst had come to us I wrote with +a free heart to Gavin. I said, 'I will come to you gladly, Gavin, but +you know well that my mother is very dear to me, and where I am there +she also must be.' And he says, in this letter, that it is me he is +wanting, and that you have a brother in Glasgow that is unmarried and +who will be willing, no doubt, to have you keep his house for him. There +is a wale of fine words about it, mother, but they come to just this, +and no more--Gavin is willing to care for me, but not for you and I will +not trust myself with a man that cannot love you for my sake. We will +stay together, mammy darling! Whatever comes or goes we will stay +together. The man isna born that can part us two!" + +"He is your lover, Jean. A girl must stick to her lover." + +"You are my mother. I am bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh and +love of your love. May God forsake me when I forsake you!" + +She had thrown herself at her mother's knees and was clasping and +kissing the sad face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered the last +words. And the mother was profoundly touched by her child's devotion. +She drew her close to her heart, and said firmly: + +"No! No, my dearie! What could we two do for ourselves? And I'm loth to +part you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the sacrifice, you so lovingly +offer me. I will write to my brother David. Gavin isna far wrong there; +David is a very close man, but he willna see his sister suffer, there +is no fear of that." + +"It is Jean that will not see you suffer." + +"But the bite and the sup, Jean? How are we to get them?" + +"I can make my own dresses and cloaks, so then I can make dresses and +cloaks for other people. I shall send out a card to the ladies near-by +and put an advertisement in the Haddington newspaper, and God can make +my needle sharp enough for the battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, +don't cry! We have God and each other, and none can call us desolate." + +"But you will break your heart, Jean. You canna help it. And I canna +take your love and happiness to brighten my old age. It isna right. I'll +not do it. You must go to Gavin. I will go to my brother David." + +"I will not break my heart, mother. I will not shed a tear for the +false, mean lad, that you were so kind to for fourteen years, when there +was no one else to love him. Aye, I know he paid for his board and +schooling, but he never could pay for the mother-love you gave him, just +because he was motherless. And who has more right to have their life +brightened by my love than you have? Beside, it is my happiness to +brighten it, and so, what will you say against it? And I will not go to +Gavin. Not one step. If he wants me now, he will come for me, and for +you, too. This is sure as death! Oh, mammy! Mammy, darling, a false lad +shall not part us! Never! Never! Never!" + +"Jean! Jean! What will I say at all" + +"What would my father say, if he was here this minute? He would say, +'you are right, Jean! And God bless you, Jean! And you may be sure that +it is all for the best, Jean! So take the right road with a glad heart, +Jean!' That is what father would say. And I will never do anything to +prevent me looking him straight in the face when we meet again. Even in +heaven I shall want him to smile into my eyes and say, 'Well done, +Jean!'" + + +CHAPTER II. + +Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insure +them some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed not +uncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to +Lambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and giving +her, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter's +expenses. This order of things went on without change or intermission +for five years, and the little cottage gradually gathered in its clean, +sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson took +entire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from +morning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliations +and annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere with +the cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonely +life. + +She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, in +which neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavin +ceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm was +reached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But such +hours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" in +them much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her nature +ripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than her +twentieth year had promised. + +One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jean +felt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappiness +made her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim her +eyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean did +not know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and she +wondered what she had come to tell her. + +"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean," she said, "and I thought +Gavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days." + +Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, Mary +Burns," she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep to +myself these days." + +"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be the +mistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where I +taught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one may +say, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'm +thinking I shall have a happy time with him in America." + +"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you +'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to do +to-night than I can well manage." + +This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called for +an unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent her +appearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost lover +to think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her mother +and talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening, +went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they spent a more +confidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be a +comfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning she +noticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found her +in her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world. + +It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind. +She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle David +came at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she suffered +no hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. And +oh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swift +return to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a cruel +effacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of the +third day after the funeral he said, kindly: + +"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is far +beyond tears." + +"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come and +never name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smile +for everybody." + + "Death is forgetfulness, Jean; + ... 'one lonely way + We go: and is she gone? + Is all our best friends say.' + +"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother has +been to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bit +sticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a new +life. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth +your keeping you can save in your memory." + +"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. I +can find my own bread if you will just love me a little." + +"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put that +weary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch." + +So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow. +He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what she +expected--certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the least +expensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reached +Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manner +as soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and a +carriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a large +dwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her into +a handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Anderson +her rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herself +surrounded by undreamed of luxury. + +Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learned +to understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of her +life. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere she +discovered that it was largely spent in two directions--scientific +discovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted to +chemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles of +total abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jean +could not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One of +the savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her; +and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, which +had all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till he +found, and so not lose his labor." + +Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicoll +gave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did he +ever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home," he +said to his friends. No words could have better explained the position. +In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summer +they sailed far north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; to +Orkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the light +of the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean was +thirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become a +woman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways, +she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You have +made my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he said to her on the last +solemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honest +love! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you every +bawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left nae +dead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and the +siller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If it +should come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you, +I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weel +spent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But it +is a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that." + +This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away had +opened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to the +school of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a home of +love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, +untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was not +the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her +hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover. + +About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Mary +was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have to +store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it +at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the +right hand and the left," he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargain +that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary." + +"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be +wasted," answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love +of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city." + +"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and +if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley." + +"Jean Anderson?" + +"Ay." + +"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she +is. She is not for the like of you, Gavin--a bit country dressmaker, +poor, and past liking." + +Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following +letter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. If +you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look +at. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days." +That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chance +for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to be +trusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself." + +Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it as +clearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking it +over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her +mother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without even +justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And with +this picture she wrote--"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five years +since, and there has been changes since." + +She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were +unfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, +and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor; +he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not +envy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better looking, and far more +stylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley. + +Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated her +failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at _his_ +failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an +uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed +at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want of +response. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should +she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? The +idea took possession of her, and she carried it out. + +She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and the +morning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair of +gloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and moving +her position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summer +blankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling a +funny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked their +separate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, by +varying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for one +moment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in every +way. He was no longer handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him, +and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulous +authoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at every +point. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothing +careless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his whole +appearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more mean +and plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jean +was taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face, +spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answered +her in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusion +was complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she had +looked at him at all. + +But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, under +her new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintance +in reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a great +fortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrig +that is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented the +castle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looks +of her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye make +fine birds!" + +Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been with +the firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell them +he had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday to +attend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personal +influence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers," he said to Mary. + +"There is Annie Riley," answered Mary. + +"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marry +Jean, and settle myself in Scotland." + +"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. You +have promised to marry her." + +"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, I +would like to know?" + +"I think you will find out." + +In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and he +hastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended no +secret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmen +with admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. There +was a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who did +not remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fear +he had come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast, +he strolled out to make his own investigations. + +There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on a +neighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there a +finely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly for +him to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "It +will be her lawyer or architect," he thought; and he walked rapidly +onward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walking +suit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell into +conversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he was +watching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spaces +of the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happiness +that it angered him. + +"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have business +here." + +"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that is +the professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University." + +"They are married, then?" + +"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married a +month syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking. +I'll drink their health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller." + +Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. His +business in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him; +he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. He +had lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no words +to express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the first +weight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean's +beauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And all +for Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marry +her, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner. + +For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him a +touching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased to +love her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin did +tell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, and +that he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said something +about his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentiment +that he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness. + +Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and +Gavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with +damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love +letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in +the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, +his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But +pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she +really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough +in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, +and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted +to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell +his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He +wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, +and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called +unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go +to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit. + +"I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning +the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I +will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she +has got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marry +Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet +beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!" + +No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he +knew right well their private opinion was that he had received _just +what he deserved_. + + + + +AN ONLY OFFER. + + +"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?" + +"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, +Julia. I am forty-three now, remember." + +"Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?" + +"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer." + +"And you refused it?" + +"No." + +"Then he died, or went away?" + +"No." + +"Or deserted you?" + +"No." + +"Then you deceived him, I suppose?" + +"I did not." + +"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something +dreadful" + +"He was rich and handsome." + +"Suppose you tell me about him." + +"I never talk about him to any one." + +"Did it happen at the old place?" + +"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened +when I was sixteen." + +"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?" + +"He was a fine city gentleman." + +"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about +it; you cannot see to work longer." + +Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and +confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her +hands, and smiling sadly, said: + +"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at +Ryelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two +elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched +them a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into the +house, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped +and spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at the +gate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is +Mr. Wakefield in?' + +"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him,' which I +immediately did. + +"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way with +him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like +talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the +house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight; +then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.' + +"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?' + +"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is in +bad health.' + +"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?' + +"'I know it is young Alfred Compton--that is enough for me.' + +"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father.' + +"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician--a +Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no +more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn. + +"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on +the subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. +'But,' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married +at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.' + +"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several +large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and I +saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, very +fair-man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I saw +also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no +doctor would wait upon him so subserviently. + +"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine +that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed +to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton was +too ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; and +again, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though he +pleaded urgently for them. + +"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed to +be important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, and +requested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. I +suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, +so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a +sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked through +that part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had been +politely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangers +increased Mr. Compton's nervous condition.' I did not believe this, and +I determined to try the experiment. + +"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I +smiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and came +toward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; he +stooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that +it seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walked +up and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's +wagon. + +"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was +concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, that +she not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted it +in many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize its +value. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good +morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally to +accompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood. + +"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We were +soon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way to +make himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knew +of, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid for +me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found him +irresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must have +been thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomer +than any younger man could have done. + +"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in +us, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had much +fewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a little +way up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how I +received the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman was +keeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined to +take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one +evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to +see his relatives. + +"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by +the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared +that they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the only +friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the +secret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him into +paroxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or at +least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in +the rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to a +pitch which father seriously disliked. + +"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; only +the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon a +boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very +much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'Miss +Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr. +Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amuse +him?' + +"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the +messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we +rambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the day +was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I +proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally +a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us. + +"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that +Alfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wild +look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my +efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked +me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'his +wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, and +vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of +going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had +wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. + +"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were +going to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away, +and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But he +became suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with the +greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter. + +"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to lose +all control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearly +sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In +the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of our +workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our +sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it. + +"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are +you, sir? Come here instantly.' + +"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have no +right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and +I shall not permit it any more.' + +"'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!' + +"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzed +with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically +as a dog might follow his master's call. + +"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. Alfred +Compton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am +his--_keeper_.'" + +"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!" + +"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it; +but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and +that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he +became uncontrollable in an asylum." + +"Did you see him again?" + +"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad; +that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come some +day and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa, +whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me very +unkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he +was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and went +west with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little old +maid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep +his fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when he +died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my own +lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear." + +"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?" + +"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose +Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought +it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health." + +"Poor aunt!" + +"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will +believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps +more sincere than many wiser men." + +After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in +speaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the young +maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred +Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more +positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subject +never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her +own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams. + +One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old +subject until both felt it to be exhausted--at least for that night. +Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is +snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, there +is a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he is +coming here." + +"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to +call to-night." + +"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person." + +Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she had +talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a +very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant +announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her +reflections, and went into the reception-room. + +In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere +she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the +room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred +Compton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with +enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the +beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly this one was not handsome. He +was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine +figure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he +was still dressed with scrupulous care. + +The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished +a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine +with an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe +Wakefield, best and loveliest of women." + +Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two +old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long +wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, +driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of +Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly. + +"Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me in +his care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe my +restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and +ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my +ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise." + +Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they +never tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by any +contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never +weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and +womanly than in the days of their first courtship. + +She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use any +other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe--or rather Mrs. +Compton--resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would +imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but those +who have known him as long as I have," she continually avers, "can +possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my +husband." + + + + +TWO FAIR DECEIVERS. + + +What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking +on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it +is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that +either makes money or spends it. + +Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he +has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has +spent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both +stories conclude in the same way. + +"I have not a thousand dollars left, John." + +"Nor I, Cleve." + +"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all +the old gentleman's money already?" + +"I only got $20,000; I owed half of it." + +"Only $20,000! What did he do with it?" + +"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went +away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I +had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000. +That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin." + +"And the widow--where is she?" + +"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the +St. Maurs, of Maryland." + +"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?" + +"Why, I never thought of such a thing." + +"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; +say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude +to your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call and +pay respects," etc., etc. + +John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the +note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office. + +That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it +with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, +high-bred little lady, with + + "Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, + Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, + Lips like fragrant posy," + +and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the +happiness of others. + +But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She +was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as +his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had +seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid +plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little +widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and +smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter. + +"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want +to consult you, dear, about a visitor." + +Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is +it, Fan?" + +"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have +inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if +it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow." + +"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the +Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place." + +"No; I have a better plan than that--Clementine, do stop reading a few +minutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and +Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in the +place, and I will take none of the servants with me." + +"Well?" + +"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor +friend and companion." + +"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'--an excellent comedy. How I shall +snub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing +you. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?" + +"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I came +back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until +now. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?" + +"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything until +their particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the letter +together. What is the gentleman's name?" + +The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.' Do you +know him, Clementine?" + +"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall +in love with the name--do you? But pray accept the offer for both +gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear." Then Clementine returned +to the consideration of the lace in _coquilles_ for her new evening +dress. + +The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed and +carried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, and one evening at the +end of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clare +had engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charming +ease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, in +her plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively the +idea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in which +to rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order, +and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank. + +Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter in +a rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress of +spotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummate +ease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party. +John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informal +companionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a few +days John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin +John, do this," and "Cousin John, come here," continually; and one night +when Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritable +enough to give his objections the form of speech. + +"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare." + +"I think she is a very lovely woman, John." + +"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I have +no mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills. +The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every way +inferior makes me angry enough, I assure you." + +"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John." + +"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in us +deceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow--why not +marry her? I am quite willing you should." + +"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They have +been favorably received, I think." + +"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shall +hardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clement +and myself." + +"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what on +earth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothing +will not make a decent living." + +"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor to +say 'Yes,' I will make a decent living out of my profession." + +From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to his +supposed cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widow +perceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be bought +with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and the +widow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhaps +she was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Cleve +made a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quite +naturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had first +fixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months. + +It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with their +lovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to be +quite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present, +or the _dénouement_ would come prematurely. Circumstances favored her +determination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into her +friend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve has +asked me to marry him." + +"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have." + +"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare." + +"Did you accept him?" + +"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the city +in October. You are going to New York this winter, are you not?" + +"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be his +wife to-night." + +"I told you men think and act in pairs." + +"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin had +ill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself; +absolutely said, Clement, that _you_ were a sufficient excuse for Mr. +Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promised +if I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of your +outrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made a +home for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry John +Selden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us." + +"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs. +However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shall +we do?" + +"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready for +me by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors." + +So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant letters +and future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough; +but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes of +invitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in ---- +street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wished +to make his entrance into his future home as became the prospective +master of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of not +suffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemen +who would probably be there. + +Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, the +true widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hitherto +worn, but magnificent in white crêpe lisse and satin, her arms and +throat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Her +companion had assumed now the rôle of simplicity, and Cleve was +disappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambéry gauze +dress. + +John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and the +love-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both her +hands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement." + +Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but +we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before +real life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. +_Cousin John_, I hope you are not disappointed." Then she put her hand +into John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their +explanation. + +Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying +circumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking down +at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the +tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a man +of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did +not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to +do. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could +marry; she had deceived him, too--he had a sudden and severe spasm of +morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport +to play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeply +disappointed and grieved, etc., etc. + +Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and +her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations. +She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes +embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room +and talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so. + +"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of +blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I promised you my final +answer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me that +trouble. Good evening, sir." + +Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon +recovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and +hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. +She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and +John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the +list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John and +his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had +gone in their company. + +"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden's +wife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Some +fellows are always unlucky in love affairs--I always am." + +Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of +unnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to +starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him. + +"Oh, it's that fool Belmar," he muttered; "I shall have to offer him a +ride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back? +Have a ride?" + +"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her this +afternoon." + +"Your wife! When were you married?" + +"Last month, in Paris." + +"And the happy lady was--" + +"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune. +Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child." + +"What?" + +"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3,000,000 in money and +real estate, and a heart beyond all price." + +"How on earth did you meet her?" + +"She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Selden--you know John Selden. She +has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friends +when they were girls together." + +Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a +finable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trust +himself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he made +to himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve +Sullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, and +that he well deserved it. + + + + +THE TWO MR. SMITHS. + + +"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; it +is my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. William +Smith! If it had been Alexander Smith--" + +"Or Hyacinth Smith." + +"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!" + +"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the lady +for the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties! +They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar into +the fire and began to buckle on his spurs. + +"Come with me, Carrol." + +"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better than +myself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so." + +"_I_ don't like Alice's style at all." + +"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settled +income, is skin-deep." + +If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took the +criticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income is +satisfactory; and besides that, she has all kinds of good qualities, +and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, a +suitable name for them!" + +"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her name +also?" + +"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in his +wife's, Carrol." + +"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride." + +So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupation +gave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man, +and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a very +great man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished and +fastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the air +of being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves. + +Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and +he was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of going +to them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To see +her in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great and +beautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charming +aimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofs +of her having been born in the purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenu +could ever hope to imitate them. + +Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of polite +shifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; and +the circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of her +position were to the other a real holiday-making. + +Alice met Mr. Smith with _empressement_, fluttered about the tea-tray +like a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and was +as full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose. + +"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been +trying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Now +you can be my substitute." + +"Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women ought +to have the same rights as men?" + +"Really, Miss Alice, I--I don't know. When women have got what they call +their 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges' +also?" + +"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrub +floors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect the +corner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pick +of everything." + +"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of the +country is in their hands, will they still expect to find time for +five-o'clock teas?" + +"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country, +and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or their +drawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leave +the other undone." + +"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been trying +to do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out of +one day." + +"Of course they will." + +"But how?" + +"Oh, machines and management. It will be done." + +"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice." + +"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with all +their boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementary +proposition, 'It will be, because it will be.'" + +Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to the +conversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossible +it was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed, +before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their +_tete-à -tete_ tea, two or three ladies joined the party, and the hour +was up, and the opportunity lost. + +However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested a +moment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and her +eyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as he +had determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined to +let himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her, +for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must be +confessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case in +which he was personally interested. + +Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return from +a very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began to +consider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr. +Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his +passionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and his +despairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person and +manners had made a great impression on her; she had been very near +loving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch of +electricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved. + +Such proposals seldom or never take women unawares. Eleanor had been +expecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short, +happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lines +which she believed would make him supremely happy. + +Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh, +you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alice +dear; I have a secret to tell you. I am--going--to--marry--Mr.--Smith." + +"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. +Poor Eleanor!" + +"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him--honestly, you +know?" + +"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste in +cravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in any +position out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, +always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the back +or arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith is +handsome; very much so." + +"Oh, you do admit that?" + +"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty." + +"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?" + +"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he is very 'nice,' and very +respectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare say +you will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do, +Eleanor; and--oh dear me!--how I should hate a husband of that kind!" + +"You little hypocrite!--with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman's +supremacy.'" + +"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say +_many-sidedness_--it is a more womanly definition. But if it is really +to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?" + +This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a couple +of hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; and +before matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full of +anticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author of +them, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom. + +"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be a +handsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clothes +will all come from Paris, I dare say." + +"I think we will go to Paris first." Then Eleanor went into a graphic +description of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she had +experienced them during her first bridal tour. "It is the most +fascinating city in the world, Alice." + +"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such an +out-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has to +sail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shall +have to go." + +"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you." + +"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall have +to try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the way +across, of course, but then--" + +"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?" + +"I intend to--for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with the +same set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation would +become!" + +"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down to +breakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call at +five o'clock to-morrow--or rather to-day--and we shall have a +_tete-à -tete_ tea." + +Alice determined that it should be strictly _tete-à -tete._ She went to +spend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thought +the lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange their +wedding. + +There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside the +door, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She was +trying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's new +husband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong. + +"I shall be dreadfully in the way--_his way_, I mean--and he will want +to send me out of the room, and I shall not go--no, not if I fall asleep +on a chair looking at him." + +With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered the +parlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her face +Alice could not understand. + +"Shut the door, dear." + +"Alone?" + +"I have been so all evening." + +"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?" + +"Mr. Smith did not call." + +"Not come!" + +"Nor yet sent any apology." + +The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, both +white and silent. + +"What will you do, Eleanor?" + +"Nothing." + +"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queer +mistakes do happen." + +"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room; +it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubt +but that he received it." + +"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he is +hardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. I +have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed.' Mr. +Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview." + +Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" but +through this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the white +feather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. +Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners toward +him, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when she +had--however innocently--given him the keenest personal slight? + +Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and what +is heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she had +quite decided that her lover would call the following day, and her +thoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for any +anxiety he might have suffered. + +But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many following +ones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last hope that he +would ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said, +"You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Sam +says he is to be away two years." + +"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness. + +"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has been +talking about the trip for six months." + +"Really!--Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery for +Mrs. Hollis to look at?" + +So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused a +diversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were not +named again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is the +use of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor to +Alice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention of +the subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes do +not necessarily possess the finest tempers. + +Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest. +Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend's +singular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He +supposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smith +not to take a pretty, rich woman like her into his calculations. For +his part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt that +he had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl; +they had less nonsense about them," etc. + +That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of course +she suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who parade +their suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all, +endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hysterical +sobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress common +to weak women. + +Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but Eleanor +Bethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest social +impropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the proper +mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, anise +and cummin due to her position. + +Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect--it compelled Alice +to talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, in +discussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all, +it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. And +there is something very assuaging to grief in this occupation. Before +it was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshiny +temper. + +"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to +herself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery. + +At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, and +nowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol's +influence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor--quite a +novel one," she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal trip +in Carrol's yacht!" + +"Whose idea is that?" + +"Carrol's and _mine too_, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliest +life. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issue +your own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easy +conscience" + +"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?" + +"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance of +ticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesome +letters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in +the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid." + +So the marriage took place at the end of the season, and Alice and +Carrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss what +to do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gone +there, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw them +together. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe was +out of the question. + +While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid--a beautiful +girl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I am +going to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. "Papa has +heard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have a +special car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty." + +"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I was +dreading the old routine in the old places; but this will be +delightful." + +Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethune +found herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. It +was a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose like +Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look of +intense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder and +annoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable +thing; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she never +thought of shirking it. + +So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and even +quickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself. +The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. At +first she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it in +such words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmly +settled on the following form: + +"_Messrs. Locke & Lord_: + +"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is of +the greatest importance." + +When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam." +But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, and +she could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The man +stood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay about +the message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertainty +ruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and return +to her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched the +whole proceeding, said: + +"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that you +have lost your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can return +the money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the +'American.'" + +"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother. +I gratefully accept your offer." + +Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalist +who was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; so +that the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterward +inaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. It +was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which, +even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of money +for the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the door +of the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedy +arrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars. + +This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's last +lover--a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome and +gentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor's +prejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery, +pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the very +first day of their acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but one +thought--the winning of Eleanor Bethune. + +When she returned to New York in the autumn she ventured to cast up her +accounts with life, and she was rather amazed at the result. For she was +quite aware that she was in love with this William Smith in a way that +she had never been with the other. The first had been a sentimental +ideal; the second was a genuine case of sincere and passionate +affection. She felt that the desertion of this lover would be a grief +far beyond the power of satin and lace to cure. + +But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and his +love transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed to +find its native air. It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenly +atmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed to +her that no change could make her happier. + +But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thought +marriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking. Eleanor and he +were sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when he +whispered this opinion to her. + +"It is only four months since we met, dear." + +"Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you four +months before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you. On +the 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado to +look after the Silver Cliff Mine. My carriage was ordered, and I was +waiting at my hotel for it. A servant brought me a letter--the dearest, +sweetest little letter--see, here it is!" and this William Smith +absolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the first +William Smith's offer. + +Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled. + +"What did you think, dear?" + +"That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me. It +was directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands. I was +not going to seek up any other W. Smith." + +"But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and you +did not know 'Eleanor Bethune.'" + +"Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it _was intended_ for me. I can +imagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching you +send the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. +Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible. I was +coming back to New York to look for you." + +"And, instead, she went to you in Colorado." + +"Only think of that! Why, love, when that blessed telegraph clerk said, +'Who sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. Eleanor Bethune,' I wanted +to fling my hat to the sky. I did not lose my head as badly when they +found that new lead in the Silver Cliff." + +"Won't you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William? It was +written to the wrong Smith." + +"It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith. +Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do what +you like with the letter." + +Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning letter +made a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss. + + + + +THE STORY OF MARY NEIL. + + +Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saints +and martyrs. There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, and +desolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty--where +with toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are being +prepared for the heavenly temple. + +This is the light that relieves the deep shadow of that awful cloud of +poverty which ever hangs over this rich and prosperous city. I have been +within that cloud, wet with its rain of tears, chilled with its gloomy +darkness, "made free" of its innermost recesses; therefore I speak with +authority when I say that even here a little child may walk and not +stumble, if Jesus lead the way or hold the hand. + +Nay, but children walk where strong men fall down, and young maidens +enter the kingdom while yet their parents are stumbling where no light +from the Golden City and "the Land very far off" reaches them. Last +winter I became very much interested in such a case. I was going to +write "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have been the strangest misnomer. +Happy Mary Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to contradict my pen. + +And yet when I first became acquainted with her condition, she was +"poor" in every bitter sense of the word. + +A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child of misery baptized with tears," +what had her seventeen years been but sad and evil ones? Cold and +hunger, cares and labors far beyond her strength sowed the seeds of +early death. For two years she struggled amid such suffering as dying +lungs entail to help her mother and younger brothers and sisters, but at +last she was compelled to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering which +she could no longer assuage by her helpful hands and gentle words. + +Her religious education had not been quite neglected, and she dimly +comprehended that through the narrow valley which lay between Time and +Eternity she would need a surer and more infallible guide than her own +sadly precocious intellect. Then God sent her just the help she +needed--a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman full of the love of Jesus. + +Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of the Border Land, and very soon +Mary had learned how to walk without fearing any evil. Certain passages +of Scripture burned with a supernatural glory, and made the darkness +light; and there were also a few hymns which struck the finest chords +in her heart, and + + "'Mid days of keenest anguish + And nights devoid of ease, + Filled all her soul with music + Of wondrous melodies." + +As she neared the deeper darkness of death, this was especially +remarkable of that extraordinary hymn called "The Light of Death," by +Dr. Faber. From the first it had fascinated her. "Has he been _here_ +that he knows just how it feels?" she asked, wonderingly, and then +solemnly repeated: + + "Saviour, what means this breadth of death, + This space before me lying; + These deeps where life so lingereth, + This difficulty of dying? + So many turns abrupt and rude, + Such ever-shifting grounds, + Such strangely peopled solitudes, + Such strangely silent sounds?'" + +Her sufferings were very great, and sometimes the physical depression +exerted a definable influence on her spiritual state. Still she never +lost her consciousness of the presence of her Guide and Saviour, and +once, in the exhaustion of a severe paroxysm, she murmured two lines +from the same grand hymn: + + "Deeper! dark, dark, but yet I follow: + Tighten, dear Lord, thy clasp." + +Ah! there was something touching and noble beyond all words, in this +complete reliance and perfect trust; and it never again wavered. + +"Is it _very_ dark, Mary dear?" her friend said one morning, the _last_ +for her on earth. + +"Too dark to see," she whispered, "but I can go on if Christ will hold +my hand." + +After this a great solemnity shaded her face; she lost all consciousness +of this world. The frail, shadowy little body lay gray and passive, +while that greatest of all struggles was going on--the struggle of the +Eternal out of Time; but her lips moved incessantly, and occasionally +some speech of earth told the anxious watchers how hard the conflict +was. For instance, toward sundown she said in a voice strangely solemn +and anxious: + + "Who are we trying to avoid? + From whom, Lord, must we hide? + Oh! can the dying be decoyed, + With the Saviour by his side?" + +"Loose sands and all things sinking!" "Are we near eternity?" "Can I +fall from Thee even now?" and ejaculations of similar kind, showed that +the spiritual struggle was a very palpable one to her; but it ended in a +great calm. For two hours she lay in a peace that passeth understanding, +and you would have said that she was dead but for a vague look of +expectancy in the happy, restful face. Then suddenly there was a +lightening of the whole countenance; she stretched out her arms to meet +the messenger of the King, and entered heaven with this prayer on her +lips: + + "_Both hands_, dear Lord, _both hands_.'" + +Don't doubt but she got them; their mighty strength lifted her over the +dark river almost dry shod. + + "Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon + Lie in her tent--for on the golden street + She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn + With her unsandalled feet." + + + + +THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE. + + +Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace a strange bustle and +excitement had come--the master was returning with a young bride, whom +report spoke of as "bewitchingly beautiful." It was easy to believe +report in this case, for there must have been some strong inducement to +make Frederick Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman barely twenty. +It was not money; Mr. Kurston had plenty of money, and he was neither +ambitious nor avaricious; besides, the woman he had chosen was both poor +and extravagant. + +For once report was correct. Clementina Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, +had been a great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in silks and diamonds, +was a woman dedicated, by Nature for conquest. + +It was Clementina's beauty that had prevailed over the love-hardened +heart of the gay old gallant, who had escaped the dangers of forty +seasons of flirtation. He was entangled in the meshes of her golden +hair, fascinated by the spell of her love-languid eyes, her mouth like a +sad, heavy rose, her faultless form and her superb manners. He was blind +to all her faults; deaf to all his friends--in the glamour of her +enchantments he submitted to her implicitly, even while both his reason +and his sense of other obligations pleaded for recognition. + +Clementina had not won him very easily; the summer was quite over, +nearly all the visitors at the stylish little watering-place had +departed, the mornings and evenings were chilly, every day Mr. Kurston +spoke of his departure, and she herself was watching her maid pack her +trunks, and in no very amiable temper contemplating defeat, when the +reward of her seductive attentions came. + +"Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an interview." + +She gladly accorded it; she robed herself with subtle skill; she made +herself marvelous. + +"Mother," she said, as she left her dressing-room, "you will have a +headache. I shall excuse you. I can manage this business best alone." + +In an hour she came back triumphant. She put her feet on the fender, and +sat down before the cheerful blaze to "talk it over." + +"It is all right, mother. Good-by to our miserable shifts and +shabby-genteel lodgings and turned dresses. He will settle Kurston Chace +and all he has upon me, and we are to be married next month." + +"Impossible, Tina! No _modiste_ in the world could get the things that +are absolutely necessary ready in that time." + +"Everything is possible in New York--if you have money--and Uncle Gray +will be ready enough to buy my marriage clothes. Besides, I am going to +run no risks. If he should die, nothing on earth could console me for +the trouble I have had with him, but the fact of being his widow. There +is no sentiment in the affair, and the sooner one gets to ordering +dinners and running up bills, the better." + +"Poor Philip Lee!" + +"Mother, why did you mention him? Of course he will be angry, and call +me all kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a particle of common +sense he must see that it was impossible for me to marry a poor +lawyer--especially when I had such a much better offer. I suppose he +will be here to-night. You must see him, mother, and explain things as +pleasantly as possible. It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. +Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the ravings and protestations +he is sure to indulge in." + +In this supposition Clementina was mistaken. Philip Lee took the news of +her engagement to his wealthy rival with blank calmness and a civil wish +for her happiness. He made a stay of conventional propriety, and said +all the usual polite platitudes, and then went away without any evidence +of the deep suffering and mortification he felt. + +This was Clementina's first drop of bitterness in her cup of success. +She questioned her mother closely as to how he looked, and what he said. +It did not please her that, instead of bemoaning his own loss, he should +be feeling a contempt for her duplicity--that he should use her to cure +his passion, when she meant to wound him still deeper. She felt at +moments as if she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth and position +she had so hardly won, only she knew him well enough to understand that +henceforward she could not easily deceive him again. + +It was pleasant to return to New York this fall; the news of the +engagement opened everyone's heart and home. Congratulations came from +every quarter; even Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done so well for +herself, and signified his approval by a handsome check. + +The course of this love ran smooth enough, and one fine morning in +October, Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. Henceforward Clementina +Kurston was a woman to be courted instead of patronized, and many a +woman who had spoken lightly of her beauty and qualities, was made to +acknowledge with an envious pang that she had distanced them. + +This was her first reward, and she did not stint herself in extorting +it. To tell the truth, Clementina had many a bitter score of this kind +to pay off; for, as she said in extenuation, it was impossible for her +to allow herself to be in debt to her self-respect. + +Well, the wedding was over. She had abundantly gratified her taste for +splendor; she had smiled on those on whom she willed to smile; she had +treated herself extravagantly to the dangerous pleasure of social +revenge; she was now anxious to go and take possession of her home, +which had the reputation of being one of the oldest and handsomest in +the country. + +Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxicated with love, and not a little +flattered by the brilliant position which his wife had at once claimed. +Now that she was his wife, it amused him to see her order and patronize +and dispense with all that royal prerogative which belongs to beauty, +supported by wealth and position. + +Into his great happiness he had suffered no doubt, no fear of the +future, to come; but, as the day approached for their departure for +Kurston Chace, he grew singularly restless and uneasy. + +For, much as he loved and obeyed the woman whom he called "wife," there +was another woman at Kurston whom he called "daughter," that he loved +quite as dearly, in a different way. In fact, of his daughter, Athel +Kurston, he stood just a little bit in fear, and she had ruled the +household at the Chace for many years as absolute mistress. + +No one knew anything of her mother; he had brought her to her present +home when only five years old, after a long stay on the Continent. A +strange woman, wearing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came with the +child as nurse; but she had never learnt to speak English, and had now +been many years dead. + +Athel knew nothing of her mother, and her early attempts to question her +father concerning her had been so peremptorily rebuffed that she had +long ago ceased to indulge in any curiosity regarding her. +However--though she knew it not--no one regarded her as Mr. Kurston's +heir; indeed, nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned such a +conclusion. True, he loved her dearly, and had spared no pains in her +education; but he never took her with him into the world, and, except in +the neighborhood of the Chace, her very existence was not known of. + +She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, not +likely to obey. He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; he +had said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both facts +could no longer be concealed. + +But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and he +was rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairs +between them without troubling himself to enter into explanations with +either of them. So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assuming +that she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised her +a pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possible +arrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house. + +To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The elegantly dressed young lady who +met her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her a +genuine surprise. Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the idea +of a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed +her. But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground; +she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from the +vantage-ground of her retirement sent Félicité to take observations. + +The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, and +Mrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the drawing-room fully +prepared to defend her rights. + +"Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when we +arrived?" + +This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing manner +she had always found omnipotent. + +"That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina." + +This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on the +defensive generally assume. + +"Miss Kurston? Your sister, Frederick?" + +"No; my daughter, Clementina." + +"But you were never married before?" + +"So people say." + +"Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a person +of--" + +"I see no reason why you should not--that is, if you live in the same +house with me." + +A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and the +infatuated husband was willing to promise anything--everything--that his +charmer demanded--that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston's influence +was really stronger than her step-mother's, and the promises extorted +from his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his nobler +feelings. + +A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief sufferer +here was Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere and +profound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake. + +One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, to +procure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, +assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum; +but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, as +she had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing a +degree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her. + +This letter completely broke the power of Clementina over her husband. +He asserted at once his authority, and insisted on returning immediately +to New York, where he thought it likely Athel had gone, and where, at +any rate, he could find suitable persons to aid him in his search for +her--a search which was henceforth the chief object of his life. + +A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. Kurston at once assumed the +position of a leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to her +satisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in the exclusive circle in which +she moved, and she speedily began the pretty, penitent, dejected rôle +which she judged would be most effective with him. But, though she would +not see it, Philip Lee was proof against all her blandishments. He was +not the man to be deluded twice by the same false woman; he was a man of +honor, and detested the social ethics which scoffed at humanity's +holiest tie; and he was deeply in love with a woman who was the very +antipodes of the married siren. + +Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston mansion, and became a great +favorite, and finally the friend and confidant of its master. Gradually, +as month after month passed, the business of the Kurston estate came +into his hands, and he could have told, to the fraction of a dollar, the +exact sum for which Clementina Gray sold herself. + +Two years passed away. There was no longer on Clementina's part, any +pretence of affection for her husband; she went her own way, and devoted +herself to her own interests and amusements. He wearied with a hopeless +search and anxiety that found no relief, aged very rapidly, and became +subject to serious attacks of illness, any one of which might deprive +him of life. + +His wife now regretted that she had married so hastily; the settlements +promised had been delayed; she had trusted to her influence to obtain +more as his wife than as his betrothed. She had not known of a +counter-influence, and she had not calculated that the effort of a +life-long deception might be too much for her. Quarrels had arisen in +the very beginning of their life at Kurston, the disappearance of Athel +had never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston became violently angry if +the settlement and disposing of his property was named. + +One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel's +disappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurston +to sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. He +signed the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lock +the door and sit down. + +"I am going," he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I +do not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled that +makes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter--the lawful +heiress of the Kurston lands--whom my wife drove, by subtle and +persistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able to +discover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put in +possession of her rights." + +"But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?" + +"They are all in this box--everything that is necessary. Take it with +you to your office to-night. Her mother--ah, me, how I loved her--was a +Polish lady of good family; but I have neither time nor inclination now +to explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities which +induced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much for +what society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or my +conscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and the +living!" + +Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sank +gradually during the following week, and died--his last word, +"Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dying +injunction, to Philip Lee. + +A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor of +a sentimental woman to her first and--as she chose to consider it--her +only true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, +dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management of +the Kurston property. + +Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possible +nor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. The +world began to freely connect their names, and it was with much +difficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of his +indifference to the rich and beautiful widow. + +He found himself, indeed, becoming gradually entangled in a net of +circumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of. + +The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like a +lawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed his +engagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils the +artful widow was encompassing him with--he must marry some one else. + +But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him; +yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He had +half a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to begin +with. + +So he put on his hat and went to his sister's house. He knew she was out +driving--had seen her pass five minutes before on her way to the park. +Then what did he go there for? Because he judged from experience, that +at this hour lovely Pauline Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, +was at home and alone. + +He was not wrong; she came into the parlor by one door as he entered it +by the other. The coincidence was auspicious, and he warmly pressed his +suit, pouring into Pauline's ears such a confused account of his +feelings and his affairs as only love could disentangle and understand. + +"But, Philip," said Pauline, "do you mean to say that this Mrs. Kurston +makes love to you? Is she not a married woman, and her husband your best +friend and patron?" + +"Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead!" + +"Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my father! my father!" And the poor girl +threw herself, with passionate sobbings, among the cushions of the sofa. + +This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondly +loved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress of +Kurston Chace! + +Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully her +father had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowing +of, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he had +done her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supreme +circle of the Kurstons. + +She had hidden her identity in her mother's maiden name--the only thing +she knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flight +from her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reason +to suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, by +cruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of her +father to protect her. + +It now became Philip's duty to acquaint the second Mrs. Kurston with +her true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate Athel +Kurston in her rights. + +Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions--even his friends +believed him to have been cognizant all the time of the identity of +Pauline Alexes with Athel Kurston--and he was complimented on his +cleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of the +widow, for an incumbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these things +scarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel. + +As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gave +up the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was glad +to get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow and +disappointment," etc. + +But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth's +greatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling in +unrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she had +rejected for his poverty. + +She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of his +country. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to the +woman she hated as their "mother," and knew that they filled with light +and love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificed +her affection and her womanhood. + + + + +"ONLY THIS ONCE." + + +Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night +was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, +thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, +and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills. + +David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him +"temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard +wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him +love her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God. + +The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's +voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and +were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took +their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for +an old man in the late gloaming. + +Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark +furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a +stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out, +"Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye." + +The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage +near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a +day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and +was hungry and worn out. + +David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner +and assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition +among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David +acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten +cake and his embers. + +It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the +hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he +stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they +came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies +David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they +weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say. + +The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben," +with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great +men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean and +cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a +little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten +cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man +reading. + +"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn." + +The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott +rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire. +The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently +in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then +the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions. + +"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught +o' a gentleman." + +David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied: + +"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty +to judge him." + +When Archie spoke again it was of other matters. + +"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the +sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like. +There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't +find it out." + +"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's +worth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say." + +It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's +steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; +but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even +the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest +condition. + +When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David +was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the +morning than he had done at night. + +"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly. + +Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but +strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he +had never tasted porridge before. + +"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent +oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple's +omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased +the old man. + +The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a +fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling +mists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw +something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He +looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said: + +"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?" + +"Sir!" + +There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, +shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed +this movement with great interest. + +"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this +way. Do you know who they are?" + +"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be +policemen--I dinna ken them mysel'." + +"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell +you the whole truth." + +"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me; +yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are." + +There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and +he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by +overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems. + +The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited +until his companion had regained his breath, said: + +"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as +may be; I dinna like fine speeches." + +"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea +dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a +hard man, so I run away." + +"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed +to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the +beginning." + +The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated +ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his +employer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, +and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, +hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passing +ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor +mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed. + +"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's +a awfu' drawback." + +"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I've +been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted +to-day." + +"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart, +when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what I +will do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it's +nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, and +get him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, a +decent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade--bookkeeping. +Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'll +gie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a +big hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up. + +"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen, +forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. I +dinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, +if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you, +there 'ud be meikle use in it," for Alexander Semple had heard the +proposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to the +good man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer in +order to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" to +denude himself of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on the +sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully in +David's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave up +the £9 14s. 2d. in his possession. + +"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he said; "the bargain is fair enough +for you." + +"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna hae +keepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends." + +The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The £9 +odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangement +proposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; he +acknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of his +appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principles +and was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness, +and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriage +of Mr. Semple's trunks cost him. + +Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hill +cottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherd +and his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, though +ignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home, +soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive from him. And once +Archie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was never +weary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a few +weeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister's +affairs. + +Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle of +summer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel was +complicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summer +gloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he +had loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate to +school for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell; +he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently +without avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katie +looked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolent +manner. + +That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger as +the lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to +Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been in +Greenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that the +couple had married and were to sail for America. They then discovered +that Archie's desk had been opened and £46 in notes and gold taken. +Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archie +was angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seem +averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that if +he made known his loss, _he also_ must confess that he had knowingly +harbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity of +wronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would give +him credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course of +conduct. + +Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simple +people a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savings +of a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient to +replace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple. +On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrison +and Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailed +for America the next day. After this certainty father and son never +named the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening, +some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave. + +"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did ten +years ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous lives--never! +Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. +If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did." + +"I will, father." + +During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles. +Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, and +said there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently, +and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and +their baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was that +Alexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsome +presents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally, +and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her head +proudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage." + +But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long they +must be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and the +fair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and +mystery. + +Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father's +death married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit of +siller." Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his +wife's brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly but +surely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and a +douce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters. + +One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passing +through the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire! +Fire!" arose on every side of him. + +"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy, +narrow wynds around. + +"In Gordon's Wynd." + +He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make his +way up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house was +one of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it was +almost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that not +unfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made a +bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice. + +By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house were +removed, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women and +children across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountain +training had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him. +Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go +home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor, +showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, and +screaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only too +well. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had said +in dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor +of the opposite house again. + +In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death and +safety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage. +Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, and +carried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized his +preserver. + +"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! The +last of seven!" + +"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie and +your child!" + +Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of the +burning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smoke +had smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardly +time to save his own life. + +"They are dead, Semple!" + +Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of grief, moaned and +cried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserable +creature on earth. + +After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint of +selfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there was +not much now left to work upon--health, honor, self-respect were all +gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and then +make boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of his +wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, and +everything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune. + +Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for every +decent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spoke +ill of him behind his back. + +However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last very +long. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was called +upon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance toward +him; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of the +grave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged all +its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had been +extended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wasted +opportunities. + +"Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he said, "and tell your four brave +boys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for +_only this once_. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that +_comes with sin_ will _go with sorrow_. And never to doubt that to every +_evil doer_ will certainly come his _evil day_." + + + + +PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY. + + +I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom I +have no conventional authority to like--people out of "my set," and not +always of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always been +fortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendid +exceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that all +of us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friends +that circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate, +the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractive +to me. + +In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I +believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at +any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone +through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and +that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at +twenty different points. + +Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud +satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. He +looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his +ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did; +human beings don't know everything. + +People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder that +our acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and that +one of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was to +Petralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but not +me. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find out +that the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in the +streets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the best +hotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the other +necessaries of a pleasant existence. + +He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we went +together. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had told +myself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill procession +again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half an +hour's ride, Jack," I felt like going, and I went. + +Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing +happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes +flashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if +he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew +suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was +approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had +no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly +beautiful. + +I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there +was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon +complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still +passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident +suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of +meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, +lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they +entered a stately house together, "Are they married?" + +"Yes." + +"He seems devotedly in love with her." + +"He loved her two years before he saw her." + +"Impossible." + +"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story." + +"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together." + +"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock." + +Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious +in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests +under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of +everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging +chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a +bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, +and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana. + +I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was +Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that +easel so that you can see the picture on it." + +I did so. + +"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the +locality--describe it." + +"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long +streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short +grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful +colors." + +"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what +else do you see?" + +"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl +standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored +flowers." + +"Describe the girl to me." + +I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and +waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has--Petralto, what makes you +ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe _light_; and +the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have +thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her." + +"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood. +When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full of +yellow jasmine. I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my whole +life, and every joy and hope it contained." + +"What were you doing in Texas?" + +"What are you doing in New York? I was born in Texas. My family, an old +Spanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build San +Antonio in 1730. I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do--half my time +in the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side of +nature. I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been an +artist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in my +twentieth year I went to Rome to study. + +"I can pass the next five years. I do not pretend to regret them, +though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity. I +enjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in the +matter. I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind. I +loved nature and I loved art. I warmed both hands at the glowing fire of +life. Time may do his worst. I have been happy, and I can throw those +five careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour. + +"But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got a +letter urging my immediate return home. My father had got himself +involved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health. My younger +brother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranch +needed authoritative overlooking. I was never so fond of art as to be +indifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurrying +West. + +"Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me! The +noble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church; +somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, +company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexican +peons, was sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished, to find how easily +I went back to my old life, and spent whole days in the saddle +investigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch. + +"I had been riding one day for ten hours, and was so fatigued that I +determined to spend the night with one of my herdsmen. He had a little +shelter under some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, and after a cup of +coffee and a meal of dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down the +river bank. Then the cool, dusky shadows of the wood tempted me. I +entered it. It was an enchanted wood, for there stood Jessy Lorimer, +just as I had painted her. + +"I did not move nor speak. I watched her, spell-bound. I had not even +the power, when she had mounted her pony and was coming toward me, to +assume another attitude. She saw that I had been watching her, and a +look, half reproachful and half angry, came for a moment into her face. +But she inclined her head to me as she passed, and then went off at a +rapid gallop before I could collect my senses. + +"Some people, Jack, walk into love with their eyes open, calculating +every step. I tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my senses, +narrowed in one moment the whole world down to one bewitching woman. I +did not know her, of course; but I soon should. I was well aware she +could not live very far away, and that my herd must be able to give me +some information. I was so deeply in love that this poor ignorant +fellow, knowing something about this girl, seemed to me to be a person +to be respected, and even envied. + +"I gave him immediately a plentiful supply of cigars, and sitting down +beside him opened the conversation with horses, but drifted speedily +into the subject of new settlers. + +"'Were there any since I had left?' + +"'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one likely family.' + +"'Much of a family?' + +"'You may bet on that, sir.' + +"'Any pleasant young men?' + +"'Reckon so. Mighty likely young gal.' + +"So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lorimer, my beauty's father, was a +Scotchman, who had bought the ranch which had formerly belonged to the +old Spanish family of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty Inez and +Dolores Yturri, with their black eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy +_embonpoint_; and thought of golden-haired Jessy Lorimer in their dark, +latticed rooms. + +"Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful Jessy! How I loved her in those +happy days that followed. How I humored her grave, stern father and +courted her brothers for her sake! I was a slave to the whole family, +so that I might gain an hour with or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret it +now? Not one moment. Such delicious hours as we had together were worth +any price. I would throw all my future to old Time, Jack, only to live +them over again." + +"That is a great deal to say, Petralto." + +"Perhaps; and yet I will not recall it. In those few months everything +that was good in me prospered and grew. Jessy brought out nothing but +the best part of my character. I was always at my best with her. No +thought of selfish pleasure mingled in my love for her. If it delighted +me to touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against my cheek, to meet +her earnest, subduing gaze, it also made me careful by no word or look +to soil the dainty purity of my white lily. + +"I feared to tell her that I loved her. But I did do it, I scarcely know +how. The softest whisper seemed too loud against her glowing cheek. She +trembled from head to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture when she +first put her little hand in mine, and suffered me to draw her to my +heart. Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think of it. I--I first, I +alone, woke that sweet young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, but +no one else can ever be to her what I have been." + +And here Petralto, giving full sway to his impassioned Southern nature, +covered his face with his hands and wept hot, regretful tears. + +Tears come like blood from men of cold, strong temperaments, but they +were the natural relief of Petralto's. I let him weep. In a few minutes +he leaped up, and began pacing the room rapidly as he went on: + +"Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with a dour, stiff refusal that left +me no hope of any relenting. 'He had reasons, more than one,' he said; +'he was not saying anything against either my Spanish blood or my +religion; but it was no fault in a Scotsman to mate his daughter with +people of her own kith.' + +"There was no quarrel, and no discourtesy; but I saw I could bend an +iron bar with my pleadings just as soon as his determination. Jessy +received orders not to meet me or speak to me alone; and the possibility +of disobeying her father's command never suggested itself to her. Even I +struggled long with my misery before I dared to ask her to practice her +first deceit. + +"She would not meet me alone, but she persuaded her mother to come once +with her to our usual tryst in the wood. Mrs. Lorimer spoke kindly but +hopelessly, and covered her own face to weep while Jessy and I took of +each other a passionate farewell. I promised her then never to marry +anyone else; and she!--I thought her heart would break as I laid her +almost fainting in her mother's arms. + +"Yet I did not know how much Jessy really was to me until I suddenly +found out that her father had sent her back to Scotland, under the +pretence of finishing her education. I had been so honorably considerate +of Jessy's Puritan principles that I felt this hasty, secret movement +exceedingly unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became hateful to me, the +duties of the ranch distracting; and my brother Felix returning about +this time, we made a division of the estate. He remained at the Garcia +mansion, I rented out my possessions, and went, first to New Orleans, +and afterward to New York. + +"In New York I opened a studio, and one day a young gentleman called and +asked me to draw a picture from some crude, imperfect sketch which a +friend had made. During the progress of the picture he frequently called +in. For some reason or other--probably because we were each other's +antipodes in tastes and temperament--he became my enthusiastic admirer, +and interested himself greatly to secure me a lucrative patronage. + +"Yet some subtle instinct, which I cannot pretend to divine or explain, +constantly warned me to beware of this man. But I was ashamed and angry +at myself for linking even imaginary evil with so frank and generous a +nature. I defied destiny, turned a deaf ear to the whisperings of my +good genius, and continued the one-sided friendship--for I never even +pretended to myself that I had any genuine liking for the man. + +"One day, when we had become very familiar, he ran up to see me about +something, I forget what, and not finding me in the outer apartments, +penetrated to my private room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox first +saw the woman you saw with him to-night--the picture which you are now +looking at--and he fell as desperately in love with it, in his way, as I +had done in the Guadalupe woods with the reality. I cannot tell you how +much it cost me to restrain my anger. He, however, never noticed I was +angry. He had but one object now--to gain from me the name and residence +of the original. + +"It was no use to tell him it was a fancy picture, that he was sighing +for an imagination. He never believed it for a moment. I would not sell +it, I would not copy it, I would not say where I had painted it; I kept +it to my most sacred privacy. He was sure that the girl existed, and +that I knew where she lived. He was very rich, without an occupation or +an object, and Jessy's pure, lovely face haunted him day and night, and +supplied him with a purpose. + +"He came to me one day and offering me a large sum of money, asked me +finally to reveal at least the locality of which I had painted the +picture. His free, frank unembarrassed manner compels me to believe that +he had no idea of the intolerable insult he was perpetrating. He had +always been accustomed to consider more or less money an equivalent for +all things under the sun. But you, Jack, will easily understand that the +offer was followed by some very angry words, and that his threat to hunt +the world over to find my beauty was not without fear to me. + +"I heard soon after that Will Lennox had gone to the South. I had +neither hidden nor talked about my former life and I was ignorant of how +much he knew or did not know of it. He could trace me easily to New +Orleans; how much further would depend upon his tact and perseverance. +Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am uncertain, but my heart fell +with a strange presentment of sorrow when I saw his name, a few weeks +afterward, among the European departures. + +"The next thing I knew of Will Lennox was his marriage to some famous +Scotch beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty was +Jessy Lorimer. I feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon." + +"Will you call there?" + +"I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly she +pressed the invitation?" + +"Do not accept it, Petralto." + +He shook his head, and remained silent. The next afternoon I was +astonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. +He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to men +accustomed to have the whole world minister unto them. + +He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, +boastful conversation. He did not notice the ashy face, the blazing +eyes, the set lips, the trembling hands, of the passionate Spanish +nature, until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of unreasonable words and +taunts, and ordered Lennox out of his presence. + +Even then the stupid, good-natured, purse-proud man could not see his +danger. He began to apologize to me for Petralto's rudeness, and excuse +"anything in a fellow whom he had cut out so badly." + +"Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved me first; you can never have her +whole heart. Begone! If I had you on the Guadalupe, where Jessy and I +lived and loved, I would--" + +The sentence was not finished. Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, +and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. I +stayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleased +with him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a +few consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over. + +"Lennox tortured me," he said, passionately. "How could he be so +unfeeling, so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn what chain of +circumstances led him to find out my love and then steal her? Everything +he said tortured me but one fact--Jessy was alone and thoroughly +miserable. Poor little pet! She thought I had forgotten her, and so she +married him--not for love; I won't believe it." + +"But," I said, "Petralto, you have no right to hug such a delusion; and +seeing that you had made no attempt to follow Jessy and marry her, she +had every right to suppose you really had forgotten her. Besides, I +think it very likely that she should love a young, rich, good-looking +fellow like Will Lennox." + +"In not pursuing her I was following Jessy's own request and obeying my +own plighted promise. It was understood between us that I should wait +patiently until Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs would then +have regarded her as her own mistress and acknowledged her right to +marry as she desired; and if I did not write, she has not wanted +constant tokens of my remembrance. I have trusted her," he said, +mournfully, "without a sign from her." + +That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox and the devotion of her husband +were on every tongue. But married is not mated, and the best part of +Jessy Lorimer's beauty had never touched Will Lennox. Her pure, simple, +poetic temperament he had never understood, and he felt in a dim, +uncertain way that the noblest part of his wife escaped him. + +He could not enter into her feelings, and her spiritual superiority +unconsciously irritated him. Jessy had set her love's first music to the +broad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wronging +herself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. This +reserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of those +self-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simply +true to the light within her. But her way was not Will Lennox's way, her +finer fancies and lighter thoughts were mysteries to his grosser nature. + +So the thing happened which always has and always will happen in such +cases; when the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's great personal +beauty had lost their first novelty and power, she gradually became to +her husband--"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his +horse." + +I did not much blame Will Lennox. It is very hard to love what we do not +comprehend. A wife who could have sympathized in his pursuits, talked +over the chances of his "Favorite," or gone to sea with him in his +yacht, would always have found Will an indulgent and attentive husband. +But fast horses did not interest Jessy, and going to sea made her ill; +so gradually these two fell much further apart than they ought to have +done. + +Now, if Petralto had been wicked and Jessy weak, he might have revenged +himself on the man and woman who had wrought him so much suffering. But +he had set his love far too high to sully her white name; and Jessy, in +that serenity which comes of lofty and assured principles, had no idea +of the possibility of her injuring her husband by a wrong thought. Yet +instinctively they both sought to keep apart; and if by chance they met, +the grave courtesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the other left +nothing for evil hopes or thoughts to feed upon. One morning, two years +after Jessy's marriage, I received a note from Petralto, asking me to +call upon him immediately. To my amazement, his rooms were dismantled, +his effects packed up, and he was on the point of leaving New York. + +"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?" + +"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, +society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. +I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men." + +So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him +forgot him--forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him. + +I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German +philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot +Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged +and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divine +philosophy," took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not waste +my time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I +did not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare. + +Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three years +after Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenly +entered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I have +used the word "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutes +that Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of a +bridegroom. + +Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feeling +congratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow came +back so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, +and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride. + +I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wondered +what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I +rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of +eternal fidelity to his first love. + +I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in +fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Will +must be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, +when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly I +shut my book and lit my cigar. + +"'All's well that ends well,' my dear fellow," I said, when we had both +smoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox's +death. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot." + +Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for that +threat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was drowned at sea two +years ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near the +shore, and all on board perished." + +"I did not hear of it at the time." + +"Nor I either. I will tell you how I heard. About a year ago I went, as +was my frequent custom, to the little open glade in the forest where I +had first seen Jessy. As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I saw a +beautiful woman, clothed in black, walk slowly toward the very same +jasmine vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull down a loaded +branch. Can you guess how my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet and +cried out before I knew what I was doing, 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' She +stood quite still, looking toward me. Oh, how beautiful she was! And +when at length we clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I knew +without a word that my love had come to me." + +"She had waited a whole year?" + +"True; I liked her the better for that. After Will's death she went to +Scotland--put both herself and me out of temptation. She owed this much +to the memory of a man who had loved her as well as he was capable of +doing. But I know how happy were the steps that brought her back to the +Guadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon under the jasmine vine paid +for all. I am the happiest man in all the wide world." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +******* This file should be named 16222-8.txt or 16222-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/2/2/16222 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Winter Evening Tales</p> +<p> "Cash," a Problem of Profit and Loss; Franz Müller's Wife; The Voice at Midnight; Six and Half-a-Dozen; The Story of David Morrison; Tom Duffan's Daughter; The Harvest of the Wind; The Seven Wise Men of Preston; Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money; Just What He Deserved; An Only Offer; Two Fair Deceivers; The Two Mr. Smiths; The Story of Mary Neil; The Heiress of Kurston Chace; Only This Once; Petralto's Love Story</p> +<p>Author: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr</p> +<p>Release Date: July 6, 2005 [eBook #16222]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Louise Pryor,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (https://www.pgdp.net)</h4> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>WINTER EVENING TALES.</h1> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/p001.jpg" width="500" height="362" alt="Family sitting together" title="Family sitting together" /> +</div> + +<p class="center">BY</p> + +<p class="center bigger">AMELIA E. BARR,</p> + +<p class="center little">Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," +"Jan Vedder's Wife," <br /> +"Friend Olivia," etc., etc.</p> + +<hr class="mini" /> + +<p class="center little">PUBLISHED BY</p> + +<p class="center">THE CHRISTIAN HERALD</p> + +<p class="center little"><span class="smcap">Louis Klopsch</span>, Proprietor, <br /> +BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK.</p> + +<p> </p> +<h4>1896</h4> +<p> </p> +<hr style="width:20em; margin-bottom:5em; margin-top: 0em;" /> + + +<h2><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE.</h2> + + +<p>In these "Winter Evening Tales," Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers +a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. +There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a +luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so +delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"—each a perfect gem +of romance, in an artistic setting—the author has touched many phases +of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the +spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. +Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity +that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women +are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they +move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the +strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not +a make-believe.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She +unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm +that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any +of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, +for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the +misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces +us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble +and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited <a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>by the absurd and +incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by +the frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can +only come from pure and noble souls.</p> + +<p>In these "Tales," as in many of her other works, humble life has held a +strong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn +in this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its wide +range, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has but +little relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a strong +love for those whose condition makes life for them something real and +earnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, the +Christian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr and +her work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, but +spiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes for +morality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christian +understands the term.</p> + +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">G.H. Sandison.</span></p> + +<p><i>New York, 1896.</i></p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> + + + +<ul> +<li class="contents">"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> +<li class="contents">Franz Müller's Wife, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Voice at Midnight, <a href="#Page_54">54</a></li> +<li class="contents">Six and Half-a-Dozen, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Story of David Morrison, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> +<li class="contents">Tom Duffan's Daughter, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Harvest of the Wind, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Seven Wise Men of Preston, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> +<li class="contents">Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money, <a href="#Page_164">164</a></li> +<li class="contents">Just What He Deserved, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> +<li class="contents">An Only Offer, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></li> +<li class="contents">Two Fair Deceivers, <a href="#Page_235">235</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Two Mr. Smiths, <a href="#Page_247">247</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Story of Mary Neil, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></li> +<li class="contents">The Heiress of Kurston Chace, <a href="#Page_271">271</a></li> +<li class="contents">Only This Once, <a href="#Page_286">286</a></li> +<li class="contents">Petralto's Love Story, <a href="#Page_301">301</a></li> +</ul> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a></p> +<p class="center biggest"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a><a name="Winter_Evening_Tales" id="Winter_Evening_Tales"></a><b>Winter Evening Tales.</b></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="CASH" id="CASH"></a>CASH.</h2> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">A problem of profit and loss, worked by David Lockerby</span>.</p> +<hr class="mini" /> +<h3>Part I.</h3> + +<p class="center little" style="margin-bottom:2em;">"Gold may be dear bought."</p> + + +<p>A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from it +was the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet, +though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor of +old time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and +midway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind it +noble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air of +still delightful studies."</p> + +<p>From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One of +them set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain, +breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, +shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around <a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>him and said, mournfully, +"Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! I +never tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it and +Eden."</p> + +<p>"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High street +has its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college, +and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm not +above preaching for my saint."</p> + +<p>"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such a +head and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore, +there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may come +even to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet."</p> + +<p>"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better to +be Lord Provost of Glasgow city."</p> + +<p>"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; and +what now if he had had ten?"</p> + +<p>"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are you +going to Mary Moir's to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away."</p> + +<p>David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongate +there was no time for further remark. Willie Caird <a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>turned eastward +toward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon set +down before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the +back door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmest +shadow of a smile.</p> + +<p>"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?"</p> + +<p>"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anent +you till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mair +sense, or further away."</p> + +<p>"Why should they quarrel about me?"</p> + +<p>"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? But +the mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wad +fain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; while +maister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and add +Ellenmount to Lockerby, and—"</p> + +<p>"And if I could, Janet?"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in a +bottle."</p> + +<p>"But what was the upshot, Janet?"</p> + +<p>"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk."</p> + +<p>Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down again +his face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had been +against the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite <a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>familiar to +him; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for the +ministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants of +the King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence which +they enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for her +son. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And were +not even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind a +minister in his gown and bands?"</p> + +<p>Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better. +All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling his +flock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of him +becoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands of +Ellenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. During +these twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to their +several intentions.</p> + +<p>Now David's teachers—without any knowledge of these diverse +influences—had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talents +confided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of God +and humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and had +with all his book-learning the very smallest <a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>intimate acquaintance with +himself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and had +not even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love for +gold which really was the ruling passion in his breast.</p> + +<p>The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, and +he was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly down +stairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quite +resolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individual +opinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen of +two-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up and +perfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul." About his +thirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; but +even now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was very +attractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortably +disposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew better +than begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have he +determined to retain.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading, +Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in the +background."</p> + +<p>David leisurely turned to the title <a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a>page. "'Selections from the Latin +Poets,' father."</p> + +<p>"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or some +book o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie."</p> + +<p>"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: but +there is no way a man may take and not find the humanities good +road-fellows."</p> + +<p>"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you want +him to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can serve +him or no."</p> + +<p>"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife—it's nane +o' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names—and, Davie, your uncle +maks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it."</p> + +<p>"What is it, father?"</p> + +<p>"Twa years you are to serve him for £200 a year; and at the end, if both +are satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buy +you—and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldest +bank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinna +fling awa' good fortune—dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look it +to you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun—for twenty years I +hae been telling mysel' 'my<a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a> Davie will win again the bonnie braes o' +Ellenmount.'"</p> + +<p>There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled and +warmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they came +nearer to each other than they had ever done before.</p> + +<p>And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sich +temptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' the +Gordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and I +trow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll just +gang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew and +serve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and, +Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing and +every plack and bawbee o' my money." Then, seeing no change in David's +face, she made her last, great concession—"And, Davie, you may marry +Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as may +be."</p> + +<p>"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand, +Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you hae +served your twa years I'se buy you a £20,000 share in the Gordon Bank, +and a man wi' £20,000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. But +I'm aboon bribing you—a fair offer isna a bribe."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a>The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved to +make his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtually +granted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worth +having without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now that +he had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little as +ever.</p> + +<p>"The first step binds to the next," he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may +have something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think over +things until the morn."</p> + +<p>A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, and +though it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subject +tedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by the +light in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming out +of the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, the +white-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some cold +moor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked.</p> + +<p>"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," said Janet, "an' the breast o' a +bird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way." David was of +the same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things and +the pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant +and <a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>friend—a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyish +troubles or youthful scrapes.</p> + +<p>It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when he +pushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberry +dainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared money +on you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going to +college, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fause +Englishers?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to London, Janet."</p> + +<p>"Whatna for?"</p> + +<p>"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet—it is a +solemn charge."</p> + +<p>"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's council +chamber that I ken of."</p> + +<p>"Mary wants me to go to London."</p> + +<p>"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. I +wouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for a +moment—but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go by +himsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritance +for a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! but +the children o' Esau live for ever."</p> + +<p>"Mary said,"—</p> + +<p>"I dinna want to hear what Mary said.<a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a> It would hae been nae loss if +she'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an' +hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir, +dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going to +keep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body."</p> + +<p>Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road to +London as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeply +offended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways very +annoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. His +mother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that was +a constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell him +that "he was clean out o' the way o' duty."</p> + +<p>"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and +the verra tongue o' Apollos—weapons wherewith to reason against all +unrighteousness and to win the souls o' men."</p> + +<p>"Special pleading, Willie."</p> + +<p>"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take the +trouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' a +sword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple took +to the balances and the<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a> 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do you +not mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young men +in St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows—every ane o' them to +its mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' on +fire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed you +to the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, +Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold."</p> + +<p>From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it had +not been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seat +by Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendid +dreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty so +bewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her. +Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife, +even if he should take up the cross laid down before him—and as for +giving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be a +possible duty in such a contingency.</p> + +<p>But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to David +by the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on the +morning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together <a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>to the +Caledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seat +in his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'se +warrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' should +thrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse."</p> + +<p>"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget to +give according to my prosperings."</p> + +<p>"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and never +forget that money is money's brither—an' you put two pennies in a purse +they'll creep thegither.</p> + +<p>"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and though +rich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'll +tak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that are +God's."</p> + +<p>"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind, +father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leave +the world no better for my living."</p> + +<p>"God bless you, lad; and the £20,000 will be to the fore when it is +called for, and you shall make it £60,000, and I'll see again Ellenmount +in the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers, +and gie without grudging of your increase."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand the +struggle going on in his father's heart—the wish to say something that +might quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarily +tender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby was +miserable and ashamed that morning in the service.</p> + +<p>And yet he was not selfish in the matter—that much in his favor must be +admitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved so +dearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken great +interest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing him +a successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom pride +of lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper than +individual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty was +to the house of Lockerby.</p> + +<p>He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, nor +were his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child to +the same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a great +trial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and though +Mrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment, +everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind <a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>of +comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angry +silence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfare +of sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet, +though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin," had been forty +years in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions on +any subject.</p> + +<p>Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as the +Eve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie," +she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' the +sunshine for pounds sterling!"</p> + +<p>From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preached +little daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the very +stem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that +"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir's +temptations."</p> + +<p>"For she just bewitched the laddie," said Janet, angrily; and, +doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet's +administration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir.</p><p><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a></p> + +<hr class="mini" /> + +<h3>Part II.</h3> + +<p class="center little" style="margin-bottom:2em;">"God's work is soon done."</p> + +<p>It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he will +only become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight one +morning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours. +It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men sat +silent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought of +the college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and the +symposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had been +days when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with things +impossible," or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon," had not been +unreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's dreary +gospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair to +be tabulated in averages.</p> + +<p>He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritated +him. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not always +welcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was going +one way and he another. They might never see each other again; and—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><p><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a></p> +<span class="i4">If they should meet one day,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">If <i>both</i> should not forget<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They could clasp hands the accustomed way.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subject +yet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted in +one twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings of +his home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrant +sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of his +name. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctioned +nothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were of +those well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as +"the sitters in pews."</p> + +<p>In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to opera +and theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; on +fine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten their +dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but there +were none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in the +same degree as they were to David.</p> + +<p>To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been to +him; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories of +wonderful sermons and solemn <a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. +Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thames +and humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone could +recall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping +crowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousand +hearthstones:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O God of Bethel, by whose hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy people still are led.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus," heard above the +witching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's," or the tearful +tenderness of "Communion."</p> + +<p>To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter of +course, as a part of their daily life and education. David had been +obliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and his +mother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to +cultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and he +frankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it was +harder work getting to hell than to heaven.</p> + +<p>But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, and +begin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he had +not heard from Mary <a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him that +while he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill and +suffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothing +but sickness would have made Mary forget him.</p> + +<p>The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her, +full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of their +future life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did not +fail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort of +self-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night write +long letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There was +a good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and his +marriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keep +the influence of the old and better life around him to be in closer +communion with it."</p> + +<p>Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and said +cheerily, "Good morning, uncle."</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here."</p> + +<p>Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretched +hands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is she +dead?"</p> + +<p>"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething <a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>wrang but will turn to right. Mary +Moir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear the +news from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a loss +that's a great gain."</p> + +<p>"Who did she marry?"</p> + +<p>"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as his +gold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi' +the match—or the settlements—and Mary comes o' a gripping kind. +There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' they +werena fastened on."</p> + +<p>Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk on +the subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But it +was a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for a +loftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused to +spring up into active existence a passion which was to rule him +absolutely—a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship had +proved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kinds +were a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for him +than to become a rich man.</p> + +<p>"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby's +name; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking to +David Lockerby as they <a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, and +wisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money is +best of all things."</p> + +<p>Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments. +Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for the +first time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged +himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope. +Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told his +brother-in-law that the £20,000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he +choose to advance David in the firm.</p> + +<p>"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime. +The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contented +until he settles cannily doon to his interest tables."</p> + +<p>So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firm +of Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some of +the pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarely +seen among men of his own age—women he never mingled with. He removed +to his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his life +very much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a run +northward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the<a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a> Continent, but +nearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan or +investment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man, +and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever more +affectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made an +independent woman by his grateful consideration.</p> + +<p>He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he +visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to see +him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of +Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with +the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was +welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I +hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears; +and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for +many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling +element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become +the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed; +the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum of +his daily life.</p> + +<p>Ten years later both his uncle and father <a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>were dead, and both had left +David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more +eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of +thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was +the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age +fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and +children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried +Janet continually on this subject.</p> + +<p>"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, +an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his +bargains."</p> + +<p>"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me—an' him sae honored, an' guid +an' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him."</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody's +charged him wi' wrangdoing—that's enough. There's nae need to set him +up for a saint."</p> + +<p>"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet."</p> + +<p>"I was that blind—ance."</p> + +<p>"We are blind creatures, Janet."</p> + +<p>"Wi' <i>excepts</i>, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers."</p> + +<p>This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the +same time<a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a> David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, +wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden +crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly +to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public +opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as +the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, +in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service.</p> + +<p>He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions +or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have +allowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than he +could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally +followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old +church in the Canongate.</p> + +<p>Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased +than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place +consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their +purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church +on the Doo Hill in Glasgow—just such a large, bare, solemn-looking +house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the +precentor, <a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not +notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he +was holding a session with his own soul.</p> + +<p>A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon was +beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had +been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old +Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in +the wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '<i>What +shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own +soul</i>?'"</p> + +<p>For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found +him out again—it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, +David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, +thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. +Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious of +the moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the +trees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and +smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer.</p> + +<p><i>What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit</i>? +David was <a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here +was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the +church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to +the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in +nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. +Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a +hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he +looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he +was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering +the ever present thought.</p> + +<p>But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless +his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told +himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had +affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times +with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence.</p> + +<p>The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee +room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No +one hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency, +help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said +the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a>And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. +He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own—only his +own—but something asked him, "<i>What shall it profit</i>?" and he gave up +his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak +his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having +losses; and something asked him, "<i>What shall it profit</i>?" and he gave +such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its +hand.</p> + +<p>The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and +almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks +that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost +unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. +William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know +that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and +therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's +library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful +boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and +sports as if he was one of them.</p> + +<p>"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's +greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held <a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>each other's +hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one +had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of +Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are +reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual +experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was +neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their +conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie +had raised.</p> + +<p>But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each +other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and +opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able +to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want.</p> + +<p>"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, +that ever you asked yon fearsome question of—and I know it. I have +achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have +wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever +the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have made +money—plenty of it—and it does not pay me. What am I to do?"</p> + +<p>"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>advice the Lord Jesus gave to +the rich man—'distribute unto the poor—and come, follow me!'"</p> + +<p>Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle +Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams +touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid +out in it.</p> + +<p>"You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though +David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded +therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see +the topstone brought on with rejoicing."</p> + +<p>Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the +worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded +"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble building +arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms +of Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, and +into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread.</p> + +<p>In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's +energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other +good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his <a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>time +and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's +Hall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir +the cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and their +pocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against +drunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away +from Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a public +meeting and started a subscription list with £1000 down on the table.</p> + +<p>But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of +them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o' +her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie +"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns."</p> + +<p>"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might +live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house."</p> + +<p>"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o' +sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him—"</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day."</p> + +<p>"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' +a £1000 argument."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and +who would therefore gie nothing at a'."</p> + +<p>"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his +condition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on +the good work going on."</p> + +<p>"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'—"</p> + +<p>"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in +auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David +Lockerby 'blessed.'"</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a></p> +<h2><a name="FRANZ_MULLERS_WIFE" id="FRANZ_MULLERS_WIFE"></a>FRANZ MÜLLER'S WIFE.</h2> + +<p>"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant +or Dugald Stewart?"</p> + +<p>"None of them. I am reading <i>Faust</i>."</p> + +<p>"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in +the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to +the right about, stick to Shakespeare."</p> + +<p>"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women."</p> + +<p>"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, +condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin +Christine Stromberg."</p> + +<p>"I do not know the young lady."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother +Max was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?"</p> + +<p>"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look +alike."</p> + +<p>"But you will go?"</p> + +<p>"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuse +yourself while I dress."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of +Christine."</p> + +<p>For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. +He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the +careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a +familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of +his life for any clew to this familiarity.</p> + +<p>He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, +thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted +up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still +and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the +regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and +Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Müller. +No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in +love with you."</p> + +<p>Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love +for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but +the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no +one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are +sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally +willing to respect it.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who +fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It +was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never +have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As +soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation +possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a +brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare +exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty +and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching +him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what +questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the +clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her.</p> + +<p>"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured—"I wonder where +it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, +and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was +only to take it up again in dreams.</p> + +<p>As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One +has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness," +he said to himself. And <a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the +waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but +dawning day.</p> + +<p>"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his +love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any +probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had +found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite +avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again.</p> + +<p>He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. +Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, +and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to have +breakfast," she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Müller, and +have a cup of coffee with us."</p> + +<p>Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it out +as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked in +her long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows of +pale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he +made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had +not the slightest conception.</p> + +<p>A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily suffered +some <a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste like +ordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls +became sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite +sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as +that breakfast on the avenue.</p> + +<p>When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride. +They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the +trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and +the spring airs were full of happiness and hope. Christine was arranging +and watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz's +hands and hers had lingered happily together. So now love gave to this +mortal an immortal's confidence. He never thought of sighing and fearing +and trembling. His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believed +that sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say to +her.</p> + +<p>"Shall we ride?" he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at her +with eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness.</p> + +<p>Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of what +people would say. But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, +and laughed at society; and before Christine had <a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>decided which of her +costumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door.</p> + +<p>How they rattled up the avenue and through the park! How the green +branches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped about +them! By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgotten +they were mortal. Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidence +of love's exaltation into love's silent tender melancholy, were just as +blissful.</p> + +<p>They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, but +just before they parted Franz said, "I have been waiting thirty years +for you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed."</p> + +<p>And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her +blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave +them to him.</p> + +<p>Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor. Franz +must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet +weeks and months for him. He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and +laid his whole life down at Christine's feet. There was no definite +engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as +surely as the end of the season.</p> + +<p>Money matters and housekeeping must <a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>eventually intrude themselves, but +the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched. +And Franz was not anxious at all on this score. His father, a shrewd +business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. "It +is not the boy's fault," he said to his partner, "he gets it from his +grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it."</p> + +<p>So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented +himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and +securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase. He +had bought wisely, and Franz's income was a certain and handsome one, +with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient +to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been +accustomed.</p> + +<p>So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. +All he had should be Christine's and her father should settle the matter +just as he thought best for his daughter. In a general way this was +understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize +with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these +enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm +of their young lives' idyl.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it would have been better if they <a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>had remembered the ancient +superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect +happiness. Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to +follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to +have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate.</p> + +<p>But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October +days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been +so green and gay, Franz's dream was rudely broken—broken by a Mr. James +Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth <i>three +millions</i>. In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of +influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over +Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone knew the whole secret; for of +course money was at the foundation. Indeed, in these days, in all public +and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but "How +much is it?" Franz Müller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on +sight. Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man +could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate +affection.</p> + +<p>In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the +possibility of <a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of +such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and +if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations +that she had accepted so happily all summer. As for Christine, she had +constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with +weeping.</p> + +<p>At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a +month with some relative near Boston. A pitiful little note from +Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information +as to the locality of her relative's house, and no invitation to call, +he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him—wait +patiently for their return.</p> + +<p>At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently +written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and +anger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found +the house where Christine was staying. He was received at first very +shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, +the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help +it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very +miserable.</p> + +<p>Finally she was persuaded to let him see<a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a> Christine, "just for five +minutes." The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, +weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The five +minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back +to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been +broken in two for this life.</p> + +<p>One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz," +he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old +Clarke?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine."</p> + +<p>"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a woman +appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her +forcing her to do it."</p> + +<p>"I thought she was to be your wife."</p> + +<p>"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that. +If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine +Stromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child! +God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his +friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation.</p> + +<p>In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine +and James Barker Clarke were married, and <a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>began housekeeping in a style +of extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine's +reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but +though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their +suggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna +and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she +went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a +wretched spectre.</p> + +<p>They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a +look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no +recognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered that +she had done very well to herself.</p> + +<p>Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the +world regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and her +father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franz +watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy +coldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily +jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched +passion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" he +asked himself; "and these little ones, what have <a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>they done?" So at last +he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to +regard them as part and portion of his love.</p> + +<p>But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected. +Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis came +to tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, for +he had found out that the beaten track is the safest.</p> + +<p>"Franz," he said, "have you heard about Clarke? His affairs are +frightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago."</p> + +<p>"And Christine? Does she know? Who has gone to her?"</p> + +<p>"My wife is with her. Clarke shot himself in his own room. Christine was +the first to reach him. He left a letter saying he was absolutely +ruined."</p> + +<p>"Where will Christine and the children go?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose to her father's. Not a pleasant place for her now. +Christine's step-mother dislikes both her and the children."</p> + +<p>Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling of +disappointment. "I thought he would have done something for her," he +said to his wife. "Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent."</p> + +<p>Ten days after he came home with a different story. "There never was a +<a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>woman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine," he said. "Hardy & Hall +sent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on her +before her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It seems the +old gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and in +order to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy's +charge two beautifully furnished cottages. There is something like an +accumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one is +luckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once. I +always thought the property was Hardy's own before. Very thoughtful in +Clarke."</p> + +<p>"It is not Clarke one bit. I don't believe he ever did it. It is some +arrangement of Franz Müller's."</p> + +<p>"For goodness' sake don't hint such a thing, Lizzie! Christine would not +go, and we should have her here very soon. Besides, I don't believe it. +Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since."</p> + +<p>The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife's opinion. "What do +you think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to me to-day and asked if +Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars. I told him Clarke gave +me two thousand about the time we were married."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>"'Say <i>loaned</i>, Louis,' he answered, 'to oblige me. Here is two +thousand and the interest for six years. Go and pay it to Christine; she +must need money.' So I went."</p> + +<p>"Is she settled comfortably?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz is sure to marry her, and he is +growing richer every day."</p> + +<p>It seemed as if Louis's prediction would come true. Franz began to drive +out every afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he contented himself with just +passing Christine's gate. But he soon began to stop for the children, +and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the +parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea.</p> + +<p>For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others +noticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left +him weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the last +summer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first +one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago +with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only +strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into +her face.</p> + +<p>One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin," he said, +"your <a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>friend Müller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days, +perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is near +the last."</p> + +<p>"Does he know it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once."</p> + +<p>So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his last +preparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis," he +said; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. I +have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when—when I am +gone.</p> + +<p>"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me: +there are ten of them, every one ten years old."</p> + +<p>"Is that all, dear Franz?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; my will has long been made. Except a legacy to yourself, all goes +to Christine—dear, dear Christine!"</p> + +<p>"You love her yet, then, Franz?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? I have loved her for ages. I shall love her forever. +She is the other half of my soul. In some lives I have missed her +altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one."</p> + +<p>"Do you know what you are saying, Franz?"</p> + +<p>"Very clearly, Louis. I have always believed with the oldest +philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is <a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>permitted +them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to +meet and comfort each other. Do you think I saw Christine for the first +time in your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer and grander memories +of her than any linked to this life. I must leave her now for a little. +God knows when and where we meet again; but <i>He does know</i>; that is my +hope and consolation."</p> + +<p>Whatever were Louis's private opinions about Franz's theology it was +impossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend's last +instructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had long +been strange to his-heart.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine's. It was the last +physical effort he was capable of. No one saw the parting of those two +souls. He went with Christine's arms around him, and her lips whispering +tender, hopeful farewells. It was noticed however, that after Franz's +death a strange change came over Christine—a beautiful nobility and +calmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiest +aims.</p> + +<p>Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left. The +ten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went to +the grave with him, but the rest were of such an <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>extraordinary nature +that Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and then +at her request leaving them for her to dispose of. They were indeed +letters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, and +directed to every place in which she had sojourned. In all of them she +was addressed as "Beloved Wife of my Soul," and in this way the poor +fellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart.</p> + +<p>To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these all +referred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned in +Christine's and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he had +written only for his own comfort. But it was perhaps well they fell into +Christine's hands: she could not but be a better woman for reading the +simple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness and +child-like submission as the goal of its duties.</p> + +<p>Seven years after Franz's death Christine and her daughter died together +of the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left sole +inheritor of Franz's wealth.</p> + +<p>"A German dreamer!"</p> + +<p>Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers. And perchance he that seeks +fame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, +when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life "as a dream +when one awaketh."</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_VOICE_AT_MIDNIGHT" id="THE_VOICE_AT_MIDNIGHT"></a>THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT.</h2> + + +<p>"It is the King's highway that we are in; and know this, His messengers +are on it. They who have ears to hear will hear; and He opens the eyes +of some, and they see things not to be lightly spoken of."</p> + +<p>It was John Balmuto who said these words to me. John was a Shetlander, +and for forty years he had gone to the Arctic seas with the whale boats. +Then there had come to him a wonderful experience. He had been four days +and nights alone with God upon the sea, among mountains of ice reeling +together in perilous madness, and with little light but the angry flush +of the aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that strong faith in the +Unseen which made him an active character in the facts I am going to +relate.</p> + +<p>After his marvelous salvation, he devoted his life to the service of God +by entering that remarkable body of lay evangelists attached to the +Presbyterian Church in Highland parishes, called "The Men," and he +became noted throughout the Hebrides for his labors, and for his +knowledge of the Scriptures.</p> + +<p>Circumstances, that summer, had thrown <a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>us together; I, a young woman, +just entering an apparently fortunate life; he, an aged saint, standing +on the borderland of eternity. And we were sitting together, in the gray +summer gloaming, when he said to me, "Thou art silent to-night. What +hast thou, then, on thy mind?"</p> + +<p>"I had a strange dream. I cannot shake off its influence. Of course it +is folly, and I don't believe in dreams at all." And it was then he said +to me, "It is the King's highway that we are in, and know this, His +messengers are on it."</p> + +<p>"But it was only a dream."</p> + +<p>"Well, God speaks to His children 'in dreams, and by the oracles that +come in darkness.'"</p> + +<p>"He used to do so."</p> + +<p>"Wilt thou then say that He has ceased so to speak to men? Now, I will +tell thee a thing that happened; I will tell thee just the bare facts; I +will put nothing to, nor take anything away from them.</p> + +<p>"'Tis, five years ago the first day of last June. I was in Stornoway in +the Lews, and I was going to the Gairloch Preachings. It was rough, +cheerless weather, and all the fishing fleet were at anchor for the +night, with no prospect of a fishing. The fishers were sitting together +talking over the bad weather, but, indeed, without that bitterness that +I have heard from landsmen <a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>when it would be the same trouble with them. +So I gathered them into Donald Brae's cottage, and we had a very good +hour. I noticed a stranger in the corner of the room, and some one told +me he was one of those men who paint pictures, and I saw that he was +busy with a pencil and paper even while we were at the service. But the +next day I left for the Preachings, and I thought no more of him, good +or bad.</p> + +<p>"On the first of September I was in Oban. I had walked far and was very +tired, but I went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after I had eat my +kippered herring and drank my tea, I felt better. Then I talked with +John about the resurrection of the body, for he was in a tribulation of +thoughts and doubts as to whether our Lord had a permanent humanity or +not.</p> + +<p>"And I said to him, John, Christ redeemed our whole nature, and it is +this way: the body being ransomed, as well as the spirit, by no less a +price than the body of Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glorified. +Now, then, after I had gone to my room, I was sitting thinking of these +things, and of no other things whatever. There was not a sound but that +of the waves breaking among the rocks, and drawing the tinkling pebbles +down the beach after them. Then the ears of my spiritual body were +opened, and I heard <a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>these words, <i>'I will go with thee to Glasgow!'</i> +Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 'I am ready!' I began to +argue with myself thus: 'Whatever for should I go to Glasgow? I know not +anyone there. No one knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to be left. +I have no money for such a journey—'</p> + +<p>"I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then I dreamed of—or I saw—a woman +fair as the daughters of God, and she said, <i>'I will go with thee to +Glasgow!'</i> With a strange feeling of being hurried and pressed I +awoke—wide awake, and without any conscious will of my own, I answered, +'I am ready. I am ready now.'</p> + +<p>"As I left the cottage it was striking twelve, and I wondered what means +of reaching Glasgow I should find at midnight. But I walked straight to +the pier, and there was a small steamer with her steam up. She was +blowing her whistle impatiently, and when the skipper saw me coming, he +called to me, in a passion, 'Well, then, is it all night I shall wait +for thee?'</p> + +<p>"I soon perceived that there was a mistake, and that it was not John +Balmuto he had been instructed to wait for. But I heeded not that; I was +under orders I durst not disobey. She was a trading steamer, with a +perishable cargo of game and lobsters, <a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>and so she touched at no place +whatever till we reached Glasgow. One of her passengers was David +MacPherson of Harris, a very good man, who had known me in my +visitations. He was going to Glasgow as a witness in a case to be tried +between the Harris fishers and their commission house in Glasgow.</p> + +<p>"As we walked together from the steamer, he said to me, 'Let us go round +by the court house, John, and I'll find out when I'll be required.' That +was to my mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, whatever road +was taken, and I turned with him the way he desired to go. He found the +lawyer who needed him in the court house, and while they talked together +I went forward and listened to the case that was in hand.</p> + +<p>"It was a trial for murder, and I could not keep my eyes off the young +man who was charged with the crime. He seemed to be quite broken down +with shame and sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the court closed and +the constables took him away. As he passed me our eyes met, and my heart +dirled and burned, and I could not make out whatever would be the matter +with me. All night his face haunted me. I was sure I had seen it some +place; and besides it would blend itself with the dream which had +brought me to Glasgow.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>"In the morning I was early at the court house and I saw the prisoner +brought in. There was the most marvelous change in his looks. He walked +like a man who has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. But now it +troubled me more than ever. Whatever had I to do with the young man? Yet +I could not bear to leave him.</p> + +<p>"I listened and found out that he was accused of murdering his uncle. +They had been traveling together and were known to have been at Ullapool +on the thirtieth of May. On the first of June the elder man was found in +a lonely place near Oban, dead, and, without doubt, from violence. The +chain of circumstantial evidence against his nephew was very strong. To +judge by it I would have said myself to him, 'Thou art certainly +guilty.'</p> + +<p>"On the other side the young man declared that he had quarreled with his +uncle at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He had then taken passage +in a Manx fishing smack which was going to the Lews, but he had +forgotten the name of the smack. He was not even certain if the boat was +Manx. The landlord of the inn, at which he said he stayed when in the +Lews, did not remember him. 'A thing not to be expected,' he told the +jury, 'for in the summer months, what with visitors, and what with the +fishers, a face in Stornoway was <a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>like a face on a crowded street. The +young man might have been there'—</p> + +<p>"The word <i>Stornoway</i> made the whole thing clear to me. The prisoner was +the man I had noticed with a pencil and paper among the fishers in +Donald Brae's cottage. Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I had been +sent to Glasgow. I walked quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet from +my head, I said to the judge, 'My lord, the prisoner <i>was</i> in Stornoway +on the first of June. I saw him there!'</p> + +<p>"He gave a great cry of joy and turned to me; and in a moment he called +out: 'You are the man who read the Bible to the fishers. I remember you. +I have your likeness among my drawings.' And I said, 'I am the man.'</p> + +<p>"Then my lord, the judge, made them swear me, and he said they would +hear my evidence. For one moment I was a coward. I thought I would hide +God's share in the deliverance, lest men should doubt my whole +testimony. The next, I was telling the true story: how I had been called +at midnight—twice called; how I had found Evan Conochie's boat waiting +for me; how on the boat I had met David MacPherson, and been brought to +the court house by him, having no intention or plan of my own in the +matter.</p> + +<p>"And there was a great awe in the room <a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>as I spoke. Every one believed +what I said, and my lord asked for the names of the fishers who were +present in Donald Brae's cottage on the night of the first of June. Very +well, then, I could give many of them, and they were sent for, and the +lad was saved, thank God Almighty!"</p> + +<p>"How do you explain it, John?"</p> + +<p>"No, I will not try to explain it; for it is not to be hoped that anyone +can explain by human reason the things surpassing human reason."</p> + +<p>"Do you know what became of the young man?"</p> + +<p>"I will tell thee about him. He is a very rich young man, and the only +child of a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her great goodness to the +Lord's poor. But when his mother died it did not go well and peaceably +between him and his uncle; and it is true that he left him at Ullapool +without a word. Well, then, he fell into this sore strait, and it seemed +as if all hope of proving his innocence was over.</p> + +<p>"But that very night on which I saw him first, he dreamed that his +mother came to him in his cell and she comforted him and told him, +'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall speak for thee.' He never +doubted the heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked me. 'My mother +never deceived me in life; would she come to me, even in a dream, to +tell me a lie? Ah, no!'"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>"Is he still alive?"</p> + +<p>"God preserve him for many a year yet! I'll only require to speak his +name"—and when he had done so, I knew the secret spring of thankfulness +that fed the never-ceasing charity of one great, good man.</p> + +<p>"And yet, John," I urged, "how can spirit speak with spirit?"</p> + +<p>"'<i>How?</i>' I will tell thee, that word 'how' has no business in the mouth +of a child of God. When I was a boy, who had dreamed 'how' men in London +might speak with men in Edinburgh through the air, invisible and +unheard? That is a matter of trade now. Can thou imagine what subtle +secret lines there may be between the spiritual world and this world?"</p> + +<p>"But dreams, John?"</p> + +<p>"Well, then, dreams. Take the dream life out of thy Bible and, oh, how +much thou wilt lose! All through it this side of the spiritual world +presses close on the human side. I thank God for it. Yes, indeed! Many +things I hear and see which say to me that Christians now have a kind of +shame in what is mystical or supernatural. But thou be sure of this—the +supernaturalism of the Bible, and of every Christian life is not one of +the difficulties of our faith, <i>it is the foundation of our faith</i>. The +Bible is a supernatural book, the law of a supernatural religion; and to +part with <a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>this element is to lose out of it the flavor of heaven, and +the hope of immortality. Yes, indeed!"</p> + +<p>This conversation occurred thirty years ago. Two years since, I met the +man who had experienced such a deliverance, and he told me again the +wonderful story, and showed me the pencil sketch which he had made of +John Balmuto in Donald Brae's cottage. He had painted from it a grand +picture of his deliverer, wearing the long black camlet cloak and +head-kerchief of the order of evangelists to which he belonged. I stood +reverently before the commanding figure, with its inspired eyes and rapt +expression; for, during those thirty years, I also had learned that it +was only those</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weeping upon their bed have sate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a></p> +<h2><a name="SIX_AND_HALF-A-DOZEN" id="SIX_AND_HALF-A-DOZEN"></a>SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN.</h2> + + +<p>Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and fallen, trampled in the mire +and mud of the conflict, then the ranks closed again and left no place +for her. So she crawled aside to die. With a past whose black despair +was as the shadow of a starless night, a future which her early +religious training lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the strong +bands of a pitiless death dragging her to the grave—still she craved, +as the awful hour drew near, to see once more the home of her innocent +childhood. Not that she thought to die in its shelter—any one who knew +David Todd knew also that was a hopeless dream; but if, <span class="smcap">if</span> her +father should say one pardoning word, then she thought it would help her +to understand the love of God, and give her some strength to trust in +it.</p> + +<p>Early in the evening, just as the sun was setting and the cows were +coming lowing up the little lane, scented with the bursting lilac +bushes, she stood humbly at the gate her father must pass in order to go +to the hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. Very soon she saw +him coming, his Scotch bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps <a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>steadied +by his shepherd's staff. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyes +looked far over the hills; for David was a mystic in his own way, and +they were to him temples not made with hands in which he had seen and +heard wonderful things. Here the storehouses of hail and lightning had +been opened in his sight, and he had watched in the sunshine the tempest +bursting beneath his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and been waited +upon by spectral mists. The voices of winds and waters were in his +heart, and he passionately believed in God. But it was the God of his +own creed—jealous, just and awful in that inconceivable holiness which +charges his angels with folly and detects impurity in the sinless +heavens. So, when he approached the gate he saw, but would not see, the +dying girl who leaned against it. Whatever he felt he made no sign. He +closed it without hurry, and then passed on the other side.</p> + +<p>"Father! O, father! speak one word to me."</p> + +<p>Then he turned and looked at her, sternly and awfully.</p> + +<p>"Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken naught o' thee."</p> + +<p>Without another glance at the white, despairing face, he walked rapidly +on; for the spring nights were chilly, and he must gather his lambs into +the fold, though this <a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>poor sheep of his own household was left to +perish.</p> + +<p>But, if her father knew her no more, the large sheep-dog at his side was +not so cruel. No theological dogmas measured Rover's love; the stain on +the spotless name of his master's house, which hurt the old man like a +wound, had not shadowed his memory. He licked her hands and face, and +tried with a hospitality and pity which made him so much nearer the +angels than his master to pull her toward her home. But she shook her +head and moaned pitifully; then throwing her arms round the poor brute +she kissed him with those passionate kisses of repentance and love which +should have fallen on her father's neck. The dog (dumb to all but God) +pleaded with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic gestures; but she turned +wearily away toward a great circle of immense rocks—relics of a +religion scarcely more cruel than that which had neither pity nor +forgiveness at the mouth of the grave. Within their shadow she could die +unseen; and there next morning a wagoner, attracted by the plaintive +howling of a dog, found her on the ground, dead.</p> + +<p>There are set awful hours between every soul and heaven. Who knows what +passed between Lettice Todd and her God in that dim forsaken temple of a +buried faith?<a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a> Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of tears, and +her face was beautiful with a strange peace, though its loveliness was +marred and its youth "seared with the autumn of strange suffering."</p> + +<p>At the inquest which followed, her stern old father neither blamed nor +excused himself. He accepted without apology the verdict of society +against him; only remarking that its reproof was "a guid example o' +Satan correcting sin."</p> + +<p>Scant pity and less ceremony was given to her burial. Death, which draws +under the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty and ambition of men, +covering them with those two narrow words <i>Hic jacet</i>! gives also to the +woman who has been a sinner all she asks—oblivion. In no other way can +she obtain from man toleration. The example of the whitest, purest soul +that ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is ignored in the church +He founded. The tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely woman stooped to +folly," found no way of escape for her but to "die;" and those closet +moralists, with filthy fancies and soiled souls, who abound in every +community, regard her with that sort of scorn which a Turk expresses +when he says "Dog of a Christian." Poor Lettice! She had procured this +doom—first by sacrificing herself to a blind and cruel love, and then +<a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>to the importunate demands of hunger, "oldest and strongest of +passions." Ah! if there was no pity in Heaven, no justice beyond the +grave, what a cruel irony this life would be! For, while the sexton +shoveled hastily over the rude coffin the obliterating earth, there +passed the graveyard another woman equally fallen from all the apostle +calls "lovely and of good report." One whose youth and hopes and +marvelous beauty had been sold for houses and lands and a few thousand +pounds a year. But, though her life was a living lie, the world praised +her, because she "had done well unto herself." Yet, at the last end, the +same seed brought forth the same fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Hall +learned, with bitter rapidity, that riches are too poor to buy love. +Scarcely had she taken possession of her splendid home before she longed +for the placid happiness of her mother's cottage, and those evening +walks under the beech-trees, whose very memory was now a sin. Over her +beautiful face there crept a pathetic shadow, which irritated the rude +and noisy squire like a reproach. He had always had what he wanted. Not +even the beauty of all the border counties had been beyond his means to +buy but somehow he felt as if in this bargain he had been overreached. +Her better part eluded his possession, and he <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>felt dissatisfied and +angry. Expostulations grew into cruel words; cruel words came to cruder +blows. <i>Yes, blows</i>. English gentlemen thirty years ago knew their +privileges; and that was one of them. She was as much and as lawfully +his as the horses in his stables or the hounds in his kennels. He beat +them, too, when they did not obey him. Her beauty had betrayed her into +the hands of misery. She had wedded it, and there was no escape for her. +One day, when her despair and suffering was very great, some tempting +devil brought her a glass of brandy, and she drank it. It gave her back +for a few hours her departed sceptre; but at what a price! Her slave +soon became her master. Stimulus and stupefaction, physical exhaustion +and mental horrors, the abandonment of friends and the brutality of a +coarse and cruel husband, brought her at last to the day of reckoning. +She died, seven years after her marriage, in the delirium of opium. +There were physicians and servants around her, and an unloving husband +waiting for the news of his release. I think I would rather have died +where Lettice did—under the sky, with the solemn mountains lifting +their heads in a perpetual prayer around me, and that faithful dog +licking my hands, and mourning my wasted life.</p> + +<p>Now, wherein did these two women <a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>differ? One sinned through an intense +and self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the strongest calls of +want. Her sin, though it was beyond the pale of the world's toleration, +was yet one <i>according to Nature</i>. The other, in a cold spirit of +barter, voluntarily and deliberately exchanged her youth and beauty, the +hopes of her own and another's life, for carriages, jewels, fine +clothing and a luxurious table. She loathed the price she had to pay, +and her sin was an unnatural one. For this kind of prostitution, which +religion blesses and society praises, there seems to be no redress; but +for that which results as the almost inevitable sequence of one lapse of +chastity <i>we</i>, the pious, the virtuous, the irreproachable, are all to +blame. Who or what make it impossible for them to retrace their steps? +Do they ever have reason to hope that the family hearth will be open to +them if they go back? Prodigal sons may return, and are welcomed with +tears of joy and clasped by helping hands; but alas! how few parents +would go to meet a sinning daughter. Forgetting our Master's precepts, +forgetting our human frailty, forgetting our own weakness, we turn +scornfully from the weeping Magdalen, and leave her "alone with the +irreparable." Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. We would +deprecate <i>any</i> loosening of this <a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>great house-band of society; but we +do say that where it is the <i>only distinction</i> between two women, one of +whom is an honored matron, and the other a Pariah and an outcast, there +is "something in the world amiss"—something beyond the cure of law or +legislation, and that they can only be reached by the authority of a +Christian press and the influence of Christian example.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_STORY_OF_DAVID_MORRISON" id="THE_STORY_OF_DAVID_MORRISON"></a>THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON.</h2> + + +<p>I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the +face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a +man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with +something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe +of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob +Roryson fashion.</p> + +<p>The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he +and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood +together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious +headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had +been cheerfully—almost affectionately—resumed.</p> + +<p>"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in +Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is +the day!"</p> + +<p>So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, +candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is +his true history I am telling to-day.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger +and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified +in his memory by the two central figures in it—a good mother, for whom +he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him +bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet.</p> + +<p>When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a +"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the +plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would +help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their +hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The +American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and +kin, and offered to teach them his own craft.</p> + +<p>For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an +ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt +sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great +West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his +brother to its dangers and privations.</p> + +<p>"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're +no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going <a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>to make a big fortune, +and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll +spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad."</p> + +<p>"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?"</p> + +<p>"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no +shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a +loving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as he +could see it.</p> + +<p>It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidence +and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise. +After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings +after his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost each +other." For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered +his loyal heart.</p> + +<p>He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long years +of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble +as Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was +scattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence very +frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, +so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him.</p> + +<p>Then seven years after Sandy's departure <a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>the very house in which they +had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and +probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have +told anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should +come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a +letter reaching him less and less likely.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more of +a dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simple +little body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. They +had one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whom +Davie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits were +faithfully reproduced.</p> + +<p>It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled. +Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "Little +Sandy." Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itself +became to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy's +pleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yet +through it ran one golden thread of romance.</p> + +<p>In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and in +winter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to his +wife and <a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a>child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look for +fortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and the +enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale.</p> + +<p>Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life with +a glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find Uncle +Sandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and no +end of them in some safe bank, besides.</p> + +<p>But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade and +began to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated all +their hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in his +own name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home.</p> + +<p>He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. There +was nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain. +She was bright and capable, but they <i>felt</i> a want they were not able to +analyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the ruling +spirit of their own lives.</p> + +<p>This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did right +because it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure to +do it. When they had been married three years the war broke <a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>out, and +soon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, who +was daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and, +indeed, their case looked hard enough.</p> + +<p>At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but a +family consultation soon showed that this was impossible without +hopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silence +which follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of an +irremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a very +unexpected manner.</p> + +<p>"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd +find your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had more +than twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now, +isn't it?"</p> + +<p>He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really was +asking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offer +into fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroic +than the perfect self-abnegation of his manner.</p> + +<p>The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had been +practicing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Davie +went to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home.</p> + +<p>This was the break-up of Davie's life.<a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a> His wife went to live with Sandy +and Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold.</p> + +<p>Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affected +to be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the parting +came, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sad +enough to the one old heart who had counted its cost.</p> + +<p>In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein of +romance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lost +brother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, and +he had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemed +possible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enough +apart.</p> + +<p>Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grew +poorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort for +all his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poor +Sandy."</p> + +<p>Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie. +There was no wife to meet him—she had been three months in the grave +when he got back to New York—and going to his daughter-in-law's home +was not—well, it was not like going to his own house.</p> + +<p>Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she <a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>was grateful to Davie, but she +did not <i>love</i> the old man.</p> + +<p>He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless. +He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Other +men could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step out +from the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions as +his failing strength permitted him to fill.</p> + +<p>Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both," he +said, "and he thought father had deserved his rest."</p> + +<p>But Davie shook his head—"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earn +it now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough." He was +still cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke of +his brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with many +others. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. I +am not going to write its history.</p> + +<p>It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spite +of its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place—not +pleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass, +when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narrowed +down to a fight with actual cold and hunger.</p> + +<p>It is not pleasant, mainly, because in <a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>such a struggle many a lonely +claim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, the +tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks, +threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children's +wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom +they once were very tender.</p> + +<p>David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie counted +grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His little +newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer +papers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made little +losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it +would "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is +now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own."</p> + +<p>This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through +the summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie's +plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, +and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought +which haunted his own—<i>would they commit him, then, to the care of +public charities?</i></p> + +<p>"We have no time to love each other," he muttered, sadly, "and my bite +and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'll +speak to Sandy myself <a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>about it—poor lad! It will come hard on him to +say the first word."</p> + +<p>The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that +night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandy +came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie +began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, +and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that +had been discussed many times before.</p> + +<p>"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventy +cents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off +what is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee +to-night, and <i>his</i> bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. It +is very hard on us all!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves the +old man—God bless him! He was a good father to me."</p> + +<p>"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children's +bread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him down +to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will be +better off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must do +it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year's +presents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearly +eighteen dollars, you know."</p> + +<p>"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can take +the business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worse +and worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie's +earnings besides. Sandy, <i>it has got to be</i>! Do it while we can make +something by the step."</p> + +<p>"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if I +take it," and David could hear that his son's voice trembled.</p> + +<p>In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and his +father knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart was +yet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into a +happy sleep.</p> + +<p>In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of the +argument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neither +astonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the day +and asked him to "go down the avenue a bit."</p> + +<p>He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and the +sorrow of it; but something would not let him do it.<a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a> In the first +place, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all the +gay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streets +gave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciously +into his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly +determined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal with +his father.</p> + +<p>Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of +days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank, +and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they +were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the +last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never +have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it.</p> + +<p>As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent; +his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and +the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost +more pitiful than tears.</p> + +<p>At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a +start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were +sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he +turned Davie quickly round, and said:</p> + +<p><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road—no, +by heaven! though I die for it!"</p> + +<p>"Just a little further, Sandy."</p> + +<p>And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very +well understood.</p> + +<p>"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!"</p> + +<p>Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and +resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been +going.</p> + +<p>Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children and +the trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thing +to him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to the +father whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all their +lives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand, +they climbed the dark tenement stair together.</p> + +<p>Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair aside +hastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her very +first words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!—so glad!"</p> + +<p>She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, and +he made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery for +the little extras with<a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a> which she celebrated his return at supper. He +understood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleep +that night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial and +come out conqueror.</p> + +<p>The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heart +there was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered the +poor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with the +children. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him still +softened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round his +papers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup of +coffee and a bit of bread and bacon.</p> + +<p>Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So then +he took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate and +drank.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in his +pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, went +out without a word to anyone.</p> + +<p>The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbed +him. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in +18—, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wall +street, he would hear of something to his advantage."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was going +now to hear something about Sandy.</p> + +<p>"He said 'sure as death,' and he would mind that promise at the last +hour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtless +send, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a lad +like him!"</p> + +<p>When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to stand +unnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sank +to their usual placid level. At length some one said:</p> + +<p>"Well, old man, what do <i>you</i> want?"</p> + +<p>"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what <i>you</i> wanted."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward—I think you will find +out, then, what we want."</p> + +<p>He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, without +answering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it.</p> + +<p>An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking into +the fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk. +The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with an +annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door.</p> + +<p>"I am David Morrison, sir."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, +lad!"</p> + +<p>As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that it +was like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he became +conscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were two +physicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish and +anxiety.</p> + +<p>"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a +system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of +wine."</p> + +<p>Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it +what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad +history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, +and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys.</p> + +<p>But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration +with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood +pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken.</p> + +<p>"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, +in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just +handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too."</p> + +<p>Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander<a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a> Morrison was still a very +handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor +and sorrow on his face; and he had known both.</p> + +<p>For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle +to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie +had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two.</p> + +<p>When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, +carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his +brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle +equally hopeless and poor.</p> + +<p>But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call +of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania +village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was +successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, +and went into the oil business.</p> + +<p>"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it +is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from +time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we +would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your +share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any +further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest +compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly +believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly +believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie +looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to +fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the +credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a +schoolboy:</p> + +<p>"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?"</p> + +<p>"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. +Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but +the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I +think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at +it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know."</p> + +<p>"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and +we'll live together—that is, if you would like it."</p> + +<p>"What would I like better?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe you have a wife, and then—"</p> + +<p>"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died <a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>nearly thirty years ago. I have no +one but you."</p> + +<p>"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest +dairy in the State, Sandy."</p> + +<p>"That is just my idea, Davie."</p> + +<p>Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, +and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than +uneasy about him.</p> + +<p>"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself +to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from +them so long."</p> + +<p>So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers +parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought +they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to +get out and run home.</p> + +<p>When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire +in the stove and wee Davie—his namesake—was sitting, half crying, +before it.</p> + +<p>The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and +tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Davie?"</p> + +<p>"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack +Dacey gave me a beating besides; and—and I really do think my toes are +frozen off."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered</p> + +<p>"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new +clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes +mammy."</p> + +<p>Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach +when she saw Davie.</p> + +<p>"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft +about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where—"</p> + +<p>Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a +new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only +say: "Father! father! what is it?"</p> + +<p>"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just +given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear +lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God."</p> + +<p>By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and +Sallie said:</p> + +<p>"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father."</p> + +<p>Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had +seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something +wonderful had happened.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter, father?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort +and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy +home for us all in some nice country place."</p> + +<p>When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face +with his hands, sobbed out:</p> + +<p>"Thank God! thank God!"</p> + +<p>It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go +to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going +to buy together, and then he said to his son:</p> + +<p>"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?"</p> + +<p>"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow +fast."</p> + +<p>"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a +month."</p> + +<p>"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be +work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children +can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often +dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true."</p> + +<p>But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother +were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander +Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and +had begun to do very well.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie +presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit +garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best +of all, <i>it was their own</i>—a New Year's gift from the kindest of +grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the +Brothers Morrison.</p> + +<p>They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. +What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears +both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, +for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David +agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to +say," etc.</p> + +<p>Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be +lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of +quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have +each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both +very fond of young Sandy and the children.</p> + +<p>Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked +over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and +holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as +much as they do Sallie.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with +care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity +was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She +has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to +her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her +husband's heart trusts in her.</p> + +<p>Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give +cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing +on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand +may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune +through all the years of life.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a></p> +<h2><a name="TOM_DUFFANS_DAUGHTER" id="TOM_DUFFANS_DAUGHTER"></a>TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER.</h2> + + +<p>Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you +would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you +saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's +parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for +the habit.</p> + +<p>One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a +comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was +busily painting. His cheery little wife—pretty enough in spite of her +thirty-seven years—was reading the interesting items in the morning +papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite +tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when +the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, +dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of +"Ah! che la morte ognora."</p> + +<p>But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very +middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor +door partially <a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan +painted stood in the aperture—a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning +gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair +falling around her.</p> + +<p>"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a +newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most +becoming with my new seal-skin set."</p> + +<p>"Ask papa."</p> + +<p>"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a +poor live girl, it does not interest him."</p> + +<p>"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically."</p> + +<p>"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists +don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?"</p> + +<p>"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it +will do you good to hear it."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I +prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan +skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la +morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted.</p> + +<p>"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?"</p> + +<p>"See here."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>"Tickets for Booth's?"</p> + +<p>"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just +about the same numbers."</p> + +<p>"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?"</p> + +<p>Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different +things.</p> + +<p>"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I did mamma—I told him in the nicest kind of way that we +must only be dear friends, and so on."</p> + +<p>"Then why did he send these tickets?"</p> + +<p>"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men +enjoy burning."</p> + +<p>"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of +being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from +papa simply to tell me this?"</p> + +<p>"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's +daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all +the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's +engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting."</p> + +<p>It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan +took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled <a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>away about wedding +dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if +they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of +grown-up fairy lore.</p> + +<p>But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was +worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and +the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the +tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon +it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture +as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she +tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning +subjects, for a "good-by" kiss.</p> + +<p>"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed +in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed +it."</p> + +<p>"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, +and take to studying <i>Harper's Bazar</i> for effects; then your women will +look a little more natural."</p> + +<p>"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!"</p> + +<p>"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of +papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look +like?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>"Frights, Miss Kitty."</p> + +<p>"Of course they do. Now, papa."</p> + +<p>"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack +and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh +wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle +and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, +"You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, +Kitty, I am afraid."</p> + +<p>"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian +Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You +know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm +clear on that subject, Jack."</p> + +<p>"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do."</p> + +<p>"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the +country. I am sure that would not do."</p> + +<p>Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he +sighed, and was silent.</p> + +<p>Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought +to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked +you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>"You don't dislike me, Kitty?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all. I think you are first-rate."</p> + +<p>"It is my profession, then?"</p> + +<p>"Exactly."</p> + +<p>"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will +Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful."</p> + +<p>"Now, Kitty!"</p> + +<p>"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at +nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to +jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid +passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his +manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!"</p> + +<p>"But she thoroughly enjoys it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be +real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was +splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book."</p> + +<p>"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor—at the altar, if you like—never to +bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my +profession."</p> + +<p>"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be <a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>finding some one else to bother, +perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use +of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the +manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were +<i>mine</i>, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was."</p> + +<p>Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed +Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was +forced to pretend he had ruined her glove.</p> + +<p>"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am +quite sure I could make plenty of money for you."</p> + +<p>"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not +go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in +calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am +mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm +fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the +time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms +of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty +occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us +they are."</p> + +<p>"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that +loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every +summer to see views."</p> + +<p>"To see views?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and +jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand +landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or +the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know +papa <i>will</i> go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown +away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one +kind or another."</p> + +<p>Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush +that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he +meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some +third party.</p> + +<p>"Why, Max, when did you get home?"</p> + +<p>"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry +words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the +rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone.</p> + +<p>But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, +though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had <a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>touched her as she +had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into +being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes +claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became +suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, +saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max +Raymond.</p> + +<p>It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then +he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether +he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a +change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take +possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal +of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than +might have been expected.</p> + +<p>For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; +Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she +submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when +she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him.</p> + +<p>But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening—those grand old Romans walking +on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the +calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, <a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>and +looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and +present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream.</p> + +<p>She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back +into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable +stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old +radiant, careless Kitty.</p> + +<p>"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut ——'s +criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and +Barrett backed him up handsomely."</p> + +<p>"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear +it."</p> + +<p>"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good +night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?"</p> + +<p>"Jack Warner, I expect."</p> + +<p>"Hum! I don't think so."</p> + +<p>"Men don't know everything, Tom."</p> + +<p>"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line +are only guesses at truth."</p> + +<p>"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will +explain herself in the morning."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more +inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read +them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with +her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and +inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures +and literary societies: Max took her.</p> + +<p>Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of +men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. +He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty +willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty.</p> + +<p>"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, +after studying his daughter reading the <i>Endymion</i> without a yawn.</p> + +<p>"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on +painting. Kitty is in love."</p> + +<p>"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible."</p> + +<p>"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!"</p> + +<p>"With whom?"</p> + +<p>"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was +<a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born +thought with his favorite melody.</p> + +<p>Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's +delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, +intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; +and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods +box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and +when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question.</p> + +<p>"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she +would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along +without it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down."</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss."</p> + +<p>"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May +or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you +just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a +step in your direction."</p> + +<p>Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a +pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, +Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or +Saratoga?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak."</p> + +<p>"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my +little daughter to have her whim for once."</p> + +<p>"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want +either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch +with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not +going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at +Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I +couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation."</p> + +<p>"Where must we go, then?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many +new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, +you deserve your own way about your holiday."</p> + +<p>And Tom Duffan said, "<i>Thank you, Kitty</i>," in such a peculiar way that +Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally +left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, +"Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past +ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I +shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to <a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>the +Branch, and asked you for a $500 check—serve you right, too."</p> + +<p>But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty +went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, +straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, +sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end +of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no +will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never +to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only +him, to the end of her life.</p> + +<p>All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent +little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she +had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's +respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She +remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said +something about studying law together; and with these items, and the +satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given +her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages.</p> + +<p>Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it +was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. +When they returned to <a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>the city, congratulations, presents and +preparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a great +deal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she would +not suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with," +she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen +and a straight petticoat."</p> + +<p>Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and +talked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, +went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphant +in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. +She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose +congratulations found their climax in the following statement:</p> + +<p>"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary +piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do say +that Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful."</p> + +<p>"<i>Mr. Raymond's last book</i>!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, +with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand.</p> + +<p>"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear."</p> + +<p>Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her +visitor <a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, +and said, "What is Max's business—a lawyer?"</p> + +<p>"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, and +a great—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Writer?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Writes books and magazine articles and things?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "<i>I thought +so.</i> I wish Jack Warner was at home."</p> + +<p>"What for?"</p> + +<p>"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will +keep."</p> + +<p>Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he +returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. +His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting and +singing and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times that +Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. +Raymond.</p> + +<p>"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the +city. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?"</p> + +<p>Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see what +other miracles matrimony had wrought upon<a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a> Kitty. So he went, and came +back wondering.</p> + +<p>"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the +professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?"</p> + +<p>"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts +his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies +his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through +thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt +spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on +earth should ever induce her to marry a writer."</p> + +<p>"What did she say?"</p> + +<p>"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, +you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married <i>the +man</i>.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is +your offering toward the advancement of science and social +regeneration?'"</p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; <i>it +is a labor of love</i>.'"</p> + +<p>"Well I never!"</p> + +<p>"Nor I either."</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_HARVEST_OF_THE_WIND" id="THE_HARVEST_OF_THE_WIND"></a>THE HARVEST OF THE WIND.</h2> +<hr class="mini" /> + +<h3>Chapter I.</h3> + +<p class="center little">"As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no +rule over his own spirit."</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My soul! Master Jesus, my soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' de more I dig him de better he spring:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dar's a little thing lays in my heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' he sets my soul on fire:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and +he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as +he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he +rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his +left hand.</p> + +<p>"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef +he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He +communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then +threw his hoe across his <a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of +growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the +field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among +the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the +cypress.</p> + +<p>Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy—a very +handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned +upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid +switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He +said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame.</p> + +<p>"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat +kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present +time."</p> + +<p>"My father objects to every one I like."</p> + +<p>"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his +good."</p> + +<p>"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he +asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this +letter."</p> + +<p>"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message +from you, Massa Davie."</p> + +<p>In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable +passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done +carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!"</p> + +<p>"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the +trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. +Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs +chiming to his uneven, crashing tread.</p> + +<p>Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de +drefful temper; got it each side ob de house—father and mother, bofe. I +hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man—got it +bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring +hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving +unselfishness of a prayer in them.</p> + +<p>In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from +father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and +self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio—a +daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a +happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life +away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David +remembered his mother <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he +had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between +father and son, a great gulf.</p> + +<p>He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all +control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. +But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had +been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had +been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives +commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere +exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not +forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special +creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made +any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; +he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not +yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary.</p> + +<p>He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and +he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing +in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself +out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan +architecture—<a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to +rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every +side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro +cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the +hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it +was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum +and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip +trees.</p> + +<p>The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his +national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as +it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the +grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His +household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good +management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied +upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, +there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would +rise to every occasion.</p> + +<p>And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved +his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but +when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly +taught it, David, even in his worst <a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>moods, was impressed with his +sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on +which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one +another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate +independence on the other, kept them far apart.</p> + +<p>Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel +than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house +until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David +joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the +road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand.</p> + +<p>This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than +he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was +a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he +regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard +of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake +it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, +smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he +ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could +tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, +relieve his own conscience of a burden.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu +leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He +regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. +The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing +white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the +bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He +was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman +must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just +such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a +recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice.</p> + +<p>"Lulu!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, uncle."</p> + +<p>"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?"</p> + +<p>"Not since you forbid me."</p> + +<p>He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not +have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people +for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their +intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James +Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the +question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been <a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>sufficient to have +kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?" +For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that +he might have made a mistake.</p> + +<p>The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, +the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The +swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge +of the prairie—the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded +world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In +his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, +let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware +that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a +thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, +all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention.</p> + +<p>He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking +of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had +given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into +his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there +with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered +higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought <a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>no more of it +than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. +Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the +affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should +understand one another.</p> + +<p>But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own +traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently +settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen +and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy +appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its +advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both +fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and +declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this +subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, +James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and +not make an effort to save him.</p> + +<p>At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined +to ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then he +could talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight the +great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously <a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>soft, +but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp—a ten-acre patch of +grass on the summit of some low hills.</p> + +<p>The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight men +were slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediately +challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaley +rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand +to his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before. +He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed look +about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a +determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a +six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife.</p> + +<p>"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer."</p> + +<p>"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. David +Lorimer is on watch till midnight."</p> + +<p>He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating +in the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silent +before the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer, +your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter you +make your palaver the better it will suit me."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a>Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and the +retort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man of +Whaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him he +was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance.</p> + +<p>Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever galloped +through Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. He +was the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellow +hair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley.</p> + +<p>"Davie," and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to +your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o' +life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude father +to ye."</p> + +<p>It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quite +appreciated the concession, but he answered—</p> + +<p>"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up."</p> + +<p>"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en do +sae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth to +plague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' ye +anent some decenter way of life than this."</p> + +<p>The talk was not altogether a pleasant <a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>one; but both yielded something, +and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man to +fill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not linger +after this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without the +ceremony of a "good-bye," he turned his horse's head eastward again.</p> + +<p>Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers from +emigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemed +determined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeply +offended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that he +kept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked me +how I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square," +he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that David +began to feel it impossible to restrain his temper.</p> + +<p>Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, grows +rapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began to +notice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the young +Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying.</p> + +<p>"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long," remarked an old +drover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with <a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>such a vim that +he's no appetite for his food left."</p> + +<p>"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it."</p> + +<p>At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen men +among them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer any +pretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, low +spurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, +gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. All +the lower ridges were savagely bald and hot—a glen, paved with gold and +walled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake down +into the breathless valley!</p> + +<p>The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David was +weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch. +It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather was +gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving +clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle.</p> + +<p>The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no +lightning.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night," said one of the men. +"I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights +as this one."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a <a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>cayote frightens one in a drove the +panic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run.'"</p> + +<p>"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of ten +thousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same +moment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. But +you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin' +was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'd +keep clear of him, ef I was you."</p> + +<p>"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!"</p> + +<p>"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out. +Take your own way now."</p> + +<p>For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own +heart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned a +deaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he +passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. David +asked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?"</p> + +<p>"I was."</p> + +<p>"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!"</p> + +<p>Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight +thousand <a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of +them exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind leveling +a forest, they were off in the darkness.</p> + +<p>The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering +of hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worth +of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and +gave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders," and then he +sprang for his own mule.</p> + +<p>David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight and +stood still.</p> + +<p>"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you have +Spanish blood in you."</p> + +<p>A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fell +without a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a +minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed one +instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself +up to the wild passion of the pursuit.</p> + +<p>By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, +clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant +becoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; he +knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing along +by <a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined +the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the +left so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turned +the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the +right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag +end of the line.</p> + +<p>Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, +and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and +were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Men +who had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work were +amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round the +mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, +and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The +"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and +exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle.</p> + +<p>"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job like +this himself."</p> + +<p>"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?"</p> + +<p>"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run' +commenced."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for +conversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were +weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices +had been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a +messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and he +knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him.</p> + +<p>He offered to return to camp and report "all right," and the offer was +accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a +belt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of +unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the +underwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made +all natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him. +He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in every +moments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from +which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the +shameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father's +love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for +it came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, +the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's <a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>passionate +revenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, +cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked. +Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours +gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not +daring—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"—to search through what sad maze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thenceforth his incommunicable ways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follow the feet of death."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class="mini" /> + +<h3>Chapter II.</h3> + +<p class="center little">"—and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. +15.</p> + +<p>Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments +when she appears to be asleep—when the stars, large and white, bend +stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or +flower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah +smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia +flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were little +ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their +quarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence had +passed by no one was inclined to <a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>disturb the tranquil calm of the +dreaming earth.</p> + +<p>There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In ten +days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in +the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does +grow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing +for David's return, and forming plans through which the future might +atone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, +rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless +sleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and +thought with him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue, +and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow +was there in it?</p> + +<p>"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?"</p> + +<p>Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and +the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went to +the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to +greet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and +stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>In a moment all the new tenderness was gone.</p> + +<p>In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter? +What hae ye been doing now?"</p> + +<p>"I have shot Whaley!"</p> + +<p>The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly +audible. The father rose and faced his wretched son.</p> + +<p>Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?"</p> + +<p>"Dead!"</p> + +<p>"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shot +you?—it was in self-defence?—it was an accident? Speak, dear!"</p> + +<p>"He called me a coward, and—"</p> + +<p>"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and +having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to +come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down your +rifle, sir!"</p> + +<p>Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you come +here? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I do +Davie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed it +with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, +all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that the +indulgence <a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>of his ungovernable temper had caused him.</p> + +<p>"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it is +my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession."</p> + +<p>"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done your +duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do. +Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole +care. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and +stand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadful +Christian!"</p> + +<p>"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!"</p> + +<p>"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!—you will get no pity here. Fly!"</p> + +<p>"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!"</p> + +<p>"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do +as you will with me." And he laid his rifle upon the table.</p> + +<p>Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair +beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity.</p> + +<p>"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nor +deceptions."</p> + +<p>"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run,' just as my time was +out.<a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a> Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the +leaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with my +Spanish blood—it was my dear mother's."</p> + +<p>"That is it," answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for +its restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolish +pride."</p> + +<p>"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no +right to insult me."</p> + +<p>The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was the +collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental +anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, +believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but +assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. First +he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the +quarters to arouse Plato.</p> + +<p>When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious +youth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he +felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at +his feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slight +reaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted; +bring some wine here!" <a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>Then he remembered the weakness of the voice +which had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched."</p> + +<p>When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father. +There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart +of hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even when +he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself +from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach.</p> + +<p>Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. He +was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the +uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body.</p> + +<p>"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be +allowed to leave the house."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sar."</p> + +<p>"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences."</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"You understand that, Plato?"</p> + +<p>"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout de +consequences."</p> + +<p>"Go, and do as I bid you!"</p> + +<p>When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to do +right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great +tempest: he could not <a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>see any road at all. There was a Bible on his +dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and +the sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the Great +Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it. +He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would +escape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair +character mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings were +so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, +to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as a +father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" he +thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and +honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign +there supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten and +astonished on a threshold he could not pass.</p> + +<p>In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him. +Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt +refreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful +death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what +chance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulu +sat by his <a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expression +of suffering, at once defiant and despairing—a barren suffering, +without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they +had to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with few +words.</p> + +<p>"You must go now, beloved."</p> + +<p>He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. The +next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished +face. Then he was alone with Plato.</p> + +<p>"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?"</p> + +<p>"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some +bread and meat, and <i>dis</i>, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato." +Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his +lifetime.</p> + +<p>"How much is there, Plato?"</p> + +<p>"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little."</p> + +<p>"It was for your freedom, Plato."</p> + +<p>"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef you +git free, dat is all I want."</p> + +<p>They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. The +brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside +her with a small bag, <a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a>holding a change of linen and some cooked food. +The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, +and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but when +he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror +and his mental suffering.</p> + +<p>Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black +spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. They +had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; +they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Both +were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for +James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would +hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little +trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of +those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind +whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain.</p> + +<p>"Tell Master David to come here."</p> + +<p>"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were +trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked +his master calmly in the face.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>"Did I not tell you to stop him?"</p> + +<p>"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the +messenger—Plato could not do it!"</p> + +<p>"How did he go?"</p> + +<p>"On de little brown mare—his own horse done broke all up."</p> + +<p>"How much money did you give him?"</p> + +<p>"Money, sar?"</p> + +<p>"How much? Tell the truth."</p> + +<p>"Four hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast."</p> + +<p>At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In the +house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold +and left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning was +going on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and +motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and +pretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day, +pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfall +made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further +bad news.</p> + +<p>On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word of +comfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the +wall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in <a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>the +atmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be made +so wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became a +reproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed; +he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the +probability of pursuit.</p> + +<p>On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer's +house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. He +tried to forget that <i>something</i> had happened which made life appear a +different thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. The +negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their +last basket of cotton—all of them silent, depressed with their +weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the +autumn twilight.</p> + +<p>Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their +cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then +he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At +the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep.</p> + +<p>"Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, +but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be +wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning."</p> + +<p>He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his +soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down.</p> + +<p>"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I +brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can +make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'—hope he can. He's about as +likely a young man as I ever saw."</p> + +<p>Still no answer.</p> + +<p>"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may +make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the +morning?—say about ten o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Will you have some supper?"</p> + +<p>"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the +circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. +Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?"</p> + +<p>"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff."</p> + +<p>He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his +hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be +tried for murder in <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>the morning! What could he do? If David had not +confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his +evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him.</p> + +<p>At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the +course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles +distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained +clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His +heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, +by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of +saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, +"So this is the end of it, David?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. It is the end."</p> + +<p>"You ought not to have run away."</p> + +<p>"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have +put you all right."</p> + +<p>"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the +act."</p> + +<p>"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end +possible."</p> + +<p>"Have you then confessed the murder?"</p> + +<p>He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. +"Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with +the cattle. Four <a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in +the house."</p> + +<p>"But you have not yourself confessed?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you +would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of +denouncing your own son!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae +gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?"</p> + +<p>"How could I, father?"</p> + +<p>He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. +After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, +until—all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!"</p> + +<p>The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the +outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The +sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of +David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were +extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their +sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the +discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the +continent. In the moment of extremest <a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>danger, David had not only +refused assistance, but had shot his employer.</p> + +<p>"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravating +name."</p> + +<p>The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in +Texas that epithet would justify a murder; "but," he added, "most any +Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand +head of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so +myself."</p> + +<p>He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after many +hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice! +Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mental +constitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was +meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming +eyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard +something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, +"Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!"</p> + +<p>Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his +duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the +seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth +their natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became +clear to <a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a>him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He cried +out with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!"</p> + +<p>The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was only +able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At the +earliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm, +almost cheerful. "The worst is over father," he said. "I have done a +great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing +to suffer it."</p> + +<p>"But after death! Oh, David, David—afterward!"</p> + +<p>"I shall dare to hope—for Christ also has died, the just for the +unjust."</p> + +<p>Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that +eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would +shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened; +for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, +and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least +part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine +vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been <i>One</i> with +him that night, <i>One</i> who is not very far from us at any time; and +though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared +to accept its comfort, he was <a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>in those desperate circumstances when men +cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to +believe.</p> + +<p>"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, +there is nae doubt o' that."</p> + +<p>"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater."</p> + +<p>"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, +David, David!"</p> + +<p>"I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only +believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't +take it from me."</p> + +<p>Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray +when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the +twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was +opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long +irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of +the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse +to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the +scornful mention of his mother's race.</p> + +<p>There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder +Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular +man. David's <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; +and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had +honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of +the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very +nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a +coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative +moment.</p> + +<p>As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. +There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, +there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches +itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a +trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had +accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for +his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on +the death-sentence before they left their seats.</p> + +<p>And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying +it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient +number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for +any length of time. David was to die at sunset.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all +pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But +these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What +confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses +were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of +mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the +Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of +those royal compassions which astonish even the angels.</p> + +<p>When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his +father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with +eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it +is."</p> + +<p>Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale +as ashes when he read the contents.</p> + +<p>"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you."</p> + +<p>The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared +to voice it. It was this—</p> + +<p>"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I +dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose +and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry +trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their +verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no +pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.</p> + +<p>Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He +pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully +satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim."</p> + +<p>But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he +must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the +punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death +like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every +rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they +were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially +false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men +gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further +pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his +hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request +would be granted.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the +prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope +on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and +abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned +with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of +mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. +There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the +party walked.</p> + +<p>Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: +and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and +deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was +willing to pay the penalty of his crime."</p> + +<p>Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! +His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind +him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of +exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a +touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary +days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.</p> + +<p>Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though +silent <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched +father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful +hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few +minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a +clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the +branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; +perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.</p> + +<p>The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which +covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his +father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! <i>Now</i>!" As +the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. +He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's +groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of +suffering about him which no one thought of resisting.</p> + +<p>He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and +wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all +fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they +untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of +dissent. If they had, Lorimer had <a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>reached a point far beyond care of +man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is +indifferent to all outside itself.</p> + +<p>When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the +house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to +him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a +companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff +having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, +Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room +and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead +opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw +all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what +it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over +and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing +repentance.</p> + +<p>In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. +But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. +Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces +and words. She was quite aware <i>what</i> was in her uncle's lonely room. +Just as he was thinking of the hard <a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>necessity of going to her, she came +to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," +and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her—David's dying +message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the +dead.</p> + +<p>At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an +urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing +in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu +had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the +slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, +more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, +the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind +them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves +across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last +it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth.</p> + +<p>When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, +their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air +with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl +was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's +unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the +winter went <a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own +consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept +her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her +with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, +she died.</p> + +<p>One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very +soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want +your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?"</p> + +<p>He winced visibly, and remained silent.</p> + +<p>"There are six boys and two girls—they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. +They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you +must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this +time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?"</p> + +<p>"I will do my best, dear."</p> + +<p>"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will +need company soon."</p> + +<p>"Do you think you are dying, dear?"</p> + +<p>"I know I am dying."</p> + +<p>"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?"</p> + +<p>She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and +then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so <a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>exhausted that he could +press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone +away"—gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting +by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The +fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been +too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's +doing. What was there for him to say?</p> + +<p>The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept—not very cheerfully +at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he +persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they +loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave +them his own name, and suffered them to call him father.</p> + +<p>As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy +of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present +to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the +stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour +of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no +sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he +understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and +that He who could say, "Let there be <a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>light," could also say, "Thy sins +be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come +to the holy land: for—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Down in the valley of death<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A cross is standing plain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the ground has a deep red stain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This cross uplifted there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Forbids, with voice Divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our anguished hearts to break for the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who have died and made no sign.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they turned at length from us,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dear eyes that were heavy and dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May have met his look, who was lifted there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May be sleeping safe in Him."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_SEVEN_WISE_MEN_OF_PRESTON" id="THE_SEVEN_WISE_MEN_OF_PRESTON"></a>THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON.</h2> + + +<p>Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present +century—the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge.</p> + +<p>The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short +consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career +will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which +gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year +1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a +parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution +still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political +animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and +the prostration of the manufacturing business.</p> + +<p>His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his +grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton +spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition +with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder +Livesey <a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and +spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the +first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of +calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no +certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to +improvements and ready to test an advance movement.</p> + +<p>That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. +The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so that +wealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of it +one-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinful +extravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmers +for raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist in +threshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for a +bare existence.</p> + +<p>Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Joseph +managed, "by hook or crook," to learn how to read, write and count a +little, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would have +been fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will.</p> + +<p>Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, +which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp <a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>that its walls +were constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark days +dared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacy +of £30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hard +apprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years.</p> + +<p>But the troubles that had begun before his birth—and which did not +lighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832—had +then attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of both +private charities and the national government.</p> + +<p>The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, +and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, near +Manchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of the +English weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the following +year, thousands of starving men started <i>en masse</i> to London. They were +followed by the military and brought back for punishment or died +miserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a +smaller number Derby.</p> + +<p>But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined no +body of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; then +cutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets,<a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a> +Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profit +from this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him to +make at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginning +founded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote a +long life to public usefulness and benevolence.</p> + +<p>But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his family +increased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; so +disastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorize +the Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on large +works of from £500 to £10,000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade was +everywhere stagnant, £60,000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feed +the starving, and the government issued 40,000 articles of clothing. The +quarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, mills +were everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30,000 "hands" turned +out.</p> + +<p>During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how much +misery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to public +houses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men of +the working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged <a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>in this +work. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directed +entirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then a +necessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and important +a duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; and +clergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one," "two" or +"three-bottle men."</p> + +<p>But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures were +doing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him to +take a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person on +business; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. +Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. +He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that of +others, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions.</p> + +<p>He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partial +reforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon the +association the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with his +efforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean" +was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed.</p> + +<p>The disputes were very angry and bitter; <a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>far more so than we at this +day can believe possible, unless we take into account the universal +national habits and its poetic and domestic associations with every +phase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his views +though it was not until the following year he was able to take another +step forward.</p> + +<p>It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge of +total abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering the +matter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come in +and talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey asked +King if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from all +liquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, +laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, +Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged to +one of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken.</p> + +<p>A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the main +part of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue the +argument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew up +and signed the following document, which is still preserved:</p> +<p><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a></p> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, +whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as +medicine.</p> + +<p style="margin-left:66%;"> +<span class="smcap">"John Gratrex,<br /> +Edward Dickinson,<br /> +John Broadbent,<br /> +Jno. Smith,<br /> +Joseph Livesey,<br /> +David Anderton,<br /> +Jno. King."</span><br /> +</p></div> + +<p>All these reformers were virtually <i>working</i> men, though most of them +rose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of the +origin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, +within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in right +of their convictions.</p> + +<p>But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prospered +just where it was most needed—among the operatives and "the common +people." One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, +stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. +Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadest +patois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. He +always spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coined +what he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said: +"No half-way <a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>measures here. Nothing but the <i>te-te total</i> will do."</p> + +<p>Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as the +name of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiastic +cheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforward +known as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate of +the cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds and +thousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston and +followed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly his +name and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known now +wherever Christianity and civilization are known.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a></p> +<h2><a name="MARGARET_SINCLAIRS_SILENT_MONEY" id="MARGARET_SINCLAIRS_SILENT_MONEY"></a>MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT MONEY.</h2> + + +<p>"It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna win by it."</p> + +<p>"Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whiskey that turned ma boat +tapsalteerie, Geordie Twatt."</p> + +<p>"Thou had better blame Hacon; he turned the boat <i>Widdershins</i> an' what +fule doesna ken that it is evil luck to go contrarie to the sun?"</p> + +<p>"It is waur luck to have a drunken, superstitious pilot. Twatt, that +Norse blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. Fear God, an' mind thy +wark, an' thou needna speir o' the sun what gate to turn the boat."</p> + +<p>"My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot stirring it up, Sinclair. I come +o' a mighty kind—"</p> + +<p>"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full about their ancestors having been +horses. It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be laird o' theesel' +before I'll trust thee again with ony craft o' mine." Then Peter +Sinclair lifted his papers, and, looking the discharged sailor steadily +in the face, bid <a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>him "go on his penitentials an' think things o'er a +bit."</p> + +<p>Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased with +himself; he believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. +And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind of +even to increase his satisfaction. The gray old town of Kirkwall lay in +supernatural glory, the wondrous beauty of the mellow gloaming blending +with soft green and rosy-red spears of light that shot from east to +west, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring fleet outside +the harbor was as motionless as "a painted <i>fleet</i> upon a painted +ocean"—the men were sleeping or smoking upon the piers—not a foot fell +upon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round the +public fountains, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, +knitting and gossiping.</p> + +<p>Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man inclined to analyze such things, +but they had their influence over him; for, as he drifted slowly home in +his skiff, he began to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, and to +wonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been. "An' +yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, +and the boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to <a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>life! Na, na, I'm no +called upon to put life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey."</p> + +<p>Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood his +daughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as he +looked at her, for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women of +the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastened +his skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springy +heath toward a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, +and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as of +its tiny garden; for there, with great care and at great cost, he had +managed to rear a few pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, and +other hardy English flowers. Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, +and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gently +the great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geese and +fish, touched these frail, trembling blossoms.</p> + +<p>"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to see the bonnie bit things; +when I can get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh; I'd like weel to +see such fields an' gardens an' trees as I hear thee tell on."</p> + +<p>Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows and +wheat fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she <a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a>had seen during her +school days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling a +wonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and, as he cut slice after slice +from his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses and apple-blossoms, +and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, +and said, "It tasted, father, as if it had been grown in the Garden of +Eden."</p> + +<p>After such conversations Peter was always stern and strict. He felt an +actual anger at Adam and Eve; their transgression became a keenly +personal affair, for he had a very vivid sense of the loss they had +entailed upon him. The vague sense of wrong made him try to fix it, and, +after a short reflection, he said in an injured tone:</p> + +<p>"I wonder when Ronald's coming hame again?"</p> + +<p>"Ronald is all right, father."</p> + +<p>"A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to be +loaded, an' the books sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing or +saving. Where is he?"</p> + +<p>"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some time +with an Englishman he fell in with at Perth."</p> + +<p>"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auld +world notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 'tween John O'Groat's an' +Lambaness he doesna run after. I wish he were as <a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>anxious to serve in +the Lord's temple—I would build him a kirk an' a manse for it."</p> + +<p>"We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fighting +and making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholar +and a poet at last among them."</p> + +<p>Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, +and, as for scholarship, he asserted that the books were better kept +when he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he remembered +Geordie Twatt's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on this +subject: "Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' the +lives o' Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an' a' for the sake o' +liquor!"</p> + +<p>Margaret looked at the brandy bottle standing at her father's elbow, +and, though she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter.</p> + +<p>"You arna to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop—Geordie +never does."</p> + +<p>"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When Magnus +Hay has struck the first blow he is quite ready to draw his dirk and +strike the last one; and Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and to +spare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balances out of +his hands. There are few folks that in all things offend not."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hair +yellow as down, her eyes cool and calm and blue as night; her whole +attitude so serene, assured and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left +his glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "good night."</p> + +<p>In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his office, was to +send for the offending sailor.</p> + +<p>"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, +thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be ready to sail +her—or upset her—i' ten days again."</p> + +<p>"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake—tell her I +said that, Master."</p> + +<p>"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is a +lang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an' +thou wilt mind this—<i>things promised are things due</i>."</p> + +<p>Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he was +good-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment. +When night came, and he watched for Margaret on the sands, he was +delighted to see that Ronald was with her. The lad had come home and +nothing was now remembered against him. That night it was Ronald told +him <a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>fairy-stories of great cities and universities, of miles of books +and pictures, of wonderful machinery and steam engines, of delicious +things to eat and drink. Peter felt as if he must start southward by the +next mail packet, but in the morning he thought more unselfishly.</p> + +<p>"There are forty families depending on me sticking to the shop an' the +boats, Ronald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is ane to step into +my shoes."</p> + +<p>Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately beauty and noble presence of +his sister, but yet there was some lack about him easier to feel than to +define. Perhaps no one was unconscious of this lack except Margaret; but +women have a grand invention where their idols are concerned, and create +readily for them every excellency that they lack. Her own two years' +study in an Edinburgh boarding-school had been very superficial, and she +knew it; but this wonderful Ronald could read Homer and Horace, could +play and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and write poetry. If he could +have done none of these things, if he had been dull and ugly, and +content to trade in fish and wool, she would still have loved him +tenderly; how much more then, this handsome Antinous, whom she credited +with all the accomplishments of Apollo.</p> + +<p>Ronald needed all her enthusiastic <a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a>support. He had left heavy college +bills, and he had quite made up his mind that he would not be a minister +and that he would be a lawyer. He could scarcely have decided on two +things more offensive to his father. Only for the hope of having a +minister in the family had Peter submitted to his son's continued +demands for money. For this end he had bought books, and paid for all +kinds of teachers and tours, and sighed over the cost of Ronald's +different hobbies. And now he was not only to have a grievous +disappointment, but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair shared +fully in the Arcadean dislike and distrust of lawyers, and would have +been deeply offended at any one requiring their aid in any business +transaction with him.</p> + +<p>His son's proposal to be a "writer" he took almost as a personal insult. +He had formed his own opinion of the profession and the opinion of any +other person who would say a word in favor of a lawyer he considered of +no value. Margaret had a hard task before her, that she succeeded at all +was due to her womanly tact. Ronald and his father simply clashed +against each other and exchanged pointed truths which hurt worse than +wounds. At length, when the short Arcadean summer was almost over, +Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent.</p> + +<p>"The lad is fit for naething better, I <a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>suppose"—and the old man turned +away to shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. They shocked +Margaret; she was terrified at her success, and, falling humbly at his +feet, she besought him to forget and forgive her importunities, and to +take back a gift baptized with such ominous tears.</p> + +<p>But Peter Sinclair, having been compelled to take such a step, was not +the man to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, hopeless way: "He +couldna say 'yes' an' 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en drink as he +brewed."</p> + +<p>These struggles, so real and sorrowful to his father and sister, Ronald +had no sympathy with—not that he was heartless, but that he had taught +himself to believe they were the result of ignorance of the world and +old-fashioned prejudices. He certainly intended to become a great +man—perhaps a judge—and, when he was one of "the Lords," he had no +doubt his father would respect his disobedience. He knew his father as +little as he knew himself. Peter Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair's +opinions incorporate; and he could no more have changed them than he +could have changed the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose; and +the difference between a common lawyer and a "lord," in his eyes, would +only have been the difference between a little oppressor and a great +one.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>For the first time in all her life Margaret suspected a flaw in this +perfect crystal of a brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt her. Even +if her father's objections were ignorant prejudices, they were positive +convictions to him, and she did not like to see them smiled at, +entertained by the cast of the eye, and the put-by of the turning hand. +But loving women are the greatest of philistines: knock their idol down +daily, rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and head, and they will +still "set it up in its place," and fall down and worship it.</p> + +<p>Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the blindest of these characters, but +the world may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. It is faith of +this sublime integrity which, brought down to personal experience, +believes, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves on to the end, winning +finally what never would have been given to a more prudent and +reasonable devotion. So, if Margaret had her doubts, she put them +arbitrarily down, and sent her brother away with manifold tokens of her +love—among them, with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for sixty pounds, +the whole of her personal savings.</p> + +<p>To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed a large sum, but she hoped by the +sacrifice to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus enable him to +start his new race unweighted.<a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a> It was but a mouthful to each creditor, +but it put them off for a time, and Ronald was not a youth inclined to +"take thought" for their "to-morrow."</p> + +<p>He had been entered for four years' study with the firm of Wilkes & +Brechen, writers and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. Her father +had paid the whole fee down, and placed in the Western Bank to his +credit four hundred pounds for his four years' support. Whatever Ronald +thought of the provision, Peter considered it a magnificent income, and +it had cost him a great struggle to give up at once, and for no evident +return, so much of his hard-earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing of +this reluctance; he simply put vouchers for both transactions in his +hand, and asked him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as it had been +earned."</p> + +<p>But to Margaret he fretted not a little. "Fourteen hun'red pounds a' +thegither, dawtie," he said in a tearful voice. "I warked early an' late +through mony a year for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I hae +naught but words an' promises for it. I ken, Margaret, that I am an auld +farrant trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well into which are +must put water."</p> + +<p>When Ronald went, the summer went too. It became necessary to remove at +once to their rock-built house in one of the <a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>narrow streets of +Kirkwall. Margaret was glad of the change; her father could come into +the little parlor behind the shop any time in the day and smoke his pipe +beside her. He needed this consolation sorely; his son's conduct had +grieved him far more deeply than he would allow, and Margaret often saw +him gazing southward over the stormy Pentland Frith with a very mournful +face.</p> + +<p>But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune and Peter had a good heart, +sound and sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and full of faith in +God. It is true that his creed was of the very strictest and sternest; +but men are always better than their theology and Margaret knew from the +Scriptures chosen for their household worship that in the depth and +stillness of his soul his human fatherhood had anchored fast to the +fatherhood of God.</p> + +<p>Arcadean winters are long and dreary, but no one need much pity the +Arcadeans; they have learned how to make them the very festival of +social life. And, in spite of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaret +thoroughly enjoyed this one—perhaps the more because Captain Olave +Thorkald spent two months of it with them in Kirkwall. There had been a +long attachment between the young soldier and Margaret; and having +obtained his commission, he <a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>had come to ask also for the public +recognition of their engagement. Margaret was rarely beautiful and +rarely happy, and she carried with a charming and kindly grace the full +cup of her felicity. The Arcadeans love to date from a good year, and +all her life afterward Margaret reckoned events from this pleasant +winter.</p> + +<p>Peter Sinclair's house being one of the largest in Kirkwall, was a +favorite gathering place, and Peter took his full share in all the +home-like, innocent amusements which beguiled the long, dreary nights. +No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite Ossian with more passion and +tenderness, and he enjoyed his little triumph over the youngsters who +emulated him. No one could sing a Scotch song with more humor, and few +of the lads and lassies could match Peter in a blithe foursome reel or a +rattling strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that good Dr. Ogilvie had a +more graceful spring and a longer breath, but Peter always insisted that +his inferiority to the minister was a voluntary concession to the +Dominie's superior dignity. It was, however, a rivalry that always ended +in a firmer grip at parting. These little festivals, in which young and +old freely mingled, cultivated to perfection the best and kindest +feelings of both classes. Age mellowed to perfect sweetness in the +<a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>sunshine of youthful gayety, and youth learned from age how at once to +be merry and wise.</p> + +<p>At length June arrived; and though winter lingered in <i>spates</i>, the song +of the skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. When the dream-like +voice of the cuckoo should be heard once more, Peter and Margaret had +determined to take a long summer trip. They were to go first to Perth, +where Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then to Glasgow and see +Ronald. But God had planned another journey for Peter, even one to a +"land very far off." A disease, to which he had been subject at +intervals for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal character and Peter +needed no one to tell him that his days were numbered.</p> + +<p>He set his house in order, and then, going with Margaret to his summer +dwelling, waited quietly. He said little on the subject, and as long as +he was able, gave himself up with the delight of a child to watching the +few flowers in his garden; but still one solemn, waylaying thought made +these few last weeks of life peculiarly hushed and sacred. Ronald had +been sent for, and the old man, with the clear prescience that sometimes +comes before death, divined much and foresaw much he did not care to +speak about—only that in some subtle way he made Margaret perceive that +<a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>Ronald was to be cared for and watched over, and that to her this +charge was committed.</p> + +<p>Before the summer was quite over Peter Sinclair went away. In his +tarrying by the eternal shore he became, as it were, purified of the +body, and one lovely night, when gloaming and dawning mingled, and the +lark was thrilling the midnight skies, he heard the Master call him, and +promptly answered, "Here am I." Then "Death, with sweet enlargement, did +dismiss him hence."</p> + +<p>He had been considered a rich man in Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald—who +had become accustomed to a Glasgow standard of wealth—was much +disappointed. His whole estate was not worth over six thousand pounds; +about two thousand pounds of this was in gold, the rest was invested in +his houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cottage in Stromness, where +Peter's wife had been born. He gave to Ronald £1800, and to Margaret +£200 and the life rent of the real property. Ronald had already received +£1400, and, therefore, had no cause of complaint, but somehow he felt as +if he had been wronged. He was older than his sister, and the son of the +house, and use and custom were not in favor of recognizing daughters as +having equal rights. But he kept such thoughts to himself, and when he +<a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>went back to Glasgow took with him solid proof of his sister's +devotion.</p> + +<p>It was necessary, now, for Margaret to make a great change in her life. +She determined to remove to Stromness and occupy the little four-roomed +cottage that had been her mother's. It stood close to that of Geordie +Twatt, and she felt that in any emergency she was thus sure of one +faithful friend. "A lone woman" in Margaret's position has in these days +numberless objects of interest of which Margaret never dreamed. She +would have thought it a kind of impiety to advise her minister, or +meddle in church affairs. These simple parents attended themselves to +the spiritual training of their children—there was no necessity for +Sunday Schools, and they did not exist. She was not one of those women +whom their friends call "beings," and who have deep and mysterious +feelings that interpret themselves in poems and thrilling stories. She +had no taste for philosophy or history or social science, and had been +taught to regard novels as dangerously sinful books.</p> + +<p>But no one need imagine that she was either wretched or idle. In the +first place, she took life much more calmly and slowly than we do; a +very little pleasure or employment went a long way. She read her Bible +and helped her old servant Helga to <a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>keep the house in order. She had +her flowers to care for,—and her brother and lover to write to. She +looked after Geordie Twatt's little motherless lads, went to church and +to see her friends, and very often had her friends to see her. It +happened to be a very stormy winter, and the mails were often delayed +for weeks together. This was her only trouble. Ronald's letters were +more and more unsatisfactory; he was evidently unhappy and dissatisfied +and heartily tired of his new study. Posts were so irregular that often +their letters seemed to be playing at cross purposes. She determined as +soon as spring opened to go and have a straightforward talk with him.</p> + +<p>So the following June Geordie Twatt took her in his boat to Thurso, +where Captain Thorkald was waiting for her. They had not met since Peter +Sinclair's death, and that event had materially affected their +prospects. Before it their marriage had been a possible joy in some far +future; now there was no greater claim on her care and love than the +captain's, and he urged their early marriage.</p> + +<p>Margaret had her two hundred pounds with her, and she promised to buy +her "plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. In those days girls made +their own trousseau, sewing into every garment solemn and tender hopes +and joys. Margaret thought <a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>that proper attention to this dear stitching +as well as proper respect for her father's memory, asked of her yet at +least another year's delay; and for the present Captain Thorkald thought +it best not to urge her further.</p> + +<p>Ronald received his sister very joyfully. He had provided lodgings for +her with their father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a tea merchant +in the Cowcaddens. The Cowcaddens was then a very respectable street, +and Margaret was quite pleased with her quarters. She was not pleased +with Ronald, however. He avowed himself thoroughly disgusted with the +law, and declared his intention of forfeiting his fee and joining his +friend Walter Cashell in a manufacturing scheme.</p> + +<p>Margaret could <i>feel</i> that he was all wrong, but she could not reason +about a business of which she knew nothing, and Ronald took his own way. +But changing and bettering are two different things, and, though he was +always talking of his "good luck" and his "good bargains", Margaret was +very uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was partly to blame for this; his +pawky face and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents to all such +boasts; nor did he scruple to say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, +Ronald, an' it is at the <i>guid bargains</i> I aye pause an' ponder."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>The following winter was a restless, unhappy one; Ronald was either +painfully elated or very dull; and, soon after the New Year, Walter +Cashell fell into bad health, went to the West Indies, and left Ronald +with the whole business to manage. He soon now began to come to his +sister, not only for advice, but for money. Margaret believed at first +that she was only supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when her cash was +all gone, and Ronald urged her to mortgage her rents she resolutely shut +her ears to all his plausible promises, and refused to "throw more good +money after bad."</p> + +<p>It was the first ill-blood between them, and it hurt Margaret sorely. +She was glad when the fine weather came, and she could escape to her +island home, for Ronald was cool to her, and said cruel things of +Captain Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his sister had refused to +help him.</p> + +<p>One day, at the end of the following August, when most of the +towns-people—men and women—had gone to the moss to cut the winter's +peat, she saw Geordie Twatt coming toward the house. Something about his +appearance troubled her, and she went to the open door and stood waiting +for him.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Geordie?"</p> + +<p>"I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret<a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a> Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o' +Stennis to-night at eleven o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such an hour?"</p> + +<p>"Thy brother; but thou'lt come—yes, thou wilt."</p> + +<p>Margaret's very lips turned white as she answered: "I'll be there—see +thou art, too."</p> + +<p>"Sure as death! If naebody spiers after me, thou needna say I was here +at a', thou needna."</p> + +<p>Margaret understood the caution, and nodded her head. She could not +speak, and all day long she wandered about like a soul in a restless +dream.</p> + +<p>Fortunately, every one was weary at night, and went early to rest, and +she found little difficulty in getting outside the town without notice; +and one of the ponies on the common took her speedily across the moor.</p> + +<p>Late as it was, twilight lingered over the silent moor, with its old +Pictish mounds and burial places, giving them an indescribable aspect of +something weird and eerie. No one could have been insensible to the +mournful, brooding light and the unearthly stillness, and Margaret was +trembling with a supernatural terror as she stood amid the solemn circle +of gray stones and looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, brown +hills of Harray.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>From behind one of these gigantic pillars Ronald came toward +her—Ronald, and yet not Ronald. He was dressed as a common sailor, and +otherwise shamefully disguised. There was no time to soften things—he +told his miserable story in a few plain words:</p> + +<p>"His business had become so entangled that he knew not which way to +turn, and, sick of the whole affair, he had taken a passage for +Australia, and then forged a note on the Western Bank for £900. He had +hoped to be far at sea with his ill-gotten money before the fraud was +discovered, but suspicion had gathered around him so quickly, that he +had not even dared to claim his passage. Then he fled north, and, +fortunately, discovering Geordie's boat at Wick, had easily prevailed on +him to put off at once with him."</p> + +<p>What cowards sin makes of us! Margaret had seen this very lad face death +often, among the sunken rocks and cruel surfs, that he might save the +life of a ship-wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet the creditors +whom he had wronged, he had committed a robbery and was flying from the +gallows.</p> + +<p>She was shocked and stunned, and stood speechless, wringing her hands +and moaning pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. Often the first +result of a bitter sense of sin is to make the sinner peevish and +irritable.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>"Margaret," he said, almost angrily, "I came to bid you farewell, and +to promise you, <i>by my father's name</i>! to retrieve all this wrong. If +you can speak a kind word speak it, for God's sake—if not, I must go +without it!"</p> + +<p>Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid sobs and kisses, said all that +love so sorely and suddenly tried could say. He could not even soothe +her anguish by any promise to write, but he did promise to come back to +her sooner or later with restitution in his hand. All she could do now +for this dear brother was to call Geordie to her side and put him in his +care; taking what consolation she could from his assurance that "he +would keep him out at sea until the search was cold, and if followed +carry him into some of the dangerous 'races' between the islands." If +any sailor could keep his boat above water in them, she knew Geordie +could; <i>and if not</i>—she durst follow that thought no further, but, +putting her hands before her face, stood praying, while the two men +pulled silently away in the little skiff that had brought them up the +outlet connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. Margaret would have +turned away from Ronald's open grave less heart-broken.</p> + +<p>It was midnight now, but her real terror absorbed all imaginary ones; +she did not even call a pony, but with swift, even steps <a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>walked back to +Stromness. Ere she had reached it, she had decided what was to be done, +and next day she left Kirkwall in the mail packet for the mainland. +Thence by night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and a week after her +interview with Ronald she was standing before the directors of the +defrauded bank and offering them the entire proceeds of her Kirkwall +property until the debt was paid.</p> + +<p>The bank had thoroughly respected Peter Sinclair, and his daughter's +earnest, decided offer won their ready sympathy. It was accepted without +any question of interest, though she could not hope to clear off the +obligation in less than nine years. She did not go near any of her old +acquaintances; she had no heart to bear their questions and condolences, +and she had no money to stay in Glasgow at charges. Winter was coming on +rapidly, but before it broke over the lonely islands she had reached her +cottage in Stromness again.</p> + +<p>There had been, of course, much talk concerning her hasty journey, but +no one had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pursuit after Ronald had +been entirely the bank's affair, had been committed to private +detectives and had not been nearly so hot as the frightened criminal +believed. His failure and flight had indeed been noticed in the Glasgow +newspapers, but this <a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>information did not reach Kirkwall until the +following spring, and then in a very indefinite form.</p> + +<p>About a week after her return, Geordie Twatt came into port. Margaret +frequently went to his cottage with food or clothing for the children, +and she contrived to meet him there.</p> + +<p>"Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he," he said, with an assumption of +indifference.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Geordie! where?"</p> + +<p>"A ship going westward took him off the boat."</p> + +<p>"Thank God! You will say naught at all, Geordie?"</p> + +<p>"I ken naught at a' save that his father's son was i' trouble, an' +trying to gie thae weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was fain eneuch +mesel' to balk them."</p> + +<p>But Margaret's real trials were all yet to come. The mere fact of doing +a noble deed does not absolve one often from very mean and petty +consequences. Before the winter was half over she had found out how +rapid is the descent from good report. The neighbors were deeply +offended at her for giving up the social tea parties and evening +gatherings that had made the house of Sinclair popular for more than one +generation. She gave still greater offence by becoming a workingwoman, +and spending her days in braiding straw into the<a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a> (once) famous Orkney +Tuscans, and her long evenings in the manufacture of those delicate +knitted goods peculiar to the country.</p> + +<p>It was not alone that they grudged her the money for these labors, as so +much out of their own pockets—they grudged her also the time; for they +had been long accustomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for their +children's garments, for nursing the sick and for help in weddings, +funerals and all the other extraordinary occasions of sympathy among a +primitively social people.</p> + +<p>Little by little, all winter, the sentiment of disapproval and dislike +gathered. Some one soon found out that Margaret's tenants "just sent +every bawbee o' the rent-siller to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was a +double offence, as it implied a distrust of her own townsfolk and +institutions. If from her humble earnings she made a little gift to any +common object its small amount was a fresh source of anger and contempt; +for none knew how much she had to deny herself even for such curtailed +gratuities.</p> + +<p>In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden stinginess and indifference to her +townsfolk was the common wonder and talk of every little gathering. Old +friends began to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly ignore her; +and at last even old Helga took the popular tone and said, "Margaret<a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a> +Sinclair had got too scrimping for an auld wife like her to bide wi' +langer."</p> + +<p>Through all this Margaret suffered keenly. At first she tried earnestly +to make her old friends understand that she had good reasons for her +conduct; but as she would not explain these good reasons, she failed in +her endeavor. She had imagined that her good conscience would support +her, and that she could live very well without love and sympathy; she +soon found out that it is a kind of negative punishment worse than many +stripes.</p> + +<p>At the end of the winter Captain Thorkald again earnestly pressed their +marriage, saying that, "his regiment was ordered to Chelsea, and any +longer delay might be a final one." He proposed also, that his father, +the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, should have charge of her Orkney +property, as he understood its value and changes. Margaret wrote and +frankly told him that her property was not hers for at least seven +years, but that it was under good care, and he must accept her word +without explanation. Out of this only grew a very unsatisfactory +correspondence. Captain Thorkald went south without Margaret, and a very +decided coolness separated them farther than any number of miles.</p> + +<p>Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, and his remarks about Margaret +Sinclair's <a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid hands as her +own" increased very much the bitter feeling against the poor girl. At +the end of three years the trial became too great for her; she began to +think of running away from it.</p> + +<p>Throughout these dark days she had purposely and pointedly kept apart +from her old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his influence over her +might tempt her to confidence. Latterly the doctor had humored her +evident desire, but he had never ceased to watch over and, in a great +measure, to believe in her; and, when he heard of this determination to +quit Orkney forever, he came to Stromness with a resolution to spare no +efforts to win her confidence.</p> + +<p>He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to her, reminded her of her father's +generosity and good gifts to the church and the poor, and said: "O, +Margaret, dear lass! what good at a' will thy silent money do thee in +<i>that Day</i>? It ought to speak for thee out o' the mouths o' the +sorrowfu' an' the needy, the widows an' the fatherless—indeed it ought. +And thou hast gien naught for thy Master's sake these three years! I'm +fair 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a name as thy father's."</p> + +<p>What could Margaret do? She broke into passionate sobbing, and, when the +good old man left the cottage an hour afterward <a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>there was a strange +light on his face, and he walked and looked as if he had come from some +interview that had set him for a little space still nearer to the +angels. Margaret had now one true friend, and in a few days after this +she rented her cottage and went to live with the dominie. Nothing could +have so effectually reinstated her in public opinion; wherever the +dominie went on a message of help or kindness Margaret went with him. +She fell gradually into a quieter but still more affectionate +regard—the aged, the sick and the little children clung to her hands, +and she was comforted.</p> + +<p>Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonderfully narrowed, but when the tide +is fairly out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year of her poverty +there was from various causes, such an increase in the value of real +estate, that her rents were nearly doubled, and by the end of the +seventh year she had paid the last shilling of her assumed debt, and was +again an independent woman.</p> + +<p>It might be two years after this that she one day received a letter that +filled her with joy and amazement. It contained a check for her whole +nine hundred pounds back again. "The bank had just received from Ronald +Sinclair, of San Francisco, the whole amount due it, with the most +satisfactory acknowledgment and interest."<a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a> It was a few minutes before +Margaret could take in all the joy this news promised her; but when she +did, the calm, well-regulated girl had never been so near committing +extravagances.</p> + +<p>She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, and, throwing herself at his +knees, cried out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! father! Here is your +money! Here is the poor's money and the church's money! God has sent it +back to me! Sent it back with such glad tidings!"—and surely if angels +rejoice with repenting sinners, they must have felt that day a far +deeper joy with the happy, justified girl.</p> + +<p>She knew now that she also would soon hear from Ronald, and she was not +disappointed. The very next day the dominie brought home the letter. +Margaret took it upstairs to read it upon her knees, while the good old +man walked softly up and down his study praying for her. Presently she +came to him with a radiant face.</p> + +<p>"Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, father; it is very well." Then she read him the letter.</p> + +<p>Ronald had been in New Orleans and had the fever; he had been in Texas, +and spent four years in fighting Indians and Mexicans and in herding +cattle. He had suffered many things, but had worked night and day, and +always managed to <a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>grow a little richer every year. Then, suddenly, the +word "California!" rung through the world, and he caught the echo even +on the lonely southwestern prairies. Through incredible hardships he had +made his way thither, and a sudden and wonderful fortune had crowned his +labors, first in mining and afterward in speculation and merchandising. +He said that he was indeed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest to +her Arcadean views the sum might appear incredible.</p> + +<p>Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and clasped her hands above it. +Her face was beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister she must have +looked just as Margaret looked when they brought in her lost brother, in +the best robe and the gold ring.</p> + +<p>The dominie was not so satisfied. A good many things in the letter +displeased him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and went away from her. +"It is a' <i>I</i> did this, an' <i>I</i> did that, an' <i>I</i> suffered you; there is +nae word o' God's help, or o' what ither folk had to thole. I'll no be +doing ma duty if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en."</p> + +<p>The old man was little used to writing, and the effort was a great one, +but he bravely made it, and without delay. In a few curt, idiomatic +sentences he told Ronald Margaret's story of suffering and wrong and +poverty; her hard work for daily bread; <a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a>her loss of friends, of her +good name and her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, ma lad, that ye +dinna acknowledge God in; an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'er +late for thy credit. I wad hae thought better o' it had thou made it +when it took the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy great wealth, a few +hun'red pounds is nae matter to speak aboot."</p> + +<p>But people did speak of it. In spite of our chronic abuse of human +nature it is, after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in good more than +in evil. The story of Ronald's restitution is considered honorable to +it, and it was much made of in the daily papers. Margaret's friends +flocked round her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" as simply and +honestly as little children, and the dominie did not fail to give them +the lecture on charity that Margaret neglected.</p> + +<p>Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to his son anent these transactions, +or whether the captain read in the papers enough to satisfy him, he +never explained; but one day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's and +asked for Margaret. He had probably good excuses for his conduct to +offer; if not, Margaret was quite ready to invent for him—as she had +done for Ronald—all the noble qualities he lacked. The captain was +tired of military life, and anxious to <a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>return to Orkney; and, as his +own and Margaret's property was yearly increasing: in value, he foresaw +profitable employment for his talents. He had plans for introducing many +southern improvements—for building a fine modern house, growing some of +the hardier fruits and for the construction of a grand conservatory for +Margaret's flowers.</p> + +<p>It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald was a very ordinary lord for a +woman like Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and obey;" but few men +would have been worthy of her, and the usual rule which shows us the +noblest women marrying men manifestly their inferiors is doubtless a +wise one.</p> + +<p>A lofty soul can have no higher mission than to help upward one upon a +lower plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, as the dominie said, +"<i>no that bad</i>," had the fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret's +stature in Margaret's atmosphere.</p> + +<p>While these things were occurring, Ronald got Margaret's letter. It was +full of love and praise, and had no word of blame or complaint in it. He +noticed, indeed, that she still signed her name "Sinclair," and that she +never alluded to Captain Thorkald, and the supposition that the stain on +his character had caused a rupture did, for a moment, force itself upon +his notice; but <a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>he put it instantly away with the reflection that +"Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after all, and quite unworthy of his +sister."</p> + +<p>The very next mail-day he received the dominie's letter. He read it +once, and could hardly take it in; read it again and again, until his +lips blanched, and his whole countenance changed. In that moment he saw +Ronald Sinclair for the first time in his life. Without a word, he left +his business, went to his house and locked himself in his own room.</p> + +<p><i>Then Margaret's silent money began to speak.</i> In low upbraidings it +showed him the lonely girl in that desolate land trying to make her own +bread, deserted of lover and friends, robbed of her property and good +name, silently suffering every extremity, never reproaching him once, +not even thinking it necessary to tell him of her sufferings, or to +count their cost unto him.</p> + +<p>What is this bitterness we call remorse? This agony of the soul in all +its senses? This sudden flood of intolerable light in the dark places of +our hearts? This truth-telling voice which leaves us without a particle +of our self-complacency? For many days Ronald could find no words to +speak but these, "O, wretched man that I am!"</p> + +<p>But at length the Comforter came as <a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a>swiftly and surely and mysteriously +as the accuser had come, and once more that miracle of grace was +renewed—"that day Jesus was guest in the house of one who was a +sinner."</p> + +<p>Margaret's "silent money" now found a thousand tongues. It spoke in many +a little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair held in his arms until it +was strong enough to stand alone. It spoke in schools and colleges and +hospitals, in many a sorrowful home and to many a lonely, struggling +heart—and at this very day it has echoes that reach from the far West +to the lonely islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, and the +sea-shattering precipices of Duncansbay Head.</p> + +<p>It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip to +the Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso—the old town of +Thor—for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a week +for Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was a +gift from an old friend in California, and is called "The Margaret +Sinclair."</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a></p> +<h2><a name="JUST_WHAT_HE_DESERVED" id="JUST_WHAT_HE_DESERVED"></a>JUST WHAT HE DESERVED.</h2> + + +<p>There is not in its own way a more distinctive and interesting bit of +Scotland than the bleak Lothian country, with its wide views, its brown +ploughed fields, and its dense swaying plantations of fir. The +Lammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and the veils of smoke that lie about +Edinburgh are on its horizon, and within that circle all the large +quietude of open grain fields, wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, and +far-stretching pastures where the red and white cows ruminate. The +patient processes of nature breed patient minds; the gray cold climate +can be read in the faces of the people, and in their hearts the seasons +take root and grow; so that they have a grave character, passive, yet +enduring; strong to feel and strong to act when the time is full ready +for action.</p> + +<p>Of these natural peculiarities Jean Anderson had her share. She was a +Lothian lassie of many generations, usually undemonstrative, but with +large possibilities of storm beneath her placid face and gentle manner. +Her father was the minister of Lambrig and the manse stood in a very +sequestered corner of the big parish, facing <a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>the bleak east winds, and +the salt showers of the German ocean. It was sheltered by dark fir woods +on three sides, and in front a little walled-in garden separated it from +the long, dreary, straight line of turnpike road. But Jean had no +knowledge of any fairer land; she had read of flowery pastures and rose +gardens and vineyards, but these places were to her only in books, while +the fields and fells that filled her eyes were her home, and she loved +them.</p> + +<p>She loved them all the more because the man she loved was going to leave +them, and if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful to her, then it was +like to be that she also would go far away from the blue Lammermuirs, +and the wide still spaces of the Lothians. She stood at the open door of +the manse with her lover thinking of these things, but with no real +sense of what pain or deprivation the thought included. She was tall and +finely formed, a blooming girl, with warmly-colored cheeks, a mouth +rather large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. But the best of all +her beauty was the soul in her face; its vitality, its vivacity and +immediate response.</p> + +<p>However, the time of love had come to her, and though her love had grown +as naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could tell what changes it +would make. For Gavin Burns had been educated in the <a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>minister's house +and Jean and he had studied and fished and rambled together all through +the years in which Jean had grown from childhood into womanhood. Now +Gavin was going to New York to make his fortune. They stepped through +the garden and into the long dim road, walking slowly in the calm night, +with thoughtful faces and clasped hands. There was at this last hour +little left to say. Every promise known to Love had been given; they had +exchanged Bibles and broken a piece of silver and vowed an eternal +fidelity. So, in the cold sunset they walked silently by the river that +was running in flood like their own hearts. At the little stone bridge +they stopped, and leaning over the parapet watched the drumly water +rushing below; and there Jean reiterated her promise to be Gavin's wife +as soon as he was able to make a home for her.</p> + +<p>"And I am not proud, Gavin," she said; "a little house, if it is filled +with love, will make me happy beyond all."</p> + +<p>They were both too hopeful and trustful and too habitually calm to weep +or make much visible lament over their parting; and yet when Gavin +vanished into the dark of the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy house +door very slowly. She felt as if she was shutting part of herself out of +the old home forever, and she was shocked by this first <a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>breaking of the +continuity of life; this sharp cutting of regular events asunder. +Gavin's letters were at first frequent and encouraging, but as the +months went by he wrote more and more seldom. He said "he was kept so +busy; he was making himself indispensable, and could not afford to be +less busy. He was weary to death on the Saturday nights, and he could +not bring his conscience to write anent his own personal and earthly +happiness on the Sabbath day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, +whether he wrote or not; and they were past being bairns, always telling +each other the love they were both so sure of."</p> + +<p>Late in the autumn the minister died of typhoid fever, and Jean, +heartbroken and physically worn out, was compelled to face for her +mother and herself, a complete change of life. It had never seemed to +these two women that anything could happen to the father and head of the +family; in their loving hearts he had been immortal, and though the +disease had run its tedious course before their eyes, his death at the +last was a shock that shook their lives and their home to the very +centre. A new minister was the first inevitable change, and then a +removal from the comfortable manse to a little cottage in the village of +Lambrig.</p> + +<p>While this sad removal was in progress <a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>they had felt the sorrow of it, +all that they could bear; and neither had dared to look into the future +or to speculate as to its necessities. Jean in her heart expected Gavin +would at once send for them to come to America. He had a fair salary, +and the sale of their furniture would defray their traveling expenses.</p> + +<p>She was indeed so sure of this journey, that she did not regard the +cottage as more than a temporary shelter during the approaching winter. +In the spring, no doubt, Gavin would have a little home ready, and they +would cross the ocean to it. The mother had the same thought. As they +sat on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, they talked of this +event, and if any doubts lurked unconsciously below their love and trust +they talked them away, while they waited for Gavin's answer to the +sorrowful letter Jean had sent him on the night of her father's burial.</p> + +<p>It was longer in coming than they expected. For a week they saw the +postman pass their door with an indifference that seemed cruel; for a +week Jean made new excuses and tried to hold up her mother's heart, +while her own was sinking lower and lower. Then one morning the +looked-for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart to read it alone; Mrs. +Anderson sat down and waited, with dropped eyes and hands <a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>tightly +clasped. She knew, before Jean said a word, that the letter had +disappointed her. She had remained alone too long. If all had been as +they hoped the mother was certain Jean would not have deferred the good +tidings a moment. But a quarter of an hour had passed before Jean came +to her side, and then when she lifted her eyes she saw that her daughter +had been weeping.</p> + +<p>"It is a disappointment, Jean, I see," she said sadly. "Never mind, +dearie."</p> + +<p>"Yes, mother; Gavin has failed us."</p> + +<p>"We have been two foolish women, Jean. Oh, my dear lassie, we should +have lippened to God, and He would not have disappointed us! What does +Gavin Burns say?"</p> + +<p>"It is what he does <i>not</i> say, that hurts me, mother. I may as well tell +you the whole truth. When he heard how ill father was, he wrote to me, +as if he had foreseen what was to happen. He said, 'there will be a new +minister and a break-up of the old home, and you must come at once to +your new home here. I am the one to care for you when your father is +gone away; and what does it matter under what sun or sky if we are but +together?' So, then, mother, when the worst had come to us I wrote with +a free heart to Gavin. I said, 'I will come to you gladly, Gavin, but +you know well that my mother is very dear to me, and where I am there +she also must be.'<a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a> And he says, in this letter, that it is me he is +wanting, and that you have a brother in Glasgow that is unmarried and +who will be willing, no doubt, to have you keep his house for him. There +is a wale of fine words about it, mother, but they come to just this, +and no more—Gavin is willing to care for me, but not for you and I will +not trust myself with a man that cannot love you for my sake. We will +stay together, mammy darling! Whatever comes or goes we will stay +together. The man isna born that can part us two!"</p> + +<p>"He is your lover, Jean. A girl must stick to her lover."</p> + +<p>"You are my mother. I am bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh and +love of your love. May God forsake me when I forsake you!"</p> + +<p>She had thrown herself at her mother's knees and was clasping and +kissing the sad face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered the last +words. And the mother was profoundly touched by her child's devotion. +She drew her close to her heart, and said firmly:</p> + +<p>"No! No, my dearie! What could we two do for ourselves? And I'm loth to +part you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the sacrifice, you so lovingly +offer me. I will write to my brother David. Gavin isna far wrong there; +David is a very close <a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>man, but he willna see his sister suffer, there +is no fear of that."</p> + +<p>"It is Jean that will not see you suffer."</p> + +<p>"But the bite and the sup, Jean? How are we to get them?"</p> + +<p>"I can make my own dresses and cloaks, so then I can make dresses and +cloaks for other people. I shall send out a card to the ladies near-by +and put an advertisement in the Haddington newspaper, and God can make +my needle sharp enough for the battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, +don't cry! We have God and each other, and none can call us desolate."</p> + +<p>"But you will break your heart, Jean. You canna help it. And I canna +take your love and happiness to brighten my old age. It isna right. I'll +not do it. You must go to Gavin. I will go to my brother David."</p> + +<p>"I will not break my heart, mother. I will not shed a tear for the +false, mean lad, that you were so kind to for fourteen years, when there +was no one else to love him. Aye, I know he paid for his board and +schooling, but he never could pay for the mother-love you gave him, just +because he was motherless. And who has more right to have their life +brightened by my love than you have? Beside, it is my happiness to +brighten it, and so, what will you say against it? And I will not go to +Gavin.<a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a> Not one step. If he wants me now, he will come for me, and for +you, too. This is sure as death! Oh, mammy! Mammy, darling, a false lad +shall not part us! Never! Never! Never!"</p> + +<p>"Jean! Jean! What will I say at all"</p> + +<p>"What would my father say, if he was here this minute? He would say, +'you are right, Jean! And God bless you, Jean! And you may be sure that +it is all for the best, Jean! So take the right road with a glad heart, +Jean!' That is what father would say. And I will never do anything to +prevent me looking him straight in the face when we meet again. Even in +heaven I shall want him to smile into my eyes and say, 'Well done, +Jean!'"</p> + +<hr class="mini" /> + +<h3>Chapter II.</h3> + +<p>Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insure +them some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed not +uncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to +Lambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and giving +her, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter's +expenses. This order of things went on without change or intermission +for five years, and the little cottage gradually <a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a>gathered in its clean, +sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson took +entire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from +morning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliations +and annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere with +the cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonely +life.</p> + +<p>She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, in +which neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavin +ceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm was +reached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But such +hours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" in +them much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her nature +ripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than her +twentieth year had promised.</p> + +<p>One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jean +felt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappiness +made her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim her +eyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean did +not know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and she +wondered what she had come to tell her.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a>"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean," she said, "and I thought +Gavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days."</p> + +<p>Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, Mary +Burns," she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep to +myself these days."</p> + +<p>"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be the +mistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where I +taught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one may +say, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'm +thinking I shall have a happy time with him in America."</p> + +<p>"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you +'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to do +to-night than I can well manage."</p> + +<p>This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called for +an unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent her +appearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost lover +to think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her mother +and talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening, +went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they <a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a>spent a more +confidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be a +comfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning she +noticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found her +in her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world.</p> + +<p>It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind. +She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle David +came at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she suffered +no hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. And +oh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swift +return to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a cruel +effacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of the +third day after the funeral he said, kindly:</p> + +<p>"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is far +beyond tears."</p> + +<p>"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come and +never name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smile +for everybody."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Death is forgetfulness, Jean;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">... 'one lonely way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We go: and is she gone?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is all our best friends say.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother has +been to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bit +sticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a new +life. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth +your keeping you can save in your memory."</p> + +<p>"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. I +can find my own bread if you will just love me a little."</p> + +<p>"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put that +weary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch."</p> + +<p>So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow. +He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what she +expected—certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the least +expensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reached +Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manner +as soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and a +carriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a large +dwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her into +a handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Anderson +her <a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a>rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herself +surrounded by undreamed of luxury.</p> + +<p>Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learned +to understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of her +life. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere she +discovered that it was largely spent in two directions—scientific +discovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted to +chemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles of +total abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jean +could not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One of +the savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her; +and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, which +had all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till he +found, and so not lose his labor."</p> + +<p>Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicoll +gave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did he +ever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home," he +said to his friends. No words could have better explained the position. +In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summer +they sailed far <a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; to +Orkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the light +of the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean was +thirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become a +woman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways, +she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You have +made my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he said to her on the last +solemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honest +love! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you every +bawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left nae +dead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and the +siller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If it +should come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you, +I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weel +spent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But it +is a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that."</p> + +<p>This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away had +opened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to the +school of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a <a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a>home of +love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, +untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was not +the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her +hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover.</p> + +<p>About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Mary +was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have to +store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it +at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the +right hand and the left," he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargain +that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary."</p> + +<p>"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be +wasted," answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love +of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city."</p> + +<p>"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and +if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley."</p> + +<p>"Jean Anderson?"</p> + +<p>"Ay."</p> + +<p>"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she +is. She is not for the like of you, Gavin—a bit country dressmaker, +poor, and past liking."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following +letter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. If +you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look +at. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days." +That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chance +for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to be +trusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself."</p> + +<p>Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it as +clearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking it +over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her +mother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without even +justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And with +this picture she wrote—"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five years +since, and there has been changes since."</p> + +<p>She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were +unfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, +and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor; +he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not +envy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better <a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>looking, and far more +stylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley.</p> + +<p>Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated her +failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at <i>his</i> +failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an +uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed +at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want of +response. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should +she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? The +idea took possession of her, and she carried it out.</p> + +<p>She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and the +morning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair of +gloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and moving +her position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summer +blankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling a +funny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked their +separate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, by +varying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for one +moment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in every +way. He was no longer <a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a>handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him, +and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulous +authoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at every +point. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothing +careless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his whole +appearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more mean +and plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jean +was taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face, +spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answered +her in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusion +was complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she had +looked at him at all.</p> + +<p>But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, under +her new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintance +in reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a great +fortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrig +that is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented the +castle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looks +of her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye make +fine birds!"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a>Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been with +the firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell them +he had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday to +attend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personal +influence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers," he said to Mary.</p> + +<p>"There is Annie Riley," answered Mary.</p> + +<p>"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marry +Jean, and settle myself in Scotland."</p> + +<p>"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. You +have promised to marry her."</p> + +<p>"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, I +would like to know?"</p> + +<p>"I think you will find out."</p> + +<p>In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and he +hastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended no +secret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmen +with admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. There +was a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who did +not remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fear +he had <a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast, +he strolled out to make his own investigations.</p> + +<p>There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on a +neighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there a +finely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly for +him to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "It +will be her lawyer or architect," he thought; and he walked rapidly +onward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walking +suit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell into +conversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he was +watching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spaces +of the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happiness +that it angered him.</p> + +<p>"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have business +here."</p> + +<p>"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that is +the professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University."</p> + +<p>"They are married, then?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married a +month syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking. +I'll drink their <a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller."</p> + +<p>Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. His +business in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him; +he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. He +had lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no words +to express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the first +weight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean's +beauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And all +for Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marry +her, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner.</p> + +<p>For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him a +touching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased to +love her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin did +tell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, and +that he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said something +about his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentiment +that he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness.</p> + +<p>Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and +Gavin <a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with +damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love +letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in +the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, +his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But +pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she +really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough +in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, +and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted +to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell +his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He +wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, +and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called +unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go +to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit.</p> + +<p>"I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning +the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I +will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she +has got all my saved siller, and more <a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>too; forbye, she is like to marry +Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet +beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!"</p> + +<p>No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he +knew right well their private opinion was that he had received <i>just +what he deserved</i>.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a></p> +<h2><a name="AN_ONLY_OFFER" id="AN_ONLY_OFFER"></a>AN ONLY OFFER.</h2> + + +<p>"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?"</p> + +<p>"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, +Julia. I am forty-three now, remember."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever have an offer—an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?"</p> + +<p>"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer."</p> + +<p>"And you refused it?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then he died, or went away?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Or deserted you?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then you deceived him, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"I did not."</p> + +<p>"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something +dreadful"</p> + +<p>"He was rich and handsome."</p> + +<p>"Suppose you tell me about him."</p> + +<p>"I never talk about him to any one."</p> + +<p>"Did it happen at the old place?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened +when I was sixteen."</p> + +<p>"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a>"He was a fine city gentleman."</p> + +<p>"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about +it; you cannot see to work longer."</p> + +<p>Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and +confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her +hands, and smiling sadly, said:</p> + +<p>"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at +Ryelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two +elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched +them a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into the +house, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped +and spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at the +gate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is +Mr. Wakefield in?'</p> + +<p>"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him,' which I +immediately did.</p> + +<p>"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way with +him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like +talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the +house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight; +<a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a>then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.'</p> + +<p>"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?'</p> + +<p>"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is in +bad health.'</p> + +<p>"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?'</p> + +<p>"'I know it is young Alfred Compton—that is enough for me.'</p> + +<p>"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father.'</p> + +<p>"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician—a +Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no +more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn.</p> + +<p>"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on +the subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. +'But,' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married +at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.'</p> + +<p>"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several +large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and I +saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, very +fair-man, dressed with extreme care in <a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a>the very highest fashion. I saw +also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no +doctor would wait upon him so subserviently.</p> + +<p>"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine +that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed +to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton was +too ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; and +again, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though he +pleaded urgently for them.</p> + +<p>"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed to +be important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, and +requested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. I +suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, +so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a +sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked through +that part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had been +politely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangers +increased Mr. Compton's nervous condition.' I did not believe this, and +I determined to try the experiment.</p> + +<p>"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I +smiled and <a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a>courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and came +toward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; he +stooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that +it seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walked +up and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's +wagon.</p> + +<p>"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was +concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, that +she not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted it +in many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize its +value. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good +morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally to +accompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood.</p> + +<p>"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We were +soon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way to +make himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knew +of, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid for +me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found him +irresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must <a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a>have +been thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomer +than any younger man could have done.</p> + +<p>"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in +us, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had much +fewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a little +way up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how I +received the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman was +keeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined to +take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one +evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to +see his relatives.</p> + +<p>"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by +the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared +that they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the only +friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the +secret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him into +paroxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or at +least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in +the rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to a +pitch which father seriously disliked.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; only +the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon a +boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very +much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'Miss +Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr. +Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amuse +him?'</p> + +<p>"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the +messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we +rambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the day +was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I +proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally +a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us.</p> + +<p>"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that +Alfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wild +look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my +efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked +me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'his +wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, <a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a>and +vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of +going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had +wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill.</p> + +<p>"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were +going to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away, +and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But he +became suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with the +greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter.</p> + +<p>"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to lose +all control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearly +sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In +the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of our +workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our +sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it.</p> + +<p>"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are +you, sir? Come here instantly.'</p> + +<p>"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have no +right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and +I shall not permit it any more.'</p> + +<p><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a>"'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!'</p> + +<p>"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzed +with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically +as a dog might follow his master's call.</p> + +<p>"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. Alfred +Compton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am +his—<i>keeper</i>.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!"</p> + +<p>"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it; +but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and +that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he +became uncontrollable in an asylum."</p> + +<p>"Did you see him again?"</p> + +<p>"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad; +that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come some +day and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa, +whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me very +unkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he +was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and went +west with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little old +maid, until my <a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep +his fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when he +died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my own +lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?"</p> + +<p>"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose +Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought +it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health."</p> + +<p>"Poor aunt!"</p> + +<p>"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will +believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps +more sincere than many wiser men."</p> + +<p>After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in +speaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the young +maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred +Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more +positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subject +never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her +own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a>One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old +subject until both felt it to be exhausted—at least for that night. +Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is +snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, there +is a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he is +coming here."</p> + +<p>"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to +call to-night."</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person."</p> + +<p>Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she had +talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a +very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant +announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her +reflections, and went into the reception-room.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere +she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the +room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred +Compton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with +enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the +beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly <a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>this one was not handsome. He +was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine +figure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he +was still dressed with scrupulous care.</p> + +<p>The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished +a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine +with an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe +Wakefield, best and loveliest of women."</p> + +<p>Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two +old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long +wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, +driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of +Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me in +his care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe my +restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and +ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my +ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise."</p> + +<p>Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they +never tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the <a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>least abashed by any +contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never +weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and +womanly than in the days of their first courtship.</p> + +<p>She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use any +other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe—or rather Mrs. +Compton—resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would +imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but those +who have known him as long as I have," she continually avers, "can +possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my +husband."</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a></p> +<h2><a name="TWO_FAIR_DECEIVERS" id="TWO_FAIR_DECEIVERS"></a>TWO FAIR DECEIVERS.</h2> + + +<p>What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking +on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it +is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that +either makes money or spends it.</p> + +<p>Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he +has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has +spent his in New York—he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both +stories conclude in the same way.</p> + +<p>"I have not a thousand dollars left, John."</p> + +<p>"Nor I, Cleve."</p> + +<p>"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all +the old gentleman's money already?"</p> + +<p>"I only got $20,000; I owed half of it."</p> + +<p>"Only $20,000! What did he do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went +away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I +had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000. +That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>"And the widow—where is she?"</p> + +<p>"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the +St. Maurs, of Maryland."</p> + +<p>"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I never thought of such a thing."</p> + +<p>"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; +say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude +to your cousin, and all that kind of thing—then beg leave to call and +pay respects," etc., etc.</p> + +<p>John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the +note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office.</p> + +<p>That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it +with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, +high-bred little lady, with</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lips like fragrant posy,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the +happiness of others.</p> + +<p>But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She +was quite aware that John Selden had regarded <a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>himself for many years as +his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had +seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid +plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little +widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and +smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter.</p> + +<p>"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want +to consult you, dear, about a visitor."</p> + +<p>Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is +it, Fan?"</p> + +<p>"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have +inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if +it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow."</p> + +<p>"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the +Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place."</p> + +<p>"No; I have a better plan than that—Clementine, do stop reading a few +minutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and +Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in the +place, and I will take none of the servants with me."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a>"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor +friend and companion."</p> + +<p>"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'—an excellent comedy. How I shall +snub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing +you. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?"</p> + +<p>"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I came +back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until +now. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything until +their particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the letter +together. What is the gentleman's name?"</p> + +<p>The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.' Do you +know him, Clementine?"</p> + +<p>"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall +in love with the name—do you? But pray accept the offer for both +gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear." Then Clementine returned +to the consideration of the lace in <i>coquilles</i> for her new evening +dress.</p> + +<p>The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed and +carried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, <a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>and one evening at the +end of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clare +had engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charming +ease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, in +her plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively the +idea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in which +to rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order, +and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank.</p> + +<p>Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter in +a rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress of +spotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummate +ease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party. +John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informal +companionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a few +days John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin +John, do this," and "Cousin John, come here," continually; and one night +when Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritable +enough to give his objections the form of speech.</p> + +<p>"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare."</p> + +<p>"I think she is a very lovely woman, John."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I have +no mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills. +The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every way +inferior makes me angry enough, I assure you."</p> + +<p>"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John."</p> + +<p>"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in us +deceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow—why not +marry her? I am quite willing you should."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They have +been favorably received, I think."</p> + +<p>"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shall +hardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clement +and myself."</p> + +<p>"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what on +earth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothing +will not make a decent living."</p> + +<p>"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor to +say 'Yes,' I will make a decent living out of my profession."</p> + +<p>From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to his +supposed <a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widow +perceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be bought +with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and the +widow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhaps +she was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Cleve +made a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quite +naturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had first +fixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months.</p> + +<p>It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with their +lovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to be +quite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present, +or the <i>dénouement</i> would come prematurely. Circumstances favored her +determination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into her +friend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve has +asked me to marry him."</p> + +<p>"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have."</p> + +<p>"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare."</p> + +<p>"Did you accept him?"</p> + +<p>"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the city +in October.<a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a> You are going to New York this winter, are you not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be his +wife to-night."</p> + +<p>"I told you men think and act in pairs."</p> + +<p>"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin had +ill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself; +absolutely said, Clement, that <i>you</i> were a sufficient excuse for Mr. +Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promised +if I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of your +outrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made a +home for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry John +Selden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us."</p> + +<p>"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs. +However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shall +we do?"</p> + +<p>"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready for +me by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors."</p> + +<p>So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant letters +and future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough; +but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes <a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>of +invitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in —— +street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wished +to make his entrance into his future home as became the prospective +master of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of not +suffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemen +who would probably be there.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, the +true widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hitherto +worn, but magnificent in white crêpe lisse and satin, her arms and +throat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Her +companion had assumed now the rôle of simplicity, and Cleve was +disappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambéry gauze +dress.</p> + +<p>John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and the +love-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both her +hands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement."</p> + +<p>Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but +we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before +real life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. +<i>Cousin John</i>, I hope you are not disappointed." Then she put her <a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>hand +into John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their +explanation.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying +circumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking down +at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the +tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a man +of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did +not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to +do. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could +marry; she had deceived him, too—he had a sudden and severe spasm of +morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport +to play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeply +disappointed and grieved, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and +her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations. +She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes +embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room +and talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so.</p> + +<p>"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of +blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I <a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>promised you my final +answer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me that +trouble. Good evening, sir."</p> + +<p>Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon +recovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and +hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. +She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and +John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the +list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John and +his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had +gone in their company.</p> + +<p>"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden's +wife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Some +fellows are always unlucky in love affairs—I always am."</p> + +<p>Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of +unnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to +starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's that fool Belmar," he muttered; "I shall have to offer him a +ride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back? +Have a ride?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a>"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Your wife! When were you married?"</p> + +<p>"Last month, in Paris."</p> + +<p>"And the happy lady was—"</p> + +<p>"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune. +Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3,000,000 in money and +real estate, and a heart beyond all price."</p> + +<p>"How on earth did you meet her?"</p> + +<p>"She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Selden—you know John Selden. She +has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friends +when they were girls together."</p> + +<p>Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a +finable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trust +himself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he made +to himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve +Sullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, and +that he well deserved it.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_TWO_MR_SMITHS" id="THE_TWO_MR_SMITHS"></a>THE TWO MR. SMITHS.</h2> + + +<p>"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; it +is my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. William +Smith! If it had been Alexander Smith—"</p> + +<p>"Or Hyacinth Smith."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!"</p> + +<p>"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the lady +for the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties! +They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar into +the fire and began to buckle on his spurs.</p> + +<p>"Come with me, Carrol."</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better than +myself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> don't like Alice's style at all."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settled +income, is skin-deep."</p> + +<p>If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took the +criticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income is +satisfactory; and besides that, she <a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>has all kinds of good qualities, +and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, a +suitable name for them!"</p> + +<p>"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her name +also?"</p> + +<p>"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in his +wife's, Carrol."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride."</p> + +<p>So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupation +gave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man, +and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a very +great man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished and +fastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the air +of being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves.</p> + +<p>Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and +he was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of going +to them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To see +her in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great and +beautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charming +aimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofs +of her having been born in the <a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenu +could ever hope to imitate them.</p> + +<p>Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of polite +shifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; and +the circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of her +position were to the other a real holiday-making.</p> + +<p>Alice met Mr. Smith with <i>empressement</i>, fluttered about the tea-tray +like a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and was +as full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose.</p> + +<p>"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been +trying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Now +you can be my substitute."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women ought +to have the same rights as men?"</p> + +<p>"Really, Miss Alice, I—I don't know. When women have got what they call +their 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges' +also?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrub +floors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect the +corner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pick +of everything."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of the +country is in their hands, will they still expect to find time for +five-o'clock teas?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country, +and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or their +drawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leave +the other undone."</p> + +<p>"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been trying +to do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out of +one day."</p> + +<p>"Of course they will."</p> + +<p>"But how?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, machines and management. It will be done."</p> + +<p>"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice."</p> + +<p>"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with all +their boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementary +proposition, 'It will be, because it will be.'"</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to the +conversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossible +it was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed, +before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their +<i>tete-à-tete</i> tea, <a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a>two or three ladies joined the party, and the hour +was up, and the opportunity lost.</p> + +<p>However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested a +moment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and her +eyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as he +had determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined to +let himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her, +for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must be +confessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case in +which he was personally interested.</p> + +<p>Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return from +a very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began to +consider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr. +Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his +passionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and his +despairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person and +manners had made a great impression on her; she had been very near +loving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch of +electricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved.</p> + +<p>Such proposals seldom or never take <a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>women unawares. Eleanor had been +expecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short, +happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lines +which she believed would make him supremely happy.</p> + +<p>Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh, +you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alice +dear; I have a secret to tell you. I am—going—to—marry—Mr.—Smith."</p> + +<p>"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. +Poor Eleanor!"</p> + +<p>"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him—honestly, you +know?"</p> + +<p>"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste in +cravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in any +position out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, +always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the back +or arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith is +handsome; very much so."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you do admit that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty."</p> + +<p>"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he <a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a>is very 'nice,' and very +respectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare say +you will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do, +Eleanor; and—oh dear me!—how I should hate a husband of that kind!"</p> + +<p>"You little hypocrite!—with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman's +supremacy.'"</p> + +<p>"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say +<i>many-sidedness</i>—it is a more womanly definition. But if it is really +to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?"</p> + +<p>This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a couple +of hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; and +before matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full of +anticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author of +them, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom.</p> + +<p>"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be a +handsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clothes +will all come from Paris, I dare say."</p> + +<p>"I think we will go to Paris first." Then Eleanor went into a graphic +description of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she had +experienced them during her <a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>first bridal tour. "It is the most +fascinating city in the world, Alice."</p> + +<p>"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such an +out-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has to +sail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shall +have to go."</p> + +<p>"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall have +to try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the way +across, of course, but then—"</p> + +<p>"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?"</p> + +<p>"I intend to—for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with the +same set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation would +become!"</p> + +<p>"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down to +breakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call at +five o'clock to-morrow—or rather to-day—and we shall have a +<i>tete-à-tete</i> tea."</p> + +<p>Alice determined that it should be strictly <i>tete-à-tete.</i> She went to +spend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thought +the lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange their +wedding.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside the +door, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She was +trying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's new +husband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong.</p> + +<p>"I shall be dreadfully in the way—<i>his way</i>, I mean—and he will want +to send me out of the room, and I shall not go—no, not if I fall asleep +on a chair looking at him."</p> + +<p>With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered the +parlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her face +Alice could not understand.</p> + +<p>"Shut the door, dear."</p> + +<p>"Alone?"</p> + +<p>"I have been so all evening."</p> + +<p>"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Smith did not call."</p> + +<p>"Not come!"</p> + +<p>"Nor yet sent any apology."</p> + +<p>The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, both +white and silent.</p> + +<p>"What will you do, Eleanor?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queer +mistakes do happen."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a>"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room; +it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubt +but that he received it."</p> + +<p>"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he is +hardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. I +have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed.' Mr. +Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview."</p> + +<p>Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" but +through this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the white +feather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. +Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners toward +him, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when she +had—however innocently—given him the keenest personal slight?</p> + +<p>Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and what +is heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she had +quite decided that her lover would call the following day, and her +thoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for any +anxiety he might have suffered.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many following +ones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last <a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>hope that he +would ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said, +"You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Sam +says he is to be away two years."</p> + +<p>"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness.</p> + +<p>"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has been +talking about the trip for six months."</p> + +<p>"Really!—Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery for +Mrs. Hollis to look at?"</p> + +<p>So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused a +diversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were not +named again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is the +use of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor to +Alice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention of +the subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes do +not necessarily possess the finest tempers.</p> + +<p>Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest. +Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend's +singular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He +supposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smith +not to take a pretty, rich <a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a>woman like her into his calculations. For +his part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt that +he had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl; +they had less nonsense about them," etc.</p> + +<p>That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of course +she suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who parade +their suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all, +endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hysterical +sobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress common +to weak women.</p> + +<p>Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but Eleanor +Bethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest social +impropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the proper +mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, anise +and cummin due to her position.</p> + +<p>Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect—it compelled Alice +to talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, in +discussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all, +it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. And +there is something very assuaging to grief in this <a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>occupation. Before +it was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshiny +temper.</p> + +<p>"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to +herself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery.</p> + +<p>At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, and +nowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol's +influence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor—quite a +novel one," she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal trip +in Carrol's yacht!"</p> + +<p>"Whose idea is that?"</p> + +<p>"Carrol's and <i>mine too</i>, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliest +life. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issue +your own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easy +conscience"</p> + +<p>"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?"</p> + +<p>"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance of +ticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesome +letters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in +the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid."</p> + +<p>So the marriage took place at the end of <a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>the season, and Alice and +Carrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss what +to do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gone +there, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw them +together. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe was +out of the question.</p> + +<p>While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid—a beautiful +girl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I am +going to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. "Papa has +heard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have a +special car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty."</p> + +<p>"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I was +dreading the old routine in the old places; but this will be +delightful."</p> + +<p>Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethune +found herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. It +was a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose like +Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look of +intense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder and +annoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable +<a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>thing; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she never +thought of shirking it.</p> + +<p>So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and even +quickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself. +The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. At +first she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it in +such words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmly +settled on the following form:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>"<i>Messrs. Locke & Lord</i>:</p> + +<p>"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is of +the greatest importance."</p></div> + +<p>When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam." +But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, and +she could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The man +stood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay about +the message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertainty +ruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and return +to her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched the +whole proceeding, said:</p> + +<p>"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that you +have lost <a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can return +the money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the +'American.'"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother. +I gratefully accept your offer."</p> + +<p>Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalist +who was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; so +that the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterward +inaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. It +was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which, +even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of money +for the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the door +of the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedy +arrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars.</p> + +<p>This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's last +lover—a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome and +gentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor's +prejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery, +pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the very +first day of their <a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a>acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but one +thought—the winning of Eleanor Bethune.</p> + +<p>When she returned to New York in the autumn she ventured to cast up her +accounts with life, and she was rather amazed at the result. For she was +quite aware that she was in love with this William Smith in a way that +she had never been with the other. The first had been a sentimental +ideal; the second was a genuine case of sincere and passionate +affection. She felt that the desertion of this lover would be a grief +far beyond the power of satin and lace to cure.</p> + +<p>But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and his +love transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed to +find its native air. It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenly +atmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed to +her that no change could make her happier.</p> + +<p>But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thought +marriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking. Eleanor and he +were sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when he +whispered this opinion to her.</p> + +<p>"It is only four months since we met, dear."</p> + +<p>"Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you four +months <a name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></a>before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you. On +the 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado to +look after the Silver Cliff Mine. My carriage was ordered, and I was +waiting at my hotel for it. A servant brought me a letter—the dearest, +sweetest little letter—see, here it is!" and this William Smith +absolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the first +William Smith's offer.</p> + +<p>Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled.</p> + +<p>"What did you think, dear?"</p> + +<p>"That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me. It +was directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands. I was +not going to seek up any other W. Smith."</p> + +<p>"But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and you +did not know 'Eleanor Bethune.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it <i>was intended</i> for me. I can +imagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching you +send the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. +Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible. I was +coming back to New York to look for you."</p> + +<p>"And, instead, she went to you in Colorado."</p> + +<p>"Only think of that! Why, love, when <a name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>that blessed telegraph clerk said, +'Who sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. Eleanor Bethune,' I wanted +to fling my hat to the sky. I did not lose my head as badly when they +found that new lead in the Silver Cliff."</p> + +<p>"Won't you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William? It was +written to the wrong Smith."</p> + +<p>"It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith. +Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do what +you like with the letter."</p> + +<p>Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning letter +made a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a></p> +<h2><a name="THE_STORY_OF_MARY_NEIL" id="THE_STORY_OF_MARY_NEIL"></a>THE STORY OF MARY NEIL.</h2> + + +<p>Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saints +and martyrs. There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, and +desolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty—where +with toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are being +prepared for the heavenly temple.</p> + +<p>This is the light that relieves the deep shadow of that awful cloud of +poverty which ever hangs over this rich and prosperous city. I have been +within that cloud, wet with its rain of tears, chilled with its gloomy +darkness, "made free" of its innermost recesses; therefore I speak with +authority when I say that even here a little child may walk and not +stumble, if Jesus lead the way or hold the hand.</p> + +<p>Nay, but children walk where strong men fall down, and young maidens +enter the kingdom while yet their parents are stumbling where no light +from the Golden City and "the Land very far off" reaches them. Last +winter I became very much interested in such a case. I was going to +write "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have been the strangest misnomer. +Happy Mary<a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a> Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to contradict my pen.</p> + +<p>And yet when I first became acquainted with her condition, she was +"poor" in every bitter sense of the word.</p> + +<p>A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child of misery baptized with tears," +what had her seventeen years been but sad and evil ones? Cold and +hunger, cares and labors far beyond her strength sowed the seeds of +early death. For two years she struggled amid such suffering as dying +lungs entail to help her mother and younger brothers and sisters, but at +last she was compelled to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering which +she could no longer assuage by her helpful hands and gentle words.</p> + +<p>Her religious education had not been quite neglected, and she dimly +comprehended that through the narrow valley which lay between Time and +Eternity she would need a surer and more infallible guide than her own +sadly precocious intellect. Then God sent her just the help she +needed—a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman full of the love of Jesus.</p> + +<p>Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of the Border Land, and very soon +Mary had learned how to walk without fearing any evil. Certain passages +of Scripture burned with a supernatural glory, and made the darkness +light; and there were also a few <a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a>hymns which struck the finest chords +in her heart, and</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Mid days of keenest anguish<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And nights devoid of ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled all her soul with music<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of wondrous melodies."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>As she neared the deeper darkness of death, this was especially +remarkable of that extraordinary hymn called "The Light of Death," by +Dr. Faber. From the first it had fascinated her. "Has he been <i>here</i> +that he knows just how it feels?" she asked, wonderingly, and then +solemnly repeated:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Saviour, what means this breadth of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This space before me lying;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These deeps where life so lingereth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This difficulty of dying?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So many turns abrupt and rude,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such ever-shifting grounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such strangely peopled solitudes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such strangely silent sounds?'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Her sufferings were very great, and sometimes the physical depression +exerted a definable influence on her spiritual state. Still she never +lost her consciousness of the presence of her Guide and Saviour, and +once, in the exhaustion of a severe paroxysm, she murmured two lines +from the same grand hymn:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Deeper! dark, dark, but yet I follow:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tighten, dear Lord, thy clasp."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a>Ah! there was something touching and noble beyond all words, in this +complete reliance and perfect trust; and it never again wavered.</p> + +<p>"Is it <i>very</i> dark, Mary dear?" her friend said one morning, the <i>last</i> +for her on earth.</p> + +<p>"Too dark to see," she whispered, "but I can go on if Christ will hold +my hand."</p> + +<p>After this a great solemnity shaded her face; she lost all consciousness +of this world. The frail, shadowy little body lay gray and passive, +while that greatest of all struggles was going on—the struggle of the +Eternal out of Time; but her lips moved incessantly, and occasionally +some speech of earth told the anxious watchers how hard the conflict +was. For instance, toward sundown she said in a voice strangely solemn +and anxious:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who are we trying to avoid?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From whom, Lord, must we hide?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! can the dying be decoyed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the Saviour by his side?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Loose sands and all things sinking!" "Are we near eternity?" "Can I +fall from Thee even now?" and ejaculations of similar kind, showed that +the spiritual struggle was a very palpable one to her; but it ended in a +great calm. For two hours she lay in a peace that passeth understanding, +and you would have said that she was dead but <a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a>for a vague look of +expectancy in the happy, restful face. Then suddenly there was a +lightening of the whole countenance; she stretched out her arms to meet +the messenger of the King, and entered heaven with this prayer on her +lips:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Both hands</i>, dear Lord, <i>both hands</i>.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Don't doubt but she got them; their mighty strength lifted her over the +dark river almost dry shod.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lie in her tent—for on the golden street<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With her unsandalled feet."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a></p> +<h2><a name="HEIRESS_OF_KURSTON_CHACE" id="HEIRESS_OF_KURSTON_CHACE"></a>THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE.</h2> + + +<p>Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace a strange bustle and +excitement had come—the master was returning with a young bride, whom +report spoke of as "bewitchingly beautiful." It was easy to believe +report in this case, for there must have been some strong inducement to +make Frederick Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman barely twenty. +It was not money; Mr. Kurston had plenty of money, and he was neither +ambitious nor avaricious; besides, the woman he had chosen was both poor +and extravagant.</p> + +<p>For once report was correct. Clementina Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, +had been a great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in silks and diamonds, +was a woman dedicated, by Nature for conquest.</p> + +<p>It was Clementina's beauty that had prevailed over the love-hardened +heart of the gay old gallant, who had escaped the dangers of forty +seasons of flirtation. He was entangled in the meshes of her golden +hair, fascinated by the spell of her love-languid eyes, her mouth like a +sad, heavy rose, her faultless form and her superb manners. He was blind +to all her faults; deaf to all <a name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a>his friends—in the glamour of her +enchantments he submitted to her implicitly, even while both his reason +and his sense of other obligations pleaded for recognition.</p> + +<p>Clementina had not won him very easily; the summer was quite over, +nearly all the visitors at the stylish little watering-place had +departed, the mornings and evenings were chilly, every day Mr. Kurston +spoke of his departure, and she herself was watching her maid pack her +trunks, and in no very amiable temper contemplating defeat, when the +reward of her seductive attentions came.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an interview."</p> + +<p>She gladly accorded it; she robed herself with subtle skill; she made +herself marvelous.</p> + +<p>"Mother," she said, as she left her dressing-room, "you will have a +headache. I shall excuse you. I can manage this business best alone."</p> + +<p>In an hour she came back triumphant. She put her feet on the fender, and +sat down before the cheerful blaze to "talk it over."</p> + +<p>"It is all right, mother. Good-by to our miserable shifts and +shabby-genteel lodgings and turned dresses. He will settle Kurston Chace +and all he has upon me, and we are to be married next month."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a>"Impossible, Tina! No <i>modiste</i> in the world could get the things that +are absolutely necessary ready in that time."</p> + +<p>"Everything is possible in New York—if you have money—and Uncle Gray +will be ready enough to buy my marriage clothes. Besides, I am going to +run no risks. If he should die, nothing on earth could console me for +the trouble I have had with him, but the fact of being his widow. There +is no sentiment in the affair, and the sooner one gets to ordering +dinners and running up bills, the better."</p> + +<p>"Poor Philip Lee!"</p> + +<p>"Mother, why did you mention him? Of course he will be angry, and call +me all kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a particle of common +sense he must see that it was impossible for me to marry a poor +lawyer—especially when I had such a much better offer. I suppose he +will be here to-night. You must see him, mother, and explain things as +pleasantly as possible. It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. +Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the ravings and protestations +he is sure to indulge in."</p> + +<p>In this supposition Clementina was mistaken. Philip Lee took the news of +her engagement to his wealthy rival with blank calmness and a civil wish +for her happiness. He made a stay of conventional <a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a>propriety, and said +all the usual polite platitudes, and then went away without any evidence +of the deep suffering and mortification he felt.</p> + +<p>This was Clementina's first drop of bitterness in her cup of success. +She questioned her mother closely as to how he looked, and what he said. +It did not please her that, instead of bemoaning his own loss, he should +be feeling a contempt for her duplicity—that he should use her to cure +his passion, when she meant to wound him still deeper. She felt at +moments as if she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth and position +she had so hardly won, only she knew him well enough to understand that +henceforward she could not easily deceive him again.</p> + +<p>It was pleasant to return to New York this fall; the news of the +engagement opened everyone's heart and home. Congratulations came from +every quarter; even Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done so well for +herself, and signified his approval by a handsome check.</p> + +<p>The course of this love ran smooth enough, and one fine morning in +October, Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. Henceforward Clementina +Kurston was a woman to be courted instead of patronized, and many a +woman who had spoken lightly of her beauty and qualities, was made to +<a name="Page_275" id="Page_275"></a>acknowledge with an envious pang that she had distanced them.</p> + +<p>This was her first reward, and she did not stint herself in extorting +it. To tell the truth, Clementina had many a bitter score of this kind +to pay off; for, as she said in extenuation, it was impossible for her +to allow herself to be in debt to her self-respect.</p> + +<p>Well, the wedding was over. She had abundantly gratified her taste for +splendor; she had smiled on those on whom she willed to smile; she had +treated herself extravagantly to the dangerous pleasure of social +revenge; she was now anxious to go and take possession of her home, +which had the reputation of being one of the oldest and handsomest in +the country.</p> + +<p>Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxicated with love, and not a little +flattered by the brilliant position which his wife had at once claimed. +Now that she was his wife, it amused him to see her order and patronize +and dispense with all that royal prerogative which belongs to beauty, +supported by wealth and position.</p> + +<p>Into his great happiness he had suffered no doubt, no fear of the +future, to come; but, as the day approached for their departure for +Kurston Chace, he grew singularly restless and uneasy.</p> + +<p>For, much as he loved and obeyed the <a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a>woman whom he called "wife," there +was another woman at Kurston whom he called "daughter," that he loved +quite as dearly, in a different way. In fact, of his daughter, Athel +Kurston, he stood just a little bit in fear, and she had ruled the +household at the Chace for many years as absolute mistress.</p> + +<p>No one knew anything of her mother; he had brought her to her present +home when only five years old, after a long stay on the Continent. A +strange woman, wearing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came with the +child as nurse; but she had never learnt to speak English, and had now +been many years dead.</p> + +<p>Athel knew nothing of her mother, and her early attempts to question her +father concerning her had been so peremptorily rebuffed that she had +long ago ceased to indulge in any curiosity regarding her. +However—though she knew it not—no one regarded her as Mr. Kurston's +heir; indeed, nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned such a +conclusion. True, he loved her dearly, and had spared no pains in her +education; but he never took her with him into the world, and, except in +the neighborhood of the Chace, her very existence was not known of.</p> + +<p>She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, not +likely to <a name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a>obey. He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; he +had said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both facts +could no longer be concealed.</p> + +<p>But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and he +was rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairs +between them without troubling himself to enter into explanations with +either of them. So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assuming +that she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised her +a pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possible +arrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house.</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The elegantly dressed young lady who +met her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her a +genuine surprise. Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the idea +of a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed +her. But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground; +she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from the +vantage-ground of her retirement sent Félicité to take observations.</p> + +<p>The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, and +Mrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the <a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a>drawing-room fully +prepared to defend her rights.</p> + +<p>"Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when we +arrived?"</p> + +<p>This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing manner +she had always found omnipotent.</p> + +<p>"That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina."</p> + +<p>This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on the +defensive generally assume.</p> + +<p>"Miss Kurston? Your sister, Frederick?"</p> + +<p>"No; my daughter, Clementina."</p> + +<p>"But you were never married before?"</p> + +<p>"So people say."</p> + +<p>"Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a person +of—"</p> + +<p>"I see no reason why you should not—that is, if you live in the same +house with me."</p> + +<p>A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and the +infatuated husband was willing to promise anything—everything—that his +charmer demanded—that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston's influence +was really stronger than her step-mother's, and the promises extorted +from his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his nobler +feelings.</p> + +<p>A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief sufferer +here was<a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a> Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere and +profound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake.</p> + +<p>One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, to +procure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, +assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum; +but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, as +she had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing a +degree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her.</p> + +<p>This letter completely broke the power of Clementina over her husband. +He asserted at once his authority, and insisted on returning immediately +to New York, where he thought it likely Athel had gone, and where, at +any rate, he could find suitable persons to aid him in his search for +her—a search which was henceforth the chief object of his life.</p> + +<p>A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. Kurston at once assumed the +position of a leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to her +satisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in the exclusive circle in which +she moved, and she speedily began the pretty, penitent, dejected rôle +which she judged would be most effective with him. But, though she would +<a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a>not see it, Philip Lee was proof against all her blandishments. He was +not the man to be deluded twice by the same false woman; he was a man of +honor, and detested the social ethics which scoffed at humanity's +holiest tie; and he was deeply in love with a woman who was the very +antipodes of the married siren.</p> + +<p>Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston mansion, and became a great +favorite, and finally the friend and confidant of its master. Gradually, +as month after month passed, the business of the Kurston estate came +into his hands, and he could have told, to the fraction of a dollar, the +exact sum for which Clementina Gray sold herself.</p> + +<p>Two years passed away. There was no longer on Clementina's part, any +pretence of affection for her husband; she went her own way, and devoted +herself to her own interests and amusements. He wearied with a hopeless +search and anxiety that found no relief, aged very rapidly, and became +subject to serious attacks of illness, any one of which might deprive +him of life.</p> + +<p>His wife now regretted that she had married so hastily; the settlements +promised had been delayed; she had trusted to her influence to obtain +more as his wife than as his betrothed. She had not known of a +counter-influence, and she had not <a name="Page_281" id="Page_281"></a>calculated that the effort of a +life-long deception might be too much for her. Quarrels had arisen in +the very beginning of their life at Kurston, the disappearance of Athel +had never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston became violently angry if +the settlement and disposing of his property was named.</p> + +<p>One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel's +disappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurston +to sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. He +signed the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lock +the door and sit down.</p> + +<p>"I am going," he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I +do not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled that +makes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter—the lawful +heiress of the Kurston lands—whom my wife drove, by subtle and +persistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able to +discover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put in +possession of her rights."</p> + +<p>"But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?"</p> + +<p>"They are all in this box—everything that is necessary. Take it with +you to your office to-night. Her mother—ah, me, how I loved her—was a +Polish lady of good <a name="Page_282" id="Page_282"></a>family; but I have neither time nor inclination now +to explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities which +induced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much for +what society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or my +conscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and the +living!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sank +gradually during the following week, and died—his last word, +"Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dying +injunction, to Philip Lee.</p> + +<p>A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor of +a sentimental woman to her first and—as she chose to consider it—her +only true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, +dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management of +the Kurston property.</p> + +<p>Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possible +nor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. The +world began to freely connect their names, and it was with much +difficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of his +indifference to the rich and beautiful widow.</p> + +<p>He found himself, indeed, becoming <a name="Page_283" id="Page_283"></a>gradually entangled in a net of +circumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of.</p> + +<p>The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like a +lawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed his +engagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils the +artful widow was encompassing him with—he must marry some one else.</p> + +<p>But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him; +yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He had +half a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to begin +with.</p> + +<p>So he put on his hat and went to his sister's house. He knew she was out +driving—had seen her pass five minutes before on her way to the park. +Then what did he go there for? Because he judged from experience, that +at this hour lovely Pauline Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, +was at home and alone.</p> + +<p>He was not wrong; she came into the parlor by one door as he entered it +by the other. The coincidence was auspicious, and he warmly pressed his +suit, pouring into Pauline's ears such a confused account of his +feelings and his affairs as only love could disentangle and understand.</p> + +<p>"But, Philip," said Pauline, "do you <a name="Page_284" id="Page_284"></a>mean to say that this Mrs. Kurston +makes love to you? Is she not a married woman, and her husband your best +friend and patron?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead!"</p> + +<p>"Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my father! my father!" And the poor girl +threw herself, with passionate sobbings, among the cushions of the sofa.</p> + +<p>This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondly +loved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress of +Kurston Chace!</p> + +<p>Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully her +father had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowing +of, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he had +done her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supreme +circle of the Kurstons.</p> + +<p>She had hidden her identity in her mother's maiden name—the only thing +she knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flight +from her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reason +to suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, by +cruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of her +father to protect her.</p> + +<p>It now became Philip's duty to acquaint <a name="Page_285" id="Page_285"></a>the second Mrs. Kurston with +her true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate Athel +Kurston in her rights.</p> + +<p>Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions—even his friends +believed him to have been cognizant all the time of the identity of +Pauline Alexes with Athel Kurston—and he was complimented on his +cleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of the +widow, for an incumbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these things +scarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel.</p> + +<p>As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gave +up the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was glad +to get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow and +disappointment," etc.</p> + +<p>But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth's +greatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling in +unrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she had +rejected for his poverty.</p> + +<p>She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of his +country. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to the +woman she hated as their "mother," and knew that they filled with light +and love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificed +her affection and her womanhood.</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286"></a></p> +<h2><a name="ONLY_THIS_ONCE" id="ONLY_THIS_ONCE"></a>"ONLY THIS ONCE."</h2> + + +<p>Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night +was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, +thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, +and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills.</p> + +<p>David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him +"temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard +wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him +love her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God.</p> + +<p>The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's +voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and +were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took +their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for +an old man in the late gloaming.</p> + +<p>Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark +furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a +stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out,<a name="Page_287" id="Page_287"></a> +"Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye."</p> + +<p>The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage +near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a +day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and +was hungry and worn out.</p> + +<p>David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner +and assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition +among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David +acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten +cake and his embers.</p> + +<p>It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the +hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he +stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they +came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies +David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they +weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say.</p> + +<p>The cottage was soon reached—a very humble one—only "a but and a ben," +with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great +men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not <a name="Page_288" id="Page_288"></a>clean and +cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a +little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten +cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man +reading.</p> + +<p>"Archie, here is a strange <i>gentleman</i> I found up at Donald's cairn."</p> + +<p>The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott +rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire. +The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently +in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then +the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions.</p> + +<p>"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught +o' a gentleman."</p> + +<p>David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied:</p> + +<p>"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty +to judge him."</p> + +<p>When Archie spoke again it was of other matters.</p> + +<p>"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the +sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like. +There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't +find it out."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289"></a>"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's +worth—then the figures are bound to come right, I should say."</p> + +<p>It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's +steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; +but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even +the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest +condition.</p> + +<p>When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David +was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the +morning than he had done at night.</p> + +<p>"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but +strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he +had never tasted porridge before.</p> + +<p>"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent +oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple's +omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased +the old man.</p> + +<p>The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a +fresh wind, <a name="Page_290" id="Page_290"></a>bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling +mists—wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw +something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He +looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said:</p> + +<p>"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?"</p> + +<p>"Sir!"</p> + +<p>There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, +shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed +this movement with great interest.</p> + +<p>"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this +way. Do you know who they are?"</p> + +<p>"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be +policemen—I dinna ken them mysel'."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell +you the whole truth."</p> + +<p>"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me; +yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are."</p> + +<p>There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and +he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by +overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291"></a>The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited +until his companion had regained his breath, said:</p> + +<p>"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as +may be; I dinna like fine speeches."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea +dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a +hard man, so I run away."</p> + +<p>"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed +to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the +beginning."</p> + +<p>The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated +ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his +employer <i>for just once</i>. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, +and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, +hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passing +ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor +mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed.</p> + +<p>"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's +a awfu' drawback."</p> + +<p>"You may give me up if you like, Mr.<a name="Page_292" id="Page_292"></a> Scott. I don't care much; I've +been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted +to-day."</p> + +<p>"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart, +when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what I +will do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it's +nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, and +get him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, a +decent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade—bookkeeping. +Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'll +gie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a +big hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up.</p> + +<p>"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen, +forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. I +dinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, +if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you, +there 'ud be meikle use in it," for Alexander Semple had heard the +proposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to the +good man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer in +order to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" to +denude himself of every shilling, and be <a name="Page_293" id="Page_293"></a>entirely dependent on the +sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully in +David's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave up +the £9 14s. 2d. in his possession.</p> + +<p>"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he said; "the bargain is fair enough +for you."</p> + +<p>"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna hae +keepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends."</p> + +<p>The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The £9 +odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangement +proposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; he +acknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of his +appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principles +and was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness, +and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriage +of Mr. Semple's trunks cost him.</p> + +<p>Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hill +cottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherd +and his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, though +ignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home, +soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive <a name="Page_294" id="Page_294"></a>from him. And once +Archie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was never +weary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a few +weeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister's +affairs.</p> + +<p>Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle of +summer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel was +complicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summer +gloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he +had loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate to +school for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell; +he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently +without avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katie +looked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolent +manner.</p> + +<p>That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger as +the lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to +Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been in +Greenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that the +couple had married and were to sail for America. They then discovered +that Archie's desk had been opened and £46 in <a name="Page_295" id="Page_295"></a>notes and gold taken. +Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archie +was angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seem +averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that if +he made known his loss, <i>he also</i> must confess that he had knowingly +harbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity of +wronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would give +him credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course of +conduct.</p> + +<p>Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simple +people a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savings +of a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient to +replace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple. +On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrison +and Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailed +for America the next day. After this certainty father and son never +named the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening, +some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave.</p> + +<p>"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did ten +years ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous <a name="Page_296" id="Page_296"></a>lives—never! +Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. +If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did."</p> + +<p>"I will, father."</p> + +<p>During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles. +Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, and +said there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently, +and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and +their baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was that +Alexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsome +presents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally, +and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her head +proudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage."</p> + +<p>But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long they +must be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and the +fair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and +mystery.</p> + +<p>Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father's +death married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit of +siller." Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his +wife's <a name="Page_297" id="Page_297"></a>brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly but +surely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and a +douce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters.</p> + +<p>One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passing +through the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire! +Fire!" arose on every side of him.</p> + +<p>"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy, +narrow wynds around.</p> + +<p>"In Gordon's Wynd."</p> + +<p>He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make his +way up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house was +one of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it was +almost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that not +unfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made a +bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice.</p> + +<p>By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house were +removed, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women and +children across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountain +training had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him.<a name="Page_298" id="Page_298"></a> +Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go +home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor, +showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, and +screaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only too +well. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had said +in dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor +of the opposite house again.</p> + +<p>In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death and +safety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage. +Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, and +carried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized his +preserver.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! The +last of seven!"</p> + +<p>"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie and +your child!"</p> + +<p>Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of the +burning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smoke +had smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardly +time to save his own life.</p> + +<p>"They are dead, Semple!"</p> + +<p>Then the poor creature burst into a <a name="Page_299" id="Page_299"></a>paroxysm of grief, moaned and +cried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserable +creature on earth.</p> + +<p>After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint of +selfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there was +not much now left to work upon—health, honor, self-respect were all +gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and then +make boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of his +wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, and +everything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune.</p> + +<p>Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for every +decent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spoke +ill of him behind his back.</p> + +<p>However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last very +long. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was called +upon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance toward +him; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of the +grave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged all +its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had been +extended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wasted +opportunities.</p> + +<p>"Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he <a name="Page_300" id="Page_300"></a>said, "and tell your four brave +boys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for +<i>only this once</i>. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that +<i>comes with sin</i> will <i>go with sorrow</i>. And never to doubt that to every +<i>evil doer</i> will certainly come his <i>evil day</i>."</p> + + + +<hr /><p><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301"></a></p> +<h2><a name="PETRALTOS_LOVE_STORY" id="PETRALTOS_LOVE_STORY"></a>PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY.</h2> + + +<p>I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom I +have no conventional authority to like—people out of "my set," and not +always of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always been +fortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendid +exceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that all +of us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friends +that circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate, +the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractive +to me.</p> + +<p>In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I +believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at +any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone +through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and +that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at +twenty different points.</p> + +<p>Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud +satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done <a name="Page_302" id="Page_302"></a>a good thing. He +looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his +ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did; +human beings don't know everything.</p> + +<p>People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder that +our acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and that +one of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was to +Petralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but not +me. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find out +that the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in the +streets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the best +hotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the other +necessaries of a pleasant existence.</p> + +<p>He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we went +together. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had told +myself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill procession +again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half an +hour's ride, Jack," I felt like going, and I went.</p> + +<p>Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing +happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes +flashed and dropped; he <a name="Page_303" id="Page_303"></a>whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if +he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew +suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was +approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had +no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly +beautiful.</p> + +<p>I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there +was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon +complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still +passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident +suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of +meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, +lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they +entered a stately house together, "Are they married?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"He seems devotedly in love with her."</p> + +<p>"He loved her two years before he saw her."</p> + +<p>"Impossible."</p> + +<p>"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story."</p> + +<p>"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together."</p> + +<p>"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock."</p> + +<p><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304"></a>Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious +in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests +under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of +everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging +chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a +bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, +and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana.</p> + +<p>I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was +Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that +easel so that you can see the picture on it."</p> + +<p>I did so.</p> + +<p>"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the +locality—describe it."</p> + +<p>"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long +streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short +grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful +colors."</p> + +<p>"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what +else do you see?"</p> + +<p>"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl +standing <a name="Page_305" id="Page_305"></a>on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored +flowers."</p> + +<p>"Describe the girl to me."</p> + +<p>I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and +waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has—Petralto, what makes you +ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe <i>light</i>; and +the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have +thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her."</p> + +<p>"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood. +When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full of +yellow jasmine. I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my whole +life, and every joy and hope it contained."</p> + +<p>"What were you doing in Texas?"</p> + +<p>"What are you doing in New York? I was born in Texas. My family, an old +Spanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build San +Antonio in 1730. I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do—half my time +in the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side of +nature. I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been an +artist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in my +twentieth year I went to Rome to study.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306"></a>"I can pass the next five years. I do not pretend to regret them, +though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity. I +enjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in the +matter. I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind. I +loved nature and I loved art. I warmed both hands at the glowing fire of +life. Time may do his worst. I have been happy, and I can throw those +five careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour.</p> + +<p>"But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got a +letter urging my immediate return home. My father had got himself +involved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health. My younger +brother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranch +needed authoritative overlooking. I was never so fond of art as to be +indifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurrying +West.</p> + +<p>"Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me! The +noble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church; +somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, +company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexican +peons, was sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished, to find how easily +I went back to my old <a name="Page_307" id="Page_307"></a>life, and spent whole days in the saddle +investigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch.</p> + +<p>"I had been riding one day for ten hours, and was so fatigued that I +determined to spend the night with one of my herdsmen. He had a little +shelter under some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, and after a cup of +coffee and a meal of dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down the +river bank. Then the cool, dusky shadows of the wood tempted me. I +entered it. It was an enchanted wood, for there stood Jessy Lorimer, +just as I had painted her.</p> + +<p>"I did not move nor speak. I watched her, spell-bound. I had not even +the power, when she had mounted her pony and was coming toward me, to +assume another attitude. She saw that I had been watching her, and a +look, half reproachful and half angry, came for a moment into her face. +But she inclined her head to me as she passed, and then went off at a +rapid gallop before I could collect my senses.</p> + +<p>"Some people, Jack, walk into love with their eyes open, calculating +every step. I tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my senses, +narrowed in one moment the whole world down to one bewitching woman. I +did not know her, of course; but I soon should. I was well aware she +could not live very far away, and that my herd must <a name="Page_308" id="Page_308"></a>be able to give me +some information. I was so deeply in love that this poor ignorant +fellow, knowing something about this girl, seemed to me to be a person +to be respected, and even envied.</p> + +<p>"I gave him immediately a plentiful supply of cigars, and sitting down +beside him opened the conversation with horses, but drifted speedily +into the subject of new settlers.</p> + +<p>"'Were there any since I had left?'</p> + +<p>"'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one likely family.'</p> + +<p>"'Much of a family?'</p> + +<p>"'You may bet on that, sir.'</p> + +<p>"'Any pleasant young men?'</p> + +<p>"'Reckon so. Mighty likely young gal.'</p> + +<p>"So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lorimer, my beauty's father, was a +Scotchman, who had bought the ranch which had formerly belonged to the +old Spanish family of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty Inez and +Dolores Yturri, with their black eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy +<i>embonpoint</i>; and thought of golden-haired Jessy Lorimer in their dark, +latticed rooms.</p> + +<p>"Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful Jessy! How I loved her in those +happy days that followed. How I humored her grave, stern father and +courted her brothers for her sake! I was a slave to the whole <a name="Page_309" id="Page_309"></a>family, +so that I might gain an hour with or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret it +now? Not one moment. Such delicious hours as we had together were worth +any price. I would throw all my future to old Time, Jack, only to live +them over again."</p> + +<p>"That is a great deal to say, Petralto."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps; and yet I will not recall it. In those few months everything +that was good in me prospered and grew. Jessy brought out nothing but +the best part of my character. I was always at my best with her. No +thought of selfish pleasure mingled in my love for her. If it delighted +me to touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against my cheek, to meet +her earnest, subduing gaze, it also made me careful by no word or look +to soil the dainty purity of my white lily.</p> + +<p>"I feared to tell her that I loved her. But I did do it, I scarcely know +how. The softest whisper seemed too loud against her glowing cheek. She +trembled from head to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture when she +first put her little hand in mine, and suffered me to draw her to my +heart. Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think of it. I—I first, I +alone, woke that sweet young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, but +no one else can ever be to her what I have been."</p> + +<p>And here Petralto, giving full sway to his <a name="Page_310" id="Page_310"></a>impassioned Southern nature, +covered his face with his hands and wept hot, regretful tears.</p> + +<p>Tears come like blood from men of cold, strong temperaments, but they +were the natural relief of Petralto's. I let him weep. In a few minutes +he leaped up, and began pacing the room rapidly as he went on:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with a dour, stiff refusal that left +me no hope of any relenting. 'He had reasons, more than one,' he said; +'he was not saying anything against either my Spanish blood or my +religion; but it was no fault in a Scotsman to mate his daughter with +people of her own kith.'</p> + +<p>"There was no quarrel, and no discourtesy; but I saw I could bend an +iron bar with my pleadings just as soon as his determination. Jessy +received orders not to meet me or speak to me alone; and the possibility +of disobeying her father's command never suggested itself to her. Even I +struggled long with my misery before I dared to ask her to practice her +first deceit.</p> + +<p>"She would not meet me alone, but she persuaded her mother to come once +with her to our usual tryst in the wood. Mrs. Lorimer spoke kindly but +hopelessly, and covered her own face to weep while Jessy and I took of +each other a passionate <a name="Page_311" id="Page_311"></a>farewell. I promised her then never to marry +anyone else; and she!—I thought her heart would break as I laid her +almost fainting in her mother's arms.</p> + +<p>"Yet I did not know how much Jessy really was to me until I suddenly +found out that her father had sent her back to Scotland, under the +pretence of finishing her education. I had been so honorably considerate +of Jessy's Puritan principles that I felt this hasty, secret movement +exceedingly unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became hateful to me, the +duties of the ranch distracting; and my brother Felix returning about +this time, we made a division of the estate. He remained at the Garcia +mansion, I rented out my possessions, and went, first to New Orleans, +and afterward to New York.</p> + +<p>"In New York I opened a studio, and one day a young gentleman called and +asked me to draw a picture from some crude, imperfect sketch which a +friend had made. During the progress of the picture he frequently called +in. For some reason or other—probably because we were each other's +antipodes in tastes and temperament—he became my enthusiastic admirer, +and interested himself greatly to secure me a lucrative patronage.</p> + +<p>"Yet some subtle instinct, which I cannot pretend to divine or explain, +constantly <a name="Page_312" id="Page_312"></a>warned me to beware of this man. But I was ashamed and angry +at myself for linking even imaginary evil with so frank and generous a +nature. I defied destiny, turned a deaf ear to the whisperings of my +good genius, and continued the one-sided friendship—for I never even +pretended to myself that I had any genuine liking for the man.</p> + +<p>"One day, when we had become very familiar, he ran up to see me about +something, I forget what, and not finding me in the outer apartments, +penetrated to my private room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox first +saw the woman you saw with him to-night—the picture which you are now +looking at—and he fell as desperately in love with it, in his way, as I +had done in the Guadalupe woods with the reality. I cannot tell you how +much it cost me to restrain my anger. He, however, never noticed I was +angry. He had but one object now—to gain from me the name and residence +of the original.</p> + +<p>"It was no use to tell him it was a fancy picture, that he was sighing +for an imagination. He never believed it for a moment. I would not sell +it, I would not copy it, I would not say where I had painted it; I kept +it to my most sacred privacy. He was sure that the girl existed, and +that I knew where she lived. He was very rich, without an occupation or +an object, and Jessy's <a name="Page_313" id="Page_313"></a>pure, lovely face haunted him day and night, and +supplied him with a purpose.</p> + +<p>"He came to me one day and offering me a large sum of money, asked me +finally to reveal at least the locality of which I had painted the +picture. His free, frank unembarrassed manner compels me to believe that +he had no idea of the intolerable insult he was perpetrating. He had +always been accustomed to consider more or less money an equivalent for +all things under the sun. But you, Jack, will easily understand that the +offer was followed by some very angry words, and that his threat to hunt +the world over to find my beauty was not without fear to me.</p> + +<p>"I heard soon after that Will Lennox had gone to the South. I had +neither hidden nor talked about my former life and I was ignorant of how +much he knew or did not know of it. He could trace me easily to New +Orleans; how much further would depend upon his tact and perseverance. +Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am uncertain, but my heart fell +with a strange presentment of sorrow when I saw his name, a few weeks +afterward, among the European departures.</p> + +<p>"The next thing I knew of Will Lennox was his marriage to some famous +Scotch beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty was +Jessy Lorimer. I <a name="Page_314" id="Page_314"></a>feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Will you call there?"</p> + +<p>"I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly she +pressed the invitation?"</p> + +<p>"Do not accept it, Petralto."</p> + +<p>He shook his head, and remained silent. The next afternoon I was +astonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. +He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to men +accustomed to have the whole world minister unto them.</p> + +<p>He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, +boastful conversation. He did not notice the ashy face, the blazing +eyes, the set lips, the trembling hands, of the passionate Spanish +nature, until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of unreasonable words and +taunts, and ordered Lennox out of his presence.</p> + +<p>Even then the stupid, good-natured, purse-proud man could not see his +danger. He began to apologize to me for Petralto's rudeness, and excuse +"anything in a fellow whom he had cut out so badly."</p> + +<p>"Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved me first; you can never have her +whole heart. Begone! If I had you on the Guadalupe, where Jessy and I +lived and loved, I would—"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315"></a>The sentence was not finished. Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, +and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. I +stayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleased +with him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a +few consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over.</p> + +<p>"Lennox tortured me," he said, passionately. "How could he be so +unfeeling, so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn what chain of +circumstances led him to find out my love and then steal her? Everything +he said tortured me but one fact—Jessy was alone and thoroughly +miserable. Poor little pet! She thought I had forgotten her, and so she +married him—not for love; I won't believe it."</p> + +<p>"But," I said, "Petralto, you have no right to hug such a delusion; and +seeing that you had made no attempt to follow Jessy and marry her, she +had every right to suppose you really had forgotten her. Besides, I +think it very likely that she should love a young, rich, good-looking +fellow like Will Lennox."</p> + +<p>"In not pursuing her I was following Jessy's own request and obeying my +own plighted promise. It was understood between us that I should wait +patiently until Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs <a name="Page_316" id="Page_316"></a>would then +have regarded her as her own mistress and acknowledged her right to +marry as she desired; and if I did not write, she has not wanted +constant tokens of my remembrance. I have trusted her," he said, +mournfully, "without a sign from her."</p> + +<p>That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox and the devotion of her husband +were on every tongue. But married is not mated, and the best part of +Jessy Lorimer's beauty had never touched Will Lennox. Her pure, simple, +poetic temperament he had never understood, and he felt in a dim, +uncertain way that the noblest part of his wife escaped him.</p> + +<p>He could not enter into her feelings, and her spiritual superiority +unconsciously irritated him. Jessy had set her love's first music to the +broad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wronging +herself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. This +reserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of those +self-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simply +true to the light within her. But her way was not Will Lennox's way, her +finer fancies and lighter thoughts were mysteries to his grosser nature.</p> + +<p>So the thing happened which always has and always will happen in such +cases; when <a name="Page_317" id="Page_317"></a>the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's great personal +beauty had lost their first novelty and power, she gradually became to +her husband—"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his +horse."</p> + +<p>I did not much blame Will Lennox. It is very hard to love what we do not +comprehend. A wife who could have sympathized in his pursuits, talked +over the chances of his "Favorite," or gone to sea with him in his +yacht, would always have found Will an indulgent and attentive husband. +But fast horses did not interest Jessy, and going to sea made her ill; +so gradually these two fell much further apart than they ought to have +done.</p> + +<p>Now, if Petralto had been wicked and Jessy weak, he might have revenged +himself on the man and woman who had wrought him so much suffering. But +he had set his love far too high to sully her white name; and Jessy, in +that serenity which comes of lofty and assured principles, had no idea +of the possibility of her injuring her husband by a wrong thought. Yet +instinctively they both sought to keep apart; and if by chance they met, +the grave courtesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the other left +nothing for evil hopes or thoughts to feed upon. One morning, two years +after Jessy's marriage, I received a note from Petralto, asking me to +call upon him <a name="Page_318" id="Page_318"></a>immediately. To my amazement, his rooms were dismantled, +his effects packed up, and he was on the point of leaving New York.</p> + +<p>"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?"</p> + +<p>"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, +society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. +I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men."</p> + +<p>So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him +forgot him—forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him.</p> + +<p>I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German +philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot +Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged +and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divine +philosophy," took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not waste +my time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I +did not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare.</p> + +<p>Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three years +after Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenly +entered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I have +used the word<a name="Page_319" id="Page_319"></a> "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutes +that Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of a +bridegroom.</p> + +<p>Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feeling +congratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow came +back so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, +and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride.</p> + +<p>I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wondered +what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I +rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of +eternal fidelity to his first love.</p> + +<p>I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in +fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Will +must be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, +when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly I +shut my book and lit my cigar.</p> + +<p>"'All's well that ends well,' my dear fellow," I said, when we had both +smoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox's +death. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot."</p> + +<p>Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for that +threat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was <a name="Page_320" id="Page_320"></a>drowned at sea two +years ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near the +shore, and all on board perished."</p> + +<p>"I did not hear of it at the time."</p> + +<p>"Nor I either. I will tell you how I heard. About a year ago I went, as +was my frequent custom, to the little open glade in the forest where I +had first seen Jessy. As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I saw a +beautiful woman, clothed in black, walk slowly toward the very same +jasmine vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull down a loaded +branch. Can you guess how my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet and +cried out before I knew what I was doing, 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' She +stood quite still, looking toward me. Oh, how beautiful she was! And +when at length we clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I knew +without a word that my love had come to me."</p> + +<p>"She had waited a whole year?"</p> + +<p>"True; I liked her the better for that. After Will's death she went to +Scotland—put both herself and me out of temptation. She owed this much +to the memory of a man who had loved her as well as he was capable of +doing. But I know how happy were the steps that brought her back to the +Guadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon under the jasmine vine paid +for all. I am the happiest man in all the wide world."</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 16222-h.txt or 16222-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/2/2/16222">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/2/16222</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..12280ea --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #16222 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16222) diff --git a/old/16222-8.txt b/old/16222-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b72693e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/16222-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8056 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Winter Evening Tales, by Amelia Edith +Huddleston Barr + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Winter Evening Tales + "Cash," a Problem of Profit and Loss; Franz Müller's Wife; The Voice at Midnight; Six and Half-a-Dozen; The Story of David Morrison; Tom Duffan's Daughter; The Harvest of the Wind; The Seven Wise Men of Preston; Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money; Just What He Deserved; An Only Offer; Two Fair Deceivers; The Two Mr. Smiths; The Story of Mary Neil; The Heiress of Kurston Chace; Only This Once; Petralto's Love Story + + +Author: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr + + + +Release Date: July 6, 2005 [eBook #16222] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Louise Pryor, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(https://www.pgdp.net) + + + +WINTER EVENING TALES + +by + +AMELIA E. BARR + +Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife," +"Friend Olivia," etc., etc. + +Published by +The Christian Herald +Louis Klopsch, Proprietor, +Bible House, New York. + +1896 + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +PREFACE. + + +In these "Winter Evening Tales," Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers +a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. +There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a +luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so +delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"--each a perfect gem +of romance, in an artistic setting--the author has touched many phases +of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the +spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. +Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity +that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women +are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they +move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the +strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not +a make-believe. + +Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She +unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm +that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any +of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, +for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the +misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces +us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble +and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited by the absurd and +incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by +the frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can +only come from pure and noble souls. + +In these "Tales," as in many of her other works, humble life has held a +strong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn +in this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its wide +range, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has but +little relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a strong +love for those whose condition makes life for them something real and +earnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, the +Christian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr and +her work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, but +spiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes for +morality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christian +understands the term. + +G.H. SANDISON. + +_New York, 1896._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + +"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss +Franz Müller's Wife +The Voice at Midnight +Six and Half-a-Dozen +The Story of David Morrison +Tom Duffan's Daughter +The Harvest of the Wind +The Seven Wise Men of Preston +Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money +Just What He Deserved +An Only Offer +Two Fair Deceivers +The Two Mr. Smiths +The Story of Mary Neil +The Heiress of Kurston Chace +Only This Once +Petralto's Love Story + + + + +Winter Evening Tales. + + + + +CASH. + +A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED BY DAVID LOCKERBY. + + +PART I. + + "Gold may be dear bought." + +A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from it +was the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet, +though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor of +old time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and +midway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind it +noble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air of +still delightful studies." + +From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One of +them set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain, +breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, +shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around him and said, mournfully, +"Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! I +never tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it and +Eden." + +"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High street +has its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college, +and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm not +above preaching for my saint." + +"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such a +head and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore, +there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may come +even to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet." + +"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better to +be Lord Provost of Glasgow city." + +"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; and +what now if he had had ten?" + +"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are you +going to Mary Moir's to-night?" + +"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away." + +David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongate +there was no time for further remark. Willie Caird turned eastward +toward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon set +down before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the +back door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmest +shadow of a smile. + +"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?" + +"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anent +you till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mair +sense, or further away." + +"Why should they quarrel about me?" + +"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? But +the mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wad +fain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; while +maister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and add +Ellenmount to Lockerby, and--" + +"And if I could, Janet?" + +"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in a +bottle." + +"But what was the upshot, Janet?" + +"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk." + +Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down again +his face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had been +against the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite familiar to +him; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for the +ministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants of +the King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence which +they enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for her +son. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And were +not even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind a +minister in his gown and bands?" + +Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better. +All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling his +flock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of him +becoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands of +Ellenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. During +these twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to their +several intentions. + +Now David's teachers--without any knowledge of these diverse +influences--had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talents +confided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of God +and humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and had +with all his book-learning the very smallest intimate acquaintance with +himself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and had +not even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love for +gold which really was the ruling passion in his breast. + +The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, and +he was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly down +stairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quite +resolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individual +opinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen of +two-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up and +perfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul." About his +thirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; but +even now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was very +attractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortably +disposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew better +than begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have he +determined to retain. + +After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading, +Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in the +background." + +David leisurely turned to the title page. "'Selections from the Latin +Poets,' father." + +"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or some +book o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie." + +"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: but +there is no way a man may take and not find the humanities good +road-fellows." + +"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you want +him to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can serve +him or no." + +"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife--it's nane +o' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names--and, Davie, your uncle +maks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it." + +"What is it, father?" + +"Twa years you are to serve him for £200 a year; and at the end, if both +are satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buy +you--and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldest +bank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinna +fling awa' good fortune--dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look it +to you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun--for twenty years I +hae been telling mysel' 'my Davie will win again the bonnie braes o' +Ellenmount.'" + +There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled and +warmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they came +nearer to each other than they had ever done before. + +And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sich +temptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' the +Gordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and I +trow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll just +gang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew and +serve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and, +Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing and +every plack and bawbee o' my money." Then, seeing no change in David's +face, she made her last, great concession--"And, Davie, you may marry +Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as may +be." + +"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand, +Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you hae +served your twa years I'se buy you a £20,000 share in the Gordon Bank, +and a man wi' £20,000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. But +I'm aboon bribing you--a fair offer isna a bribe." + +The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved to +make his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtually +granted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worth +having without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now that +he had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little as +ever. + +"The first step binds to the next," he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may +have something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think over +things until the morn." + +A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, and +though it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subject +tedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by the +light in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming out +of the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, the +white-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some cold +moor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked. + +"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," said Janet, "an' the breast o' a +bird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way." David was of +the same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things and +the pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant +and friend--a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyish +troubles or youthful scrapes. + +It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when he +pushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberry +dainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared money +on you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going to +college, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fause +Englishers?" + +"I am going to London, Janet." + +"Whatna for?" + +"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet--it is a +solemn charge." + +"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's council +chamber that I ken of." + +"Mary wants me to go to London." + +"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. I +wouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for a +moment--but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go by +himsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritance +for a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! but +the children o' Esau live for ever." + +"Mary said,"-- + +"I dinna want to hear what Mary said. It would hae been nae loss if +she'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an' +hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir, +dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going to +keep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body." + +Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road to +London as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeply +offended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways very +annoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. His +mother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that was +a constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell him +that "he was clean out o' the way o' duty." + +"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and +the verra tongue o' Apollos--weapons wherewith to reason against all +unrighteousness and to win the souls o' men." + +"Special pleading, Willie." + +"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take the +trouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' a +sword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple took +to the balances and the 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do you +not mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young men +in St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows--every ane o' them to +its mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' on +fire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed you +to the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, +Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold." + +From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it had +not been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seat +by Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendid +dreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty so +bewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her. +Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife, +even if he should take up the cross laid down before him--and as for +giving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be a +possible duty in such a contingency. + +But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to David +by the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on the +morning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together to the +Caledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seat +in his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'se +warrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' should +thrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse." + +"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget to +give according to my prosperings." + +"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and never +forget that money is money's brither--an' you put two pennies in a purse +they'll creep thegither. + +"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and though +rich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'll +tak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that are +God's." + +"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind, +father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leave +the world no better for my living." + +"God bless you, lad; and the £20,000 will be to the fore when it is +called for, and you shall make it £60,000, and I'll see again Ellenmount +in the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers, +and gie without grudging of your increase." + +David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand the +struggle going on in his father's heart--the wish to say something that +might quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarily +tender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby was +miserable and ashamed that morning in the service. + +And yet he was not selfish in the matter--that much in his favor must be +admitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved so +dearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken great +interest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing him +a successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom pride +of lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper than +individual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty was +to the house of Lockerby. + +He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, nor +were his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child to +the same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a great +trial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and though +Mrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment, +everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind of +comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angry +silence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfare +of sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet, +though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin," had been forty +years in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions on +any subject. + +Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as the +Eve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie," +she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' the +sunshine for pounds sterling!" + +From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preached +little daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the very +stem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that +"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir's +temptations." + +"For she just bewitched the laddie," said Janet, angrily; and, +doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet's +administration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir. + + +PART II. + +"God's work is soon done." + +It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he will +only become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight one +morning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours. +It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men sat +silent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought of +the college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and the +symposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had been +days when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with things +impossible," or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon," had not been +unreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's dreary +gospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair to +be tabulated in averages. + +He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritated +him. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not always +welcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was going +one way and he another. They might never see each other again; and-- + + If they should meet one day, + If _both_ should not forget + They could clasp hands the accustomed way. + +For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subject +yet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted in +one twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings of +his home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrant +sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of his +name. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctioned +nothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were of +those well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as +"the sitters in pews." + +In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to opera +and theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; on +fine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten their +dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but there +were none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in the +same degree as they were to David. + +To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been to +him; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories of +wonderful sermons and solemn sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. +Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thames +and humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone could +recall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping +crowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousand +hearthstones: + + O God of Bethel, by whose hand + Thy people still are led. + +He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus," heard above the +witching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's," or the tearful +tenderness of "Communion." + +To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter of +course, as a part of their daily life and education. David had been +obliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and his +mother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to +cultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and he +frankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it was +harder work getting to hell than to heaven. + +But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, and +begin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he had +not heard from Mary for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him that +while he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill and +suffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothing +but sickness would have made Mary forget him. + +The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her, +full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of their +future life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did not +fail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort of +self-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night write +long letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There was +a good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and his +marriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keep +the influence of the old and better life around him to be in closer +communion with it." + +Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and said +cheerily, "Good morning, uncle." + +"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here." + +Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretched +hands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is she +dead?" + +"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething wrang but will turn to right. Mary +Moir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear the +news from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a loss +that's a great gain." + +"Who did she marry?" + +"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as his +gold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi' +the match--or the settlements--and Mary comes o' a gripping kind. +There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' they +werena fastened on." + +Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk on +the subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But it +was a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for a +loftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused to +spring up into active existence a passion which was to rule him +absolutely--a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship had +proved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kinds +were a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for him +than to become a rich man. + +"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby's +name; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking to +David Lockerby as they do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, and +wisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money is +best of all things." + +Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments. +Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for the +first time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged +himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope. +Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told his +brother-in-law that the £20,000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he +choose to advance David in the firm. + +"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime. +The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contented +until he settles cannily doon to his interest tables." + +So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firm +of Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some of +the pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarely +seen among men of his own age--women he never mingled with. He removed +to his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his life +very much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a run +northward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the Continent, but +nearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan or +investment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man, +and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever more +affectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made an +independent woman by his grateful consideration. + +He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he +visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to see +him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of +Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with +the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was +welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I +hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears; +and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for +many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling +element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become +the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed; +the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum of +his daily life. + +Ten years later both his uncle and father were dead, and both had left +David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more +eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of +thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was +the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age +fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and +children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried +Janet continually on this subject. + +"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, +an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his +bargains." + +"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me--an' him sae honored, an' guid +an' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him." + +"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody's +charged him wi' wrangdoing--that's enough. There's nae need to set him +up for a saint." + +"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet." + +"I was that blind--ance." + +"We are blind creatures, Janet." + +"Wi' _excepts_, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers." + +This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the +same time David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, +wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden +crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly +to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public +opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as +the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, +in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service. + +He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions +or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have +allowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than he +could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally +followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old +church in the Canongate. + +Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased +than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place +consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their +purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church +on the Doo Hill in Glasgow--just such a large, bare, solemn-looking +house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the +precentor, the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not +notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he +was holding a session with his own soul. + +A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon was +beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had +been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old +Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in +the wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '_What +shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own +soul_?'" + +For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found +him out again--it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, +David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, +thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. +Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious of +the moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the +trees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and +smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer. + +_What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit_? +David was quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here +was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the +church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to +the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in +nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. +Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a +hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he +looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he +was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering +the ever present thought. + +But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless +his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told +himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had +affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times +with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence. + +The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee +room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No +one hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency, +help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said +the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face. + +And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. +He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own--only his +own--but something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave up +his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak +his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having +losses; and something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave +such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its +hand. + +The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and +almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks +that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost +unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. +William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know +that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and +therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's +library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful +boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and +sports as if he was one of them. + +"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's +greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other's +hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one +had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of +Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are +reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual +experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was +neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their +conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie +had raised. + +But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each +other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and +opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able +to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. + +"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, +that ever you asked yon fearsome question of--and I know it. I have +achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have +wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever +the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have made +money--plenty of it--and it does not pay me. What am I to do?" + +"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave to +the rich man--'distribute unto the poor--and come, follow me!'" + +Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle +Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams +touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid +out in it. + +"You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though +David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded +therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see +the topstone brought on with rejoicing." + +Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the +worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded +"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble building +arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms +of Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, and +into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread. + +In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's +energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other +good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his time +and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's +Hall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir +the cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and their +pocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against +drunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away +from Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a public +meeting and started a subscription list with £1000 down on the table. + +But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of +them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o' +her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie +"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns." + +"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might +live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house." + +"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o' +sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him--" + +"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day." + +"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' +a £1000 argument." + +"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and +who would therefore gie nothing at a'." + +"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his +condition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on +the good work going on." + +"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'--" + +"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in +auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David +Lockerby 'blessed.'" + + + + +FRANZ MÜLLER'S WIFE. + + +"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant +or Dugald Stewart?" + +"None of them. I am reading _Faust_." + +"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in +the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to +the right about, stick to Shakespeare." + +"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women." + +"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, +condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin +Christine Stromberg." + +"I do not know the young lady." + +"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother +Max was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?" + +"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look +alike." + +"But you will go?" + +"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuse +yourself while I dress." + +"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of +Christine." + +For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. +He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the +careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a +familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of +his life for any clew to this familiarity. + +He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, +thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted +up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still +and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the +regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and +Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Müller. +No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in +love with you." + +Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love +for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but +the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no +one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are +sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally +willing to respect it. + +Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who +fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It +was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never +have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As +soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation +possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a +brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare +exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty +and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching +him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what +questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the +clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her. + +"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured--"I wonder where +it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, +and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was +only to take it up again in dreams. + +As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One +has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness," +he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the +waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but +dawning day. + +"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his +love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any +probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had +found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite +avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again. + +He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. +Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, +and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to have +breakfast," she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Müller, and +have a cup of coffee with us." + +Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it out +as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked in +her long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows of +pale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he +made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had +not the slightest conception. + +A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily suffered +some wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste like +ordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls +became sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite +sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as +that breakfast on the avenue. + +When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride. +They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the +trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and +the spring airs were full of happiness and hope. Christine was arranging +and watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz's +hands and hers had lingered happily together. So now love gave to this +mortal an immortal's confidence. He never thought of sighing and fearing +and trembling. His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believed +that sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say to +her. + +"Shall we ride?" he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at her +with eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness. + +Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of what +people would say. But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, +and laughed at society; and before Christine had decided which of her +costumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door. + +How they rattled up the avenue and through the park! How the green +branches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped about +them! By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgotten +they were mortal. Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidence +of love's exaltation into love's silent tender melancholy, were just as +blissful. + +They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, but +just before they parted Franz said, "I have been waiting thirty years +for you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed." + +And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her +blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave +them to him. + +Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor. Franz +must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet +weeks and months for him. He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and +laid his whole life down at Christine's feet. There was no definite +engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as +surely as the end of the season. + +Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, but +the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched. +And Franz was not anxious at all on this score. His father, a shrewd +business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. "It +is not the boy's fault," he said to his partner, "he gets it from his +grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it." + +So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented +himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and +securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase. He +had bought wisely, and Franz's income was a certain and handsome one, +with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient +to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been +accustomed. + +So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. +All he had should be Christine's and her father should settle the matter +just as he thought best for his daughter. In a general way this was +understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize +with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these +enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm +of their young lives' idyl. + +Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancient +superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect +happiness. Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to +follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to +have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate. + +But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October +days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been +so green and gay, Franz's dream was rudely broken--broken by a Mr. James +Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth _three +millions_. In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of +influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over +Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him. + +Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone knew the whole secret; for of +course money was at the foundation. Indeed, in these days, in all public +and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but "How +much is it?" Franz Müller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on +sight. Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man +could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate +affection. + +In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the +possibility of such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of +such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and +if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations +that she had accepted so happily all summer. As for Christine, she had +constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with +weeping. + +At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a +month with some relative near Boston. A pitiful little note from +Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information +as to the locality of her relative's house, and no invitation to call, +he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him--wait +patiently for their return. + +At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently +written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and +anger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found +the house where Christine was staying. He was received at first very +shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, +the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help +it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very +miserable. + +Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, "just for five +minutes." The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, +weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The five +minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back +to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been +broken in two for this life. + +One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz," +he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old +Clarke?" + +"Yes." + +"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine." + +"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a woman +appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her +forcing her to do it." + +"I thought she was to be your wife." + +"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that. +If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine +Stromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child! +God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his +friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation. + +In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine +and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style +of extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine's +reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but +though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their +suggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna +and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she +went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a +wretched spectre. + +They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a +look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no +recognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered that +she had done very well to herself. + +Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the +world regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and her +father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franz +watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy +coldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily +jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched +passion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" he +asked himself; "and these little ones, what have they done?" So at last +he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to +regard them as part and portion of his love. + +But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected. +Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis came +to tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, for +he had found out that the beaten track is the safest. + +"Franz," he said, "have you heard about Clarke? His affairs are +frightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago." + +"And Christine? Does she know? Who has gone to her?" + +"My wife is with her. Clarke shot himself in his own room. Christine was +the first to reach him. He left a letter saying he was absolutely +ruined." + +"Where will Christine and the children go?" + +"I suppose to her father's. Not a pleasant place for her now. +Christine's step-mother dislikes both her and the children." + +Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling of +disappointment. "I thought he would have done something for her," he +said to his wife. "Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent." + +Ten days after he came home with a different story. "There never was a +woman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine," he said. "Hardy & Hall +sent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on her +before her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It seems the +old gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and in +order to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy's +charge two beautifully furnished cottages. There is something like an +accumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one is +luckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once. I +always thought the property was Hardy's own before. Very thoughtful in +Clarke." + +"It is not Clarke one bit. I don't believe he ever did it. It is some +arrangement of Franz Müller's." + +"For goodness' sake don't hint such a thing, Lizzie! Christine would not +go, and we should have her here very soon. Besides, I don't believe it. +Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since." + +The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife's opinion. "What do +you think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to me to-day and asked if +Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars. I told him Clarke gave +me two thousand about the time we were married." + +"'Say _loaned_, Louis,' he answered, 'to oblige me. Here is two +thousand and the interest for six years. Go and pay it to Christine; she +must need money.' So I went." + +"Is she settled comfortably?" + +"Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz is sure to marry her, and he is +growing richer every day." + +It seemed as if Louis's prediction would come true. Franz began to drive +out every afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he contented himself with just +passing Christine's gate. But he soon began to stop for the children, +and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the +parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea. + +For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others +noticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left +him weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the last +summer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first +one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago +with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only +strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into +her face. + +One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin," he said, +"your friend Müller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days, +perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is near +the last." + +"Does he know it?" + +"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once." + +So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his last +preparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis," he +said; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. I +have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when--when I am +gone. + +"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me: +there are ten of them, every one ten years old." + +"Is that all, dear Franz?" + +"Yes; my will has long been made. Except a legacy to yourself, all goes +to Christine--dear, dear Christine!" + +"You love her yet, then, Franz?" + +"What do you mean? I have loved her for ages. I shall love her forever. +She is the other half of my soul. In some lives I have missed her +altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one." + +"Do you know what you are saying, Franz?" + +"Very clearly, Louis. I have always believed with the oldest +philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permitted +them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to +meet and comfort each other. Do you think I saw Christine for the first +time in your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer and grander memories +of her than any linked to this life. I must leave her now for a little. +God knows when and where we meet again; but _He does know_; that is my +hope and consolation." + +Whatever were Louis's private opinions about Franz's theology it was +impossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend's last +instructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had long +been strange to his-heart. + +In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine's. It was the last +physical effort he was capable of. No one saw the parting of those two +souls. He went with Christine's arms around him, and her lips whispering +tender, hopeful farewells. It was noticed however, that after Franz's +death a strange change came over Christine--a beautiful nobility and +calmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiest +aims. + +Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left. The +ten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went to +the grave with him, but the rest were of such an extraordinary nature +that Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and then +at her request leaving them for her to dispose of. They were indeed +letters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, and +directed to every place in which she had sojourned. In all of them she +was addressed as "Beloved Wife of my Soul," and in this way the poor +fellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart. + +To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these all +referred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned in +Christine's and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he had +written only for his own comfort. But it was perhaps well they fell into +Christine's hands: she could not but be a better woman for reading the +simple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness and +child-like submission as the goal of its duties. + +Seven years after Franz's death Christine and her daughter died together +of the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left sole +inheritor of Franz's wealth. + +"A German dreamer!" + +Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers. And perchance he that seeks +fame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, +when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life "as a dream +when one awaketh." + + + + +THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT. + + +"It is the King's highway that we are in; and know this, His messengers +are on it. They who have ears to hear will hear; and He opens the eyes +of some, and they see things not to be lightly spoken of." + +It was John Balmuto who said these words to me. John was a Shetlander, +and for forty years he had gone to the Arctic seas with the whale boats. +Then there had come to him a wonderful experience. He had been four days +and nights alone with God upon the sea, among mountains of ice reeling +together in perilous madness, and with little light but the angry flush +of the aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that strong faith in the +Unseen which made him an active character in the facts I am going to +relate. + +After his marvelous salvation, he devoted his life to the service of God +by entering that remarkable body of lay evangelists attached to the +Presbyterian Church in Highland parishes, called "The Men," and he +became noted throughout the Hebrides for his labors, and for his +knowledge of the Scriptures. + +Circumstances, that summer, had thrown us together; I, a young woman, +just entering an apparently fortunate life; he, an aged saint, standing +on the borderland of eternity. And we were sitting together, in the gray +summer gloaming, when he said to me, "Thou art silent to-night. What +hast thou, then, on thy mind?" + +"I had a strange dream. I cannot shake off its influence. Of course it +is folly, and I don't believe in dreams at all." And it was then he said +to me, "It is the King's highway that we are in, and know this, His +messengers are on it." + +"But it was only a dream." + +"Well, God speaks to His children 'in dreams, and by the oracles that +come in darkness.'" + +"He used to do so." + +"Wilt thou then say that He has ceased so to speak to men? Now, I will +tell thee a thing that happened; I will tell thee just the bare facts; I +will put nothing to, nor take anything away from them. + +"'Tis, five years ago the first day of last June. I was in Stornoway in +the Lews, and I was going to the Gairloch Preachings. It was rough, +cheerless weather, and all the fishing fleet were at anchor for the +night, with no prospect of a fishing. The fishers were sitting together +talking over the bad weather, but, indeed, without that bitterness that +I have heard from landsmen when it would be the same trouble with them. +So I gathered them into Donald Brae's cottage, and we had a very good +hour. I noticed a stranger in the corner of the room, and some one told +me he was one of those men who paint pictures, and I saw that he was +busy with a pencil and paper even while we were at the service. But the +next day I left for the Preachings, and I thought no more of him, good +or bad. + +"On the first of September I was in Oban. I had walked far and was very +tired, but I went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after I had eat my +kippered herring and drank my tea, I felt better. Then I talked with +John about the resurrection of the body, for he was in a tribulation of +thoughts and doubts as to whether our Lord had a permanent humanity or +not. + +"And I said to him, John, Christ redeemed our whole nature, and it is +this way: the body being ransomed, as well as the spirit, by no less a +price than the body of Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glorified. +Now, then, after I had gone to my room, I was sitting thinking of these +things, and of no other things whatever. There was not a sound but that +of the waves breaking among the rocks, and drawing the tinkling pebbles +down the beach after them. Then the ears of my spiritual body were +opened, and I heard these words, _'I will go with thee to Glasgow!'_ +Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 'I am ready!' I began to +argue with myself thus: 'Whatever for should I go to Glasgow? I know not +anyone there. No one knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to be left. +I have no money for such a journey--' + +"I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then I dreamed of--or I saw--a woman +fair as the daughters of God, and she said, _'I will go with thee to +Glasgow!'_ With a strange feeling of being hurried and pressed I +awoke--wide awake, and without any conscious will of my own, I answered, +'I am ready. I am ready now.' + +"As I left the cottage it was striking twelve, and I wondered what means +of reaching Glasgow I should find at midnight. But I walked straight to +the pier, and there was a small steamer with her steam up. She was +blowing her whistle impatiently, and when the skipper saw me coming, he +called to me, in a passion, 'Well, then, is it all night I shall wait +for thee?' + +"I soon perceived that there was a mistake, and that it was not John +Balmuto he had been instructed to wait for. But I heeded not that; I was +under orders I durst not disobey. She was a trading steamer, with a +perishable cargo of game and lobsters, and so she touched at no place +whatever till we reached Glasgow. One of her passengers was David +MacPherson of Harris, a very good man, who had known me in my +visitations. He was going to Glasgow as a witness in a case to be tried +between the Harris fishers and their commission house in Glasgow. + +"As we walked together from the steamer, he said to me, 'Let us go round +by the court house, John, and I'll find out when I'll be required.' That +was to my mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, whatever road +was taken, and I turned with him the way he desired to go. He found the +lawyer who needed him in the court house, and while they talked together +I went forward and listened to the case that was in hand. + +"It was a trial for murder, and I could not keep my eyes off the young +man who was charged with the crime. He seemed to be quite broken down +with shame and sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the court closed and +the constables took him away. As he passed me our eyes met, and my heart +dirled and burned, and I could not make out whatever would be the matter +with me. All night his face haunted me. I was sure I had seen it some +place; and besides it would blend itself with the dream which had +brought me to Glasgow. + +"In the morning I was early at the court house and I saw the prisoner +brought in. There was the most marvelous change in his looks. He walked +like a man who has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. But now it +troubled me more than ever. Whatever had I to do with the young man? Yet +I could not bear to leave him. + +"I listened and found out that he was accused of murdering his uncle. +They had been traveling together and were known to have been at Ullapool +on the thirtieth of May. On the first of June the elder man was found in +a lonely place near Oban, dead, and, without doubt, from violence. The +chain of circumstantial evidence against his nephew was very strong. To +judge by it I would have said myself to him, 'Thou art certainly +guilty.' + +"On the other side the young man declared that he had quarreled with his +uncle at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He had then taken passage +in a Manx fishing smack which was going to the Lews, but he had +forgotten the name of the smack. He was not even certain if the boat was +Manx. The landlord of the inn, at which he said he stayed when in the +Lews, did not remember him. 'A thing not to be expected,' he told the +jury, 'for in the summer months, what with visitors, and what with the +fishers, a face in Stornoway was like a face on a crowded street. The +young man might have been there'-- + +"The word _Stornoway_ made the whole thing clear to me. The prisoner was +the man I had noticed with a pencil and paper among the fishers in +Donald Brae's cottage. Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I had been +sent to Glasgow. I walked quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet from +my head, I said to the judge, 'My lord, the prisoner _was_ in Stornoway +on the first of June. I saw him there!' + +"He gave a great cry of joy and turned to me; and in a moment he called +out: 'You are the man who read the Bible to the fishers. I remember you. +I have your likeness among my drawings.' And I said, 'I am the man.' + +"Then my lord, the judge, made them swear me, and he said they would +hear my evidence. For one moment I was a coward. I thought I would hide +God's share in the deliverance, lest men should doubt my whole +testimony. The next, I was telling the true story: how I had been called +at midnight--twice called; how I had found Evan Conochie's boat waiting +for me; how on the boat I had met David MacPherson, and been brought to +the court house by him, having no intention or plan of my own in the +matter. + +"And there was a great awe in the room as I spoke. Every one believed +what I said, and my lord asked for the names of the fishers who were +present in Donald Brae's cottage on the night of the first of June. Very +well, then, I could give many of them, and they were sent for, and the +lad was saved, thank God Almighty!" + +"How do you explain it, John?" + +"No, I will not try to explain it; for it is not to be hoped that anyone +can explain by human reason the things surpassing human reason." + +"Do you know what became of the young man?" + +"I will tell thee about him. He is a very rich young man, and the only +child of a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her great goodness to the +Lord's poor. But when his mother died it did not go well and peaceably +between him and his uncle; and it is true that he left him at Ullapool +without a word. Well, then, he fell into this sore strait, and it seemed +as if all hope of proving his innocence was over. + +"But that very night on which I saw him first, he dreamed that his +mother came to him in his cell and she comforted him and told him, +'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall speak for thee.' He never +doubted the heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked me. 'My mother +never deceived me in life; would she come to me, even in a dream, to +tell me a lie? Ah, no!'" + +"Is he still alive?" + +"God preserve him for many a year yet! I'll only require to speak his +name"--and when he had done so, I knew the secret spring of thankfulness +that fed the never-ceasing charity of one great, good man. + +"And yet, John," I urged, "how can spirit speak with spirit?" + +"'_How?_' I will tell thee, that word 'how' has no business in the mouth +of a child of God. When I was a boy, who had dreamed 'how' men in London +might speak with men in Edinburgh through the air, invisible and +unheard? That is a matter of trade now. Can thou imagine what subtle +secret lines there may be between the spiritual world and this world?" + +"But dreams, John?" + +"Well, then, dreams. Take the dream life out of thy Bible and, oh, how +much thou wilt lose! All through it this side of the spiritual world +presses close on the human side. I thank God for it. Yes, indeed! Many +things I hear and see which say to me that Christians now have a kind of +shame in what is mystical or supernatural. But thou be sure of this--the +supernaturalism of the Bible, and of every Christian life is not one of +the difficulties of our faith, _it is the foundation of our faith_. The +Bible is a supernatural book, the law of a supernatural religion; and to +part with this element is to lose out of it the flavor of heaven, and +the hope of immortality. Yes, indeed!" + +This conversation occurred thirty years ago. Two years since, I met the +man who had experienced such a deliverance, and he told me again the +wonderful story, and showed me the pencil sketch which he had made of +John Balmuto in Donald Brae's cottage. He had painted from it a grand +picture of his deliverer, wearing the long black camlet cloak and +head-kerchief of the order of evangelists to which he belonged. I stood +reverently before the commanding figure, with its inspired eyes and rapt +expression; for, during those thirty years, I also had learned that it +was only those + + Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours + Weeping upon their bed have sate, + Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers. + + + + +SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN. + + +Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and fallen, trampled in the mire +and mud of the conflict, then the ranks closed again and left no place +for her. So she crawled aside to die. With a past whose black despair +was as the shadow of a starless night, a future which her early +religious training lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the strong +bands of a pitiless death dragging her to the grave--still she craved, +as the awful hour drew near, to see once more the home of her innocent +childhood. Not that she thought to die in its shelter--any one who knew +David Todd knew also that was a hopeless dream; but if, IF her +father should say one pardoning word, then she thought it would help her +to understand the love of God, and give her some strength to trust in +it. + +Early in the evening, just as the sun was setting and the cows were +coming lowing up the little lane, scented with the bursting lilac +bushes, she stood humbly at the gate her father must pass in order to go +to the hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. Very soon she saw +him coming, his Scotch bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps steadied +by his shepherd's staff. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyes +looked far over the hills; for David was a mystic in his own way, and +they were to him temples not made with hands in which he had seen and +heard wonderful things. Here the storehouses of hail and lightning had +been opened in his sight, and he had watched in the sunshine the tempest +bursting beneath his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and been waited +upon by spectral mists. The voices of winds and waters were in his +heart, and he passionately believed in God. But it was the God of his +own creed--jealous, just and awful in that inconceivable holiness which +charges his angels with folly and detects impurity in the sinless +heavens. So, when he approached the gate he saw, but would not see, the +dying girl who leaned against it. Whatever he felt he made no sign. He +closed it without hurry, and then passed on the other side. + +"Father! O, father! speak one word to me." + +Then he turned and looked at her, sternly and awfully. + +"Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken naught o' thee." + +Without another glance at the white, despairing face, he walked rapidly +on; for the spring nights were chilly, and he must gather his lambs into +the fold, though this poor sheep of his own household was left to +perish. + +But, if her father knew her no more, the large sheep-dog at his side was +not so cruel. No theological dogmas measured Rover's love; the stain on +the spotless name of his master's house, which hurt the old man like a +wound, had not shadowed his memory. He licked her hands and face, and +tried with a hospitality and pity which made him so much nearer the +angels than his master to pull her toward her home. But she shook her +head and moaned pitifully; then throwing her arms round the poor brute +she kissed him with those passionate kisses of repentance and love which +should have fallen on her father's neck. The dog (dumb to all but God) +pleaded with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic gestures; but she turned +wearily away toward a great circle of immense rocks--relics of a +religion scarcely more cruel than that which had neither pity nor +forgiveness at the mouth of the grave. Within their shadow she could die +unseen; and there next morning a wagoner, attracted by the plaintive +howling of a dog, found her on the ground, dead. + +There are set awful hours between every soul and heaven. Who knows what +passed between Lettice Todd and her God in that dim forsaken temple of a +buried faith? Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of tears, and +her face was beautiful with a strange peace, though its loveliness was +marred and its youth "seared with the autumn of strange suffering." + +At the inquest which followed, her stern old father neither blamed nor +excused himself. He accepted without apology the verdict of society +against him; only remarking that its reproof was "a guid example o' +Satan correcting sin." + +Scant pity and less ceremony was given to her burial. Death, which draws +under the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty and ambition of men, +covering them with those two narrow words _Hic jacet_! gives also to the +woman who has been a sinner all she asks--oblivion. In no other way can +she obtain from man toleration. The example of the whitest, purest soul +that ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is ignored in the church +He founded. The tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely woman stooped to +folly," found no way of escape for her but to "die;" and those closet +moralists, with filthy fancies and soiled souls, who abound in every +community, regard her with that sort of scorn which a Turk expresses +when he says "Dog of a Christian." Poor Lettice! She had procured this +doom--first by sacrificing herself to a blind and cruel love, and then +to the importunate demands of hunger, "oldest and strongest of +passions." Ah! if there was no pity in Heaven, no justice beyond the +grave, what a cruel irony this life would be! For, while the sexton +shoveled hastily over the rude coffin the obliterating earth, there +passed the graveyard another woman equally fallen from all the apostle +calls "lovely and of good report." One whose youth and hopes and +marvelous beauty had been sold for houses and lands and a few thousand +pounds a year. But, though her life was a living lie, the world praised +her, because she "had done well unto herself." Yet, at the last end, the +same seed brought forth the same fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Hall +learned, with bitter rapidity, that riches are too poor to buy love. +Scarcely had she taken possession of her splendid home before she longed +for the placid happiness of her mother's cottage, and those evening +walks under the beech-trees, whose very memory was now a sin. Over her +beautiful face there crept a pathetic shadow, which irritated the rude +and noisy squire like a reproach. He had always had what he wanted. Not +even the beauty of all the border counties had been beyond his means to +buy but somehow he felt as if in this bargain he had been overreached. +Her better part eluded his possession, and he felt dissatisfied and +angry. Expostulations grew into cruel words; cruel words came to cruder +blows. _Yes, blows_. English gentlemen thirty years ago knew their +privileges; and that was one of them. She was as much and as lawfully +his as the horses in his stables or the hounds in his kennels. He beat +them, too, when they did not obey him. Her beauty had betrayed her into +the hands of misery. She had wedded it, and there was no escape for her. +One day, when her despair and suffering was very great, some tempting +devil brought her a glass of brandy, and she drank it. It gave her back +for a few hours her departed sceptre; but at what a price! Her slave +soon became her master. Stimulus and stupefaction, physical exhaustion +and mental horrors, the abandonment of friends and the brutality of a +coarse and cruel husband, brought her at last to the day of reckoning. +She died, seven years after her marriage, in the delirium of opium. +There were physicians and servants around her, and an unloving husband +waiting for the news of his release. I think I would rather have died +where Lettice did--under the sky, with the solemn mountains lifting +their heads in a perpetual prayer around me, and that faithful dog +licking my hands, and mourning my wasted life. + +Now, wherein did these two women differ? One sinned through an intense +and self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the strongest calls of +want. Her sin, though it was beyond the pale of the world's toleration, +was yet one _according to Nature_. The other, in a cold spirit of +barter, voluntarily and deliberately exchanged her youth and beauty, the +hopes of her own and another's life, for carriages, jewels, fine +clothing and a luxurious table. She loathed the price she had to pay, +and her sin was an unnatural one. For this kind of prostitution, which +religion blesses and society praises, there seems to be no redress; but +for that which results as the almost inevitable sequence of one lapse of +chastity _we_, the pious, the virtuous, the irreproachable, are all to +blame. Who or what make it impossible for them to retrace their steps? +Do they ever have reason to hope that the family hearth will be open to +them if they go back? Prodigal sons may return, and are welcomed with +tears of joy and clasped by helping hands; but alas! how few parents +would go to meet a sinning daughter. Forgetting our Master's precepts, +forgetting our human frailty, forgetting our own weakness, we turn +scornfully from the weeping Magdalen, and leave her "alone with the +irreparable." Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. We would +deprecate _any_ loosening of this great house-band of society; but we +do say that where it is the _only distinction_ between two women, one of +whom is an honored matron, and the other a Pariah and an outcast, there +is "something in the world amiss"--something beyond the cure of law or +legislation, and that they can only be reached by the authority of a +Christian press and the influence of Christian example. + + + + +THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON. + + +I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the +face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a +man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with +something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe +of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob +Roryson fashion. + +The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he +and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood +together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious +headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had +been cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed. + +"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in +Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is +the day!" + +So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, +candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is +his true history I am telling to-day. + +Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger +and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified +in his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whom +he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him +bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet. + +When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a +"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the +plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would +help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their +hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The +American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and +kin, and offered to teach them his own craft. + +For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an +ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt +sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great +West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his +brother to its dangers and privations. + +"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're +no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune, +and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll +spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad." + +"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?" + +"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no +shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a +loving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as he +could see it. + +It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidence +and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise. +After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings +after his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost each +other." For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered +his loyal heart. + +He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long years +of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble +as Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was +scattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence very +frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, +so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him. + +Then seven years after Sandy's departure the very house in which they +had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and +probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have +told anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should +come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a +letter reaching him less and less likely. + +Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more of +a dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simple +little body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. They +had one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whom +Davie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits were +faithfully reproduced. + +It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled. +Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "Little +Sandy." Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itself +became to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy's +pleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yet +through it ran one golden thread of romance. + +In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and in +winter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to his +wife and child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look for +fortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and the +enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale. + +Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life with +a glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find Uncle +Sandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and no +end of them in some safe bank, besides. + +But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade and +began to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated all +their hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in his +own name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home. + +He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. There +was nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain. +She was bright and capable, but they _felt_ a want they were not able to +analyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the ruling +spirit of their own lives. + +This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did right +because it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure to +do it. When they had been married three years the war broke out, and +soon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, who +was daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and, +indeed, their case looked hard enough. + +At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but a +family consultation soon showed that this was impossible without +hopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silence +which follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of an +irremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a very +unexpected manner. + +"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd +find your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had more +than twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now, +isn't it?" + +He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really was +asking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offer +into fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroic +than the perfect self-abnegation of his manner. + +The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had been +practicing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Davie +went to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home. + +This was the break-up of Davie's life. His wife went to live with Sandy +and Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold. + +Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affected +to be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the parting +came, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sad +enough to the one old heart who had counted its cost. + +In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein of +romance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lost +brother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, and +he had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemed +possible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enough +apart. + +Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grew +poorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort for +all his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poor +Sandy." + +Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie. +There was no wife to meet him--she had been three months in the grave +when he got back to New York--and going to his daughter-in-law's home +was not--well, it was not like going to his own house. + +Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she was grateful to Davie, but she +did not _love_ the old man. + +He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless. +He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Other +men could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step out +from the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions as +his failing strength permitted him to fill. + +Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both," he +said, "and he thought father had deserved his rest." + +But Davie shook his head--"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earn +it now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough." He was +still cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke of +his brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with many +others. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. I +am not going to write its history. + +It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spite +of its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place--not +pleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass, +when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narrowed +down to a fight with actual cold and hunger. + +It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonely +claim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, the +tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks, +threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children's +wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom +they once were very tender. + +David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie counted +grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His little +newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer +papers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made little +losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it +would "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is +now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own." + +This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through +the summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie's +plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, +and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought +which haunted his own--_would they commit him, then, to the care of +public charities?_ + +"We have no time to love each other," he muttered, sadly, "and my bite +and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'll +speak to Sandy myself about it--poor lad! It will come hard on him to +say the first word." + +The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that +night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandy +came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie +began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, +and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that +had been discussed many times before. + +"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventy +cents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off +what is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee +to-night, and _his_ bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. It +is very hard on us all!" + +"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves the +old man--God bless him! He was a good father to me." + +"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children's +bread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him down +to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will be +better off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must do +it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer." + +"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year's +presents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearly +eighteen dollars, you know." + +"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can take +the business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worse +and worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie's +earnings besides. Sandy, _it has got to be_! Do it while we can make +something by the step." + +"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if I +take it," and David could hear that his son's voice trembled. + +In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and his +father knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart was +yet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into a +happy sleep. + +In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of the +argument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neither +astonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the day +and asked him to "go down the avenue a bit." + +He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and the +sorrow of it; but something would not let him do it. In the first +place, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all the +gay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streets +gave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciously +into his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly +determined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal with +his father. + +Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of +days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank, +and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they +were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the +last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never +have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it. + +As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent; +his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and +the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost +more pitiful than tears. + +At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a +start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were +sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he +turned Davie quickly round, and said: + +"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no, +by heaven! though I die for it!" + +"Just a little further, Sandy." + +And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very +well understood. + +"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!" + +Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and +resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been +going. + +Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children and +the trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thing +to him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to the +father whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all their +lives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand, +they climbed the dark tenement stair together. + +Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair aside +hastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her very +first words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!--so glad!" + +She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, and +he made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery for +the little extras with which she celebrated his return at supper. He +understood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleep +that night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial and +come out conqueror. + +The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heart +there was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered the +poor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with the +children. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him still +softened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round his +papers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup of +coffee and a bit of bread and bacon. + +Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So then +he took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate and +drank. + +In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in his +pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, went +out without a word to anyone. + +The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbed +him. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in +18--, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wall +street, he would hear of something to his advantage." + +His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was going +now to hear something about Sandy. + +"He said 'sure as death,' and he would mind that promise at the last +hour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtless +send, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a lad +like him!" + +When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to stand +unnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sank +to their usual placid level. At length some one said: + +"Well, old man, what do _you_ want?" + +"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what _you_ wanted." + +"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward--I think you will find +out, then, what we want." + +He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, without +answering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it. + +An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking into +the fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk. +The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with an +annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door. + +"I am David Morrison, sir." + +"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, +lad!" + +As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that it +was like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he became +conscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were two +physicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish and +anxiety. + +"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a +system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of +wine." + +Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it +what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad +history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, +and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys. + +But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration +with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood +pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken. + +"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, +in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just +handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too." + +Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very +handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor +and sorrow on his face; and he had known both. + +For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle +to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie +had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two. + +When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, +carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his +brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle +equally hopeless and poor. + +But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call +of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania +village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was +successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, +and went into the oil business. + +"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it +is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from +time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we +would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your +share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury." + +It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any +further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest +compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly +believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly +believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie +looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to +fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the +credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a +schoolboy: + +"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?" + +"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. +Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but +the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I +think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at +it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know." + +"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and +we'll live together--that is, if you would like it." + +"What would I like better?" + +"Maybe you have a wife, and then--" + +"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have no +one but you." + +"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest +dairy in the State, Sandy." + +"That is just my idea, Davie." + +Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, +and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than +uneasy about him. + +"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself +to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from +them so long." + +So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers +parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought +they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to +get out and run home. + +When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire +in the stove and wee Davie--his namesake--was sitting, half crying, +before it. + +The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and +tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place. + +"What's the matter, Davie?" + +"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack +Dacey gave me a beating besides; and--and I really do think my toes are +frozen off." + +Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered + +"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new +clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes +mammy." + +Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach +when she saw Davie. + +"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft +about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where--" + +Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a +new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only +say: "Father! father! what is it?" + +"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just +given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear +lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God." + +By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and +Sallie said: + +"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father." + +Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had +seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something +wonderful had happened. + +"What is the matter, father?" + +"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort +and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy +home for us all in some nice country place." + +When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face +with his hands, sobbed out: + +"Thank God! thank God!" + +It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go +to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going +to buy together, and then he said to his son: + +"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?" + +"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow +fast." + +"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a +month." + +"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be +work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children +can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often +dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true." + +But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother +were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander +Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and +had begun to do very well. + +Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie +presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit +garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best +of all, _it was their own_--a New Year's gift from the kindest of +grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the +Brothers Morrison. + +They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. +What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears +both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, +for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David +agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to +say," etc. + +Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be +lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of +quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have +each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both +very fond of young Sandy and the children. + +Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked +over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and +holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as +much as they do Sallie. + +As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with +care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity +was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She +has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to +her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her +husband's heart trusts in her. + +Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give +cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing +on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand +may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune +through all the years of life. + + + + +TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER. + + +Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you +would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you +saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's +parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for +the habit. + +One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a +comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was +busily painting. His cheery little wife--pretty enough in spite of her +thirty-seven years--was reading the interesting items in the morning +papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite +tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when +the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, +dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of +"Ah! che la morte ognora." + +But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very +middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor +door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan +painted stood in the aperture--a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning +gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair +falling around her. + +"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a +newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most +becoming with my new seal-skin set." + +"Ask papa." + +"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a +poor live girl, it does not interest him." + +"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically." + +"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists +don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?" + +"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it +will do you good to hear it." + +"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I +prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan +skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la +morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted. + +"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?" + +"See here." + +"Tickets for Booth's?" + +"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just +about the same numbers." + +"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?" + +Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different +things. + +"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?" + +"Of course I did mamma--I told him in the nicest kind of way that we +must only be dear friends, and so on." + +"Then why did he send these tickets?" + +"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men +enjoy burning." + +"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of +being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from +papa simply to tell me this?" + +"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's +daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all +the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's +engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting." + +It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan +took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about wedding +dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if +they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of +grown-up fairy lore. + +But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was +worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and +the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the +tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon +it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture +as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she +tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning +subjects, for a "good-by" kiss. + +"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed +in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed +it." + +"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, +and take to studying _Harper's Bazar_ for effects; then your women will +look a little more natural." + +"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!" + +"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of +papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look +like?" + +"Frights, Miss Kitty." + +"Of course they do. Now, papa." + +"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack +and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh +wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle +and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, +"You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, +Kitty, I am afraid." + +"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian +Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You +know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm +clear on that subject, Jack." + +"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do." + +"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the +country. I am sure that would not do." + +Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he +sighed, and was silent. + +Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought +to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked +you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!" + +"You don't dislike me, Kitty?" + +"Not at all. I think you are first-rate." + +"It is my profession, then?" + +"Exactly." + +"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?" + +"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will +Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful." + +"Now, Kitty!" + +"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at +nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to +jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid +passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his +manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!" + +"But she thoroughly enjoys it." + +"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be +real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was +splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book." + +"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor--at the altar, if you like--never to +bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my +profession." + +"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, +perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use +of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the +manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were +_mine_, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was." + +Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed +Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was +forced to pretend he had ruined her glove. + +"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am +quite sure I could make plenty of money for you." + +"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not +go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in +calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am +mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm +fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the +time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms +of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty +occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us +they are." + +"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?" + +"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that +loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every +summer to see views." + +"To see views?" + +"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and +jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand +landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or +the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know +papa _will_ go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown +away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one +kind or another." + +Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush +that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he +meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some +third party. + +"Why, Max, when did you get home?" + +"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry +words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the +rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone. + +But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, +though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as she +had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into +being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes +claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became +suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, +saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max +Raymond. + +It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then +he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether +he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a +change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take +possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal +of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than +might have been expected. + +For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; +Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she +submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when +she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him. + +But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening--those grand old Romans walking +on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the +calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, and +looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and +present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream. + +She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back +into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable +stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old +radiant, careless Kitty. + +"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut ----'s +criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?" + +"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and +Barrett backed him up handsomely." + +"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear +it." + +"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good +night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning." + +"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?" + +"Jack Warner, I expect." + +"Hum! I don't think so." + +"Men don't know everything, Tom." + +"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line +are only guesses at truth." + +"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will +explain herself in the morning." + +But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more +inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read +them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with +her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and +inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures +and literary societies: Max took her. + +Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of +men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. +He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty +willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty. + +"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, +after studying his daughter reading the _Endymion_ without a yawn. + +"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on +painting. Kitty is in love." + +"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible." + +"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!" + +"With whom?" + +"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was +pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born +thought with his favorite melody. + +Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's +delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, +intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; +and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods +box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and +when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question. + +"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she +would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along +without it." + +"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down." + +"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss." + +"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May +or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you +just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a +step in your direction." + +Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a +pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, +Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or +Saratoga?" + +"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak." + +"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my +little daughter to have her whim for once." + +"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want +either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch +with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not +going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at +Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I +couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation." + +"Where must we go, then?" + +"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many +new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, +you deserve your own way about your holiday." + +And Tom Duffan said, "_Thank you, Kitty_," in such a peculiar way that +Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally +left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, +"Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past +ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I +shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the +Branch, and asked you for a $500 check--serve you right, too." + +But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty +went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, +straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, +sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end +of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no +will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never +to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only +him, to the end of her life. + +All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent +little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she +had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's +respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She +remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said +something about studying law together; and with these items, and the +satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given +her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages. + +Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it +was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. +When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents and +preparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a great +deal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she would +not suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with," +she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen +and a straight petticoat." + +Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and +talked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, +went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphant +in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. +She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose +congratulations found their climax in the following statement: + +"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary +piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do say +that Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful." + +"_Mr. Raymond's last book_!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, +with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand. + +"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear." + +Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her +visitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, +and said, "What is Max's business--a lawyer?" + +"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, and +a great--" + +"_Writer?_" + +"Yes." + +"Writes books and magazine articles and things?" + +"Yes." + +Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "_I thought +so._ I wish Jack Warner was at home." + +"What for?" + +"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will +keep." + +Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he +returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. +His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting and +singing and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times that +Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. +Raymond. + +"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the +city. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?" + +Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see what +other miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty. So he went, and came +back wondering. + +"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the +professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?" + +"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts +his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies +his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through +thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt +spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on +earth should ever induce her to marry a writer." + +"What did she say?" + +"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, +you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married _the +man_.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is +your offering toward the advancement of science and social +regeneration?'" + +"What then?" + +"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; _it +is a labor of love_.'" + +"Well I never!" + +"Nor I either." + + + + +THE HARVEST OF THE WIND. + +CHAPTER I. + + "As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no + rule over his own spirit." + + + "My soul! Master Jesus, my soul! + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, + An' de more I dig him de better he spring: + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart + An' he sets my soul on fire: + My soul! + Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!" + +The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and +he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as +he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he +rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his +left hand. + +"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef +he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He +communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then +threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of +growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the +field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among +the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the +cypress. + +Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy--a very +handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned +upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid +switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He +said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame. + +"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat +kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present +time." + +"My father objects to every one I like." + +"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his +good." + +"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he +asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this +letter." + +"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message +from you, Massa Davie." + +In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable +passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike. + +"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done +carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!" + +"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the +trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. +Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs +chiming to his uneven, crashing tread. + +Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de +drefful temper; got it each side ob de house--father and mother, bofe. I +hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man--got it +bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring +hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving +unselfishness of a prayer in them. + +In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from +father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and +self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio--a +daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a +happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life +away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David +remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he +had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between +father and son, a great gulf. + +He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all +control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. +But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had +been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had +been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives +commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere +exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not +forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special +creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made +any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; +he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not +yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary. + +He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and +he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing +in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself +out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan +architecture--broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to +rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every +side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro +cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the +hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it +was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum +and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip +trees. + +The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his +national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as +it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the +grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His +household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good +management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied +upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, +there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would +rise to every occasion. + +And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved +his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but +when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly +taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his +sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on +which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one +another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate +independence on the other, kept them far apart. + +Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel +than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house +until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David +joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the +road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand. + +This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than +he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was +a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he +regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard +of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake +it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, +smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he +ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could +tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, +relieve his own conscience of a burden. + +Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu +leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He +regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. +The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing +white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the +bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He +was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman +must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just +such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a +recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice. + +"Lulu!" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?" + +"Not since you forbid me." + +He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not +have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people +for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their +intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James +Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the +question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to have +kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?" +For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that +he might have made a mistake. + +The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, +the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The +swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge +of the prairie--the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded +world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In +his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, +let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware +that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a +thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, +all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention. + +He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking +of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had +given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into +his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there +with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered +higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of it +than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. +Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the +affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should +understand one another. + +But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own +traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently +settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen +and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy +appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its +advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both +fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and +declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this +subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, +James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and +not make an effort to save him. + +At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined +to ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then he +could talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight the +great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft, +but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp--a ten-acre patch of +grass on the summit of some low hills. + +The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight men +were slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediately +challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaley +rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand +to his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before. +He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed look +about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a +determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a +six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife. + +"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer." + +"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. David +Lorimer is on watch till midnight." + +He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating +in the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silent +before the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer, +your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter you +make your palaver the better it will suit me." + +Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and the +retort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man of +Whaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him he +was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance. + +Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever galloped +through Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. He +was the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellow +hair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley. + +"Davie," and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to +your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o' +life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude father +to ye." + +It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quite +appreciated the concession, but he answered-- + +"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up." + +"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en do +sae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth to +plague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' ye +anent some decenter way of life than this." + +The talk was not altogether a pleasant one; but both yielded something, +and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man to +fill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not linger +after this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without the +ceremony of a "good-bye," he turned his horse's head eastward again. + +Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers from +emigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemed +determined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeply +offended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that he +kept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked me +how I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square," +he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that David +began to feel it impossible to restrain his temper. + +Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, grows +rapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began to +notice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the young +Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying. + +"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long," remarked an old +drover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with such a vim that +he's no appetite for his food left." + +"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it." + +At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen men +among them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer any +pretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, low +spurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, +gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. All +the lower ridges were savagely bald and hot--a glen, paved with gold and +walled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake down +into the breathless valley! + +The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David was +weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch. +It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather was +gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving +clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle. + +The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no +lightning. + +"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night," said one of the men. +"I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights +as this one." + +"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a cayote frightens one in a drove the +panic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run.'" + +"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of ten +thousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same +moment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. But +you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin' +was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'd +keep clear of him, ef I was you." + +"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!" + +"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out. +Take your own way now." + +For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own +heart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned a +deaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he +passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. David +asked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?" + +"I was." + +"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!" + +Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight +thousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of +them exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind leveling +a forest, they were off in the darkness. + +The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering +of hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worth +of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and +gave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders," and then he +sprang for his own mule. + +David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight and +stood still. + +"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you have +Spanish blood in you." + +A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fell +without a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a +minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed one +instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself +up to the wild passion of the pursuit. + +By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, +clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant +becoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; he +knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing along +by the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined +the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the +left so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turned +the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the +right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag +end of the line. + +Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, +and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and +were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Men +who had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work were +amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round the +mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, +and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The +"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and +exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle. + +"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job like +this himself." + +"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?" + +"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run' +commenced." + +No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for +conversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were +weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices +had been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a +messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and he +knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him. + +He offered to return to camp and report "all right," and the offer was +accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a +belt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of +unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the +underwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made +all natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him. +He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in every +moments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from +which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the +shameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father's +love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for +it came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, +the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's passionate +revenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, +cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked. +Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours +gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not +daring-- + + "--to search through what sad maze, + Thenceforth his incommunicable ways + Follow the feet of death." + + +CHAPTER II. + + "--and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. + 15. + +Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments +when she appears to be asleep--when the stars, large and white, bend +stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or +flower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah +smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia +flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were little +ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their +quarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence had +passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the +dreaming earth. + +There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In ten +days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in +the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does +grow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing +for David's return, and forming plans through which the future might +atone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, +rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless +sleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and +thought with him. + +Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue, +and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow +was there in it? + +"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?" + +Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and +the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went to +the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to +greet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and +stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father. + +In a moment all the new tenderness was gone. + +In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter? +What hae ye been doing now?" + +"I have shot Whaley!" + +The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly +audible. The father rose and faced his wretched son. + +Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?" + +"Dead!" + +"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shot +you?--it was in self-defence?--it was an accident? Speak, dear!" + +"He called me a coward, and--" + +"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and +having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to +come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down your +rifle, sir!" + +Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you come +here? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I do +Davie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed it +with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, +all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that the +indulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him. + +"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it is +my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession." + +"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done your +duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do. +Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole +care. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and +stand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadful +Christian!" + +"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!" + +"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!--you will get no pity here. Fly!" + +"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!" + +"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do +as you will with me." And he laid his rifle upon the table. + +Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair +beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity. + +"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nor +deceptions." + +"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run,' just as my time was +out. Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the +leaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with my +Spanish blood--it was my dear mother's." + +"That is it," answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for +its restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolish +pride." + +"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no +right to insult me." + +The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was the +collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental +anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, +believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but +assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. First +he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the +quarters to arouse Plato. + +When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious +youth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he +felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at +his feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slight +reaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted; +bring some wine here!" Then he remembered the weakness of the voice +which had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched." + +When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father. +There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart +of hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even when +he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself +from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach. + +Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. He +was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the +uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body. + +"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be +allowed to leave the house." + +"Yes, sar." + +"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences." + +No answer. + +"You understand that, Plato?" + +"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout de +consequences." + +"Go, and do as I bid you!" + +When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to do +right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great +tempest: he could not see any road at all. There was a Bible on his +dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and +the sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the Great +Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it. +He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would +escape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair +character mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings were +so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, +to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as a +father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" he +thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and +honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign +there supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten and +astonished on a threshold he could not pass. + +In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him. +Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt +refreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful +death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what +chance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulu +sat by his side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expression +of suffering, at once defiant and despairing--a barren suffering, +without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they +had to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with few +words. + +"You must go now, beloved." + +He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. The +next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished +face. Then he was alone with Plato. + +"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?" + +"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some +bread and meat, and _dis_, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato." +Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his +lifetime. + +"How much is there, Plato?" + +"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little." + +"It was for your freedom, Plato." + +"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef you +git free, dat is all I want." + +They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. The +brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside +her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food. +The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, +and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but when +he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror +and his mental suffering. + +Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black +spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. They +had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; +they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Both +were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for +James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would +hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience. + +Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little +trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of +those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind +whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain. + +"Tell Master David to come here." + +"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were +trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked +his master calmly in the face. + +"Did I not tell you to stop him?" + +"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the +messenger--Plato could not do it!" + +"How did he go?" + +"On de little brown mare--his own horse done broke all up." + +"How much money did you give him?" + +"Money, sar?" + +"How much? Tell the truth." + +"Four hundred dollars." + +"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast." + +At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In the +house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold +and left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning was +going on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and +motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and +pretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day, +pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfall +made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further +bad news. + +On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word of +comfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the +wall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in the +atmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be made +so wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became a +reproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed; +he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the +probability of pursuit. + +On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer's +house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. He +tried to forget that _something_ had happened which made life appear a +different thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. The +negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their +last basket of cotton--all of them silent, depressed with their +weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the +autumn twilight. + +Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their +cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then +he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At +the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep. + +"Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, +but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging. + +"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be +wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning." + +He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his +soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down. + +"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I +brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can +make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about as +likely a young man as I ever saw." + +Still no answer. + +"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may +make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the +morning?--say about ten o'clock." + +"Yes. Will you have some supper?" + +"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the +circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. +Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?" + +"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff." + +He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his +hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be +tried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had not +confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his +evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him. + +At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the +course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles +distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained +clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His +heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, +by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of +saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, +"So this is the end of it, David?" + +"Yes. It is the end." + +"You ought not to have run away." + +"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have +put you all right." + +"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the +act." + +"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end +possible." + +"Have you then confessed the murder?" + +He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. +"Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with +the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in +the house." + +"But you have not yourself confessed?" + +"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you +would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of +denouncing your own son!" + +"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae +gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?" + +"How could I, father?" + +He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. +After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, +until--all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!" + +The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the +outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The +sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of +David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were +extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their +sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the +discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the +continent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only +refused assistance, but had shot his employer. + +"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravating +name." + +The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in +Texas that epithet would justify a murder; "but," he added, "most any +Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand +head of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so +myself." + +He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after many +hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice! +Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mental +constitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was +meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming +eyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard +something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, +"Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!" + +Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his +duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the +seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth +their natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became +clear to him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He cried +out with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!" + +The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was only +able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At the +earliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm, +almost cheerful. "The worst is over father," he said. "I have done a +great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing +to suffer it." + +"But after death! Oh, David, David--afterward!" + +"I shall dare to hope--for Christ also has died, the just for the +unjust." + +Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that +eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would +shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened; +for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, +and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least +part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine +vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ with +him that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; and +though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared +to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men +cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to +believe. + +"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, +there is nae doubt o' that." + +"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater." + +"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, +David, David!" + +"I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only +believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't +take it from me." + +Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray +when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the +twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was +opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long +irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of +the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse +to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the +scornful mention of his mother's race. + +There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder +Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular +man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; +and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had +honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of +the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very +nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a +coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative +moment. + +As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. +There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, +there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches +itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a +trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had +accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for +his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on +the death-sentence before they left their seats. + +And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying +it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient +number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for +any length of time. David was to die at sunset. + +Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all +pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But +these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What +confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses +were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of +mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the +Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of +those royal compassions which astonish even the angels. + +When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his +father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with +eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it +is." + +Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale +as ashes when he read the contents. + +"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered. + +"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you." + +The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared +to voice it. It was this-- + +"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I +dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life." + +For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose +and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry +trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their +verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no +pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty. + +Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He +pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully +satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim." + +But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he +must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the +punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death +like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every +rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they +were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially +false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men +gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further +pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his +hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request +would be granted. + +Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the +prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope +on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and +abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned +with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of +mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. +There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the +party walked. + +Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: +and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and +deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was +willing to pay the penalty of his crime." + +Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! +His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind +him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of +exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a +touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary +days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless. + +Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though +silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched +father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful +hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few +minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a +clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the +branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; +perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood. + +The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which +covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his +father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! _Now_!" As +the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. +He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's +groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of +suffering about him which no one thought of resisting. + +He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and +wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all +fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they +untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of +dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of +man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is +indifferent to all outside itself. + +When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the +house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to +him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a +companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff +having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, +Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room +and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead +opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw +all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what +it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over +and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing +repentance. + +In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. +But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. +Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces +and words. She was quite aware _what_ was in her uncle's lonely room. +Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came +to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," +and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dying +message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the +dead. + +At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an +urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing +in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu +had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the +slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, +more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, +the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind +them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves +across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last +it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth. + +When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, +their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air +with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl +was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's +unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the +winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own +consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept +her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her +with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, +she died. + +One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very +soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want +your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?" + +He winced visibly, and remained silent. + +"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. +They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you +must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this +time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?" + +"I will do my best, dear." + +"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will +need company soon." + +"Do you think you are dying, dear?" + +"I know I am dying." + +"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?" + +She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and +then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could +press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone +away"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting +by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The +fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been +too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's +doing. What was there for him to say? + +The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfully +at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he +persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they +loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave +them his own name, and suffered them to call him father. + +As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy +of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present +to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the +stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour +of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no +sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he +understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and +that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins +be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come +to the holy land: for-- + + "Down in the valley of death + A cross is standing plain; + Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, + And the ground has a deep red stain. + This cross uplifted there + Forbids, with voice Divine, + Our anguished hearts to break for the dead + Who have died and made no sign. + As they turned at length from us, + Dear eyes that were heavy and dim, + May have met his look, who was lifted there, + May be sleeping safe in Him." + + + + +THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON. + + +Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present +century--the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge. + +The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short +consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career +will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which +gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year +1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a +parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution +still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political +animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and +the prostration of the manufacturing business. + +His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his +grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton +spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition +with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder +Livesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and +spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the +first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of +calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no +certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to +improvements and ready to test an advance movement. + +That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. +The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so that +wealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of it +one-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinful +extravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmers +for raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist in +threshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for a +bare existence. + +Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Joseph +managed, "by hook or crook," to learn how to read, write and count a +little, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would have +been fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will. + +Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, +which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp that its walls +were constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark days +dared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacy +of £30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hard +apprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years. + +But the troubles that had begun before his birth--and which did not +lighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832--had +then attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of both +private charities and the national government. + +The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, +and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, near +Manchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of the +English weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the following +year, thousands of starving men started _en masse_ to London. They were +followed by the military and brought back for punishment or died +miserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a +smaller number Derby. + +But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined no +body of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; then +cutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets, +Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profit +from this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him to +make at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginning +founded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote a +long life to public usefulness and benevolence. + +But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his family +increased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; so +disastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorize +the Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on large +works of from £500 to £10,000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade was +everywhere stagnant, £60,000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feed +the starving, and the government issued 40,000 articles of clothing. The +quarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, mills +were everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30,000 "hands" turned +out. + +During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how much +misery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to public +houses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men of +the working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged in this +work. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directed +entirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then a +necessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and important +a duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; and +clergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one," "two" or +"three-bottle men." + +But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures were +doing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him to +take a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person on +business; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. +Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. +He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that of +others, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions. + +He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partial +reforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon the +association the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with his +efforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean" +was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed. + +The disputes were very angry and bitter; far more so than we at this +day can believe possible, unless we take into account the universal +national habits and its poetic and domestic associations with every +phase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his views +though it was not until the following year he was able to take another +step forward. + +It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge of +total abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering the +matter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come in +and talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey asked +King if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from all +liquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, +laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, +Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged to +one of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken. + +A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the main +part of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue the +argument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew up +and signed the following document, which is still preserved: + + "We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, + whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as + medicine. + + "JOHN GRATREX, + EDWARD DICKINSON, + JOHN BROADBENT, + JNO. SMITH, + JOSEPH LIVESEY, + DAVID ANDERTON, + JNO. KING." + +All these reformers were virtually _working_ men, though most of them +rose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of the +origin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, +within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in right +of their convictions. + +But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prospered +just where it was most needed--among the operatives and "the common +people." One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, +stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. +Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadest +patois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. He +always spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coined +what he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said: +"No half-way measures here. Nothing but the _te-te total_ will do." + +Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as the +name of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiastic +cheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforward +known as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate of +the cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds and +thousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston and +followed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly his +name and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known now +wherever Christianity and civilization are known. + + + + +MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT MONEY. + + +"It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna win by it." + +"Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whiskey that turned ma boat +tapsalteerie, Geordie Twatt." + +"Thou had better blame Hacon; he turned the boat _Widdershins_ an' what +fule doesna ken that it is evil luck to go contrarie to the sun?" + +"It is waur luck to have a drunken, superstitious pilot. Twatt, that +Norse blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. Fear God, an' mind thy +wark, an' thou needna speir o' the sun what gate to turn the boat." + +"My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot stirring it up, Sinclair. I come +o' a mighty kind--" + +"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full about their ancestors having been +horses. It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be laird o' theesel' +before I'll trust thee again with ony craft o' mine." Then Peter +Sinclair lifted his papers, and, looking the discharged sailor steadily +in the face, bid him "go on his penitentials an' think things o'er a +bit." + +Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased with +himself; he believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. +And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind of +even to increase his satisfaction. The gray old town of Kirkwall lay in +supernatural glory, the wondrous beauty of the mellow gloaming blending +with soft green and rosy-red spears of light that shot from east to +west, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring fleet outside +the harbor was as motionless as "a painted _fleet_ upon a painted +ocean"--the men were sleeping or smoking upon the piers--not a foot fell +upon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round the +public fountains, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, +knitting and gossiping. + +Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man inclined to analyze such things, +but they had their influence over him; for, as he drifted slowly home in +his skiff, he began to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, and to +wonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been. "An' +yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, +and the boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to life! Na, na, I'm no +called upon to put life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey." + +Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood his +daughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as he +looked at her, for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women of +the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastened +his skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springy +heath toward a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, +and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as of +its tiny garden; for there, with great care and at great cost, he had +managed to rear a few pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, and +other hardy English flowers. Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, +and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gently +the great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geese and +fish, touched these frail, trembling blossoms. + +"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to see the bonnie bit things; +when I can get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh; I'd like weel to +see such fields an' gardens an' trees as I hear thee tell on." + +Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows and +wheat fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she had seen during her +school days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling a +wonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and, as he cut slice after slice +from his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses and apple-blossoms, +and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, +and said, "It tasted, father, as if it had been grown in the Garden of +Eden." + +After such conversations Peter was always stern and strict. He felt an +actual anger at Adam and Eve; their transgression became a keenly +personal affair, for he had a very vivid sense of the loss they had +entailed upon him. The vague sense of wrong made him try to fix it, and, +after a short reflection, he said in an injured tone: + +"I wonder when Ronald's coming hame again?" + +"Ronald is all right, father." + +"A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to be +loaded, an' the books sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing or +saving. Where is he?" + +"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some time +with an Englishman he fell in with at Perth." + +"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auld +world notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 'tween John O'Groat's an' +Lambaness he doesna run after. I wish he were as anxious to serve in +the Lord's temple--I would build him a kirk an' a manse for it." + +"We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fighting +and making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholar +and a poet at last among them." + +Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, +and, as for scholarship, he asserted that the books were better kept +when he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he remembered +Geordie Twatt's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on this +subject: "Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' the +lives o' Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an' a' for the sake o' +liquor!" + +Margaret looked at the brandy bottle standing at her father's elbow, +and, though she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter. + +"You arna to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop--Geordie +never does." + +"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When Magnus +Hay has struck the first blow he is quite ready to draw his dirk and +strike the last one; and Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and to +spare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balances out of +his hands. There are few folks that in all things offend not." + +She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hair +yellow as down, her eyes cool and calm and blue as night; her whole +attitude so serene, assured and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left +his glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "good night." + +In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his office, was to +send for the offending sailor. + +"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, +thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be ready to sail +her--or upset her--i' ten days again." + +"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake--tell her I +said that, Master." + +"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is a +lang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an' +thou wilt mind this--_things promised are things due_." + +Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he was +good-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment. +When night came, and he watched for Margaret on the sands, he was +delighted to see that Ronald was with her. The lad had come home and +nothing was now remembered against him. That night it was Ronald told +him fairy-stories of great cities and universities, of miles of books +and pictures, of wonderful machinery and steam engines, of delicious +things to eat and drink. Peter felt as if he must start southward by the +next mail packet, but in the morning he thought more unselfishly. + +"There are forty families depending on me sticking to the shop an' the +boats, Ronald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is ane to step into +my shoes." + +Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately beauty and noble presence of +his sister, but yet there was some lack about him easier to feel than to +define. Perhaps no one was unconscious of this lack except Margaret; but +women have a grand invention where their idols are concerned, and create +readily for them every excellency that they lack. Her own two years' +study in an Edinburgh boarding-school had been very superficial, and she +knew it; but this wonderful Ronald could read Homer and Horace, could +play and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and write poetry. If he could +have done none of these things, if he had been dull and ugly, and +content to trade in fish and wool, she would still have loved him +tenderly; how much more then, this handsome Antinous, whom she credited +with all the accomplishments of Apollo. + +Ronald needed all her enthusiastic support. He had left heavy college +bills, and he had quite made up his mind that he would not be a minister +and that he would be a lawyer. He could scarcely have decided on two +things more offensive to his father. Only for the hope of having a +minister in the family had Peter submitted to his son's continued +demands for money. For this end he had bought books, and paid for all +kinds of teachers and tours, and sighed over the cost of Ronald's +different hobbies. And now he was not only to have a grievous +disappointment, but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair shared +fully in the Arcadean dislike and distrust of lawyers, and would have +been deeply offended at any one requiring their aid in any business +transaction with him. + +His son's proposal to be a "writer" he took almost as a personal insult. +He had formed his own opinion of the profession and the opinion of any +other person who would say a word in favor of a lawyer he considered of +no value. Margaret had a hard task before her, that she succeeded at all +was due to her womanly tact. Ronald and his father simply clashed +against each other and exchanged pointed truths which hurt worse than +wounds. At length, when the short Arcadean summer was almost over, +Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent. + +"The lad is fit for naething better, I suppose"--and the old man turned +away to shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. They shocked +Margaret; she was terrified at her success, and, falling humbly at his +feet, she besought him to forget and forgive her importunities, and to +take back a gift baptized with such ominous tears. + +But Peter Sinclair, having been compelled to take such a step, was not +the man to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, hopeless way: "He +couldna say 'yes' an' 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en drink as he +brewed." + +These struggles, so real and sorrowful to his father and sister, Ronald +had no sympathy with--not that he was heartless, but that he had taught +himself to believe they were the result of ignorance of the world and +old-fashioned prejudices. He certainly intended to become a great +man--perhaps a judge--and, when he was one of "the Lords," he had no +doubt his father would respect his disobedience. He knew his father as +little as he knew himself. Peter Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair's +opinions incorporate; and he could no more have changed them than he +could have changed the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose; and +the difference between a common lawyer and a "lord," in his eyes, would +only have been the difference between a little oppressor and a great +one. + +For the first time in all her life Margaret suspected a flaw in this +perfect crystal of a brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt her. Even +if her father's objections were ignorant prejudices, they were positive +convictions to him, and she did not like to see them smiled at, +entertained by the cast of the eye, and the put-by of the turning hand. +But loving women are the greatest of philistines: knock their idol down +daily, rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and head, and they will +still "set it up in its place," and fall down and worship it. + +Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the blindest of these characters, but +the world may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. It is faith of +this sublime integrity which, brought down to personal experience, +believes, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves on to the end, winning +finally what never would have been given to a more prudent and +reasonable devotion. So, if Margaret had her doubts, she put them +arbitrarily down, and sent her brother away with manifold tokens of her +love--among them, with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for sixty pounds, +the whole of her personal savings. + +To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed a large sum, but she hoped by the +sacrifice to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus enable him to +start his new race unweighted. It was but a mouthful to each creditor, +but it put them off for a time, and Ronald was not a youth inclined to +"take thought" for their "to-morrow." + +He had been entered for four years' study with the firm of Wilkes & +Brechen, writers and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. Her father +had paid the whole fee down, and placed in the Western Bank to his +credit four hundred pounds for his four years' support. Whatever Ronald +thought of the provision, Peter considered it a magnificent income, and +it had cost him a great struggle to give up at once, and for no evident +return, so much of his hard-earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing of +this reluctance; he simply put vouchers for both transactions in his +hand, and asked him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as it had been +earned." + +But to Margaret he fretted not a little. "Fourteen hun'red pounds a' +thegither, dawtie," he said in a tearful voice. "I warked early an' late +through mony a year for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I hae +naught but words an' promises for it. I ken, Margaret, that I am an auld +farrant trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well into which are +must put water." + +When Ronald went, the summer went too. It became necessary to remove at +once to their rock-built house in one of the narrow streets of +Kirkwall. Margaret was glad of the change; her father could come into +the little parlor behind the shop any time in the day and smoke his pipe +beside her. He needed this consolation sorely; his son's conduct had +grieved him far more deeply than he would allow, and Margaret often saw +him gazing southward over the stormy Pentland Frith with a very mournful +face. + +But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune and Peter had a good heart, +sound and sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and full of faith in +God. It is true that his creed was of the very strictest and sternest; +but men are always better than their theology and Margaret knew from the +Scriptures chosen for their household worship that in the depth and +stillness of his soul his human fatherhood had anchored fast to the +fatherhood of God. + +Arcadean winters are long and dreary, but no one need much pity the +Arcadeans; they have learned how to make them the very festival of +social life. And, in spite of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaret +thoroughly enjoyed this one--perhaps the more because Captain Olave +Thorkald spent two months of it with them in Kirkwall. There had been a +long attachment between the young soldier and Margaret; and having +obtained his commission, he had come to ask also for the public +recognition of their engagement. Margaret was rarely beautiful and +rarely happy, and she carried with a charming and kindly grace the full +cup of her felicity. The Arcadeans love to date from a good year, and +all her life afterward Margaret reckoned events from this pleasant +winter. + +Peter Sinclair's house being one of the largest in Kirkwall, was a +favorite gathering place, and Peter took his full share in all the +home-like, innocent amusements which beguiled the long, dreary nights. +No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite Ossian with more passion and +tenderness, and he enjoyed his little triumph over the youngsters who +emulated him. No one could sing a Scotch song with more humor, and few +of the lads and lassies could match Peter in a blithe foursome reel or a +rattling strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that good Dr. Ogilvie had a +more graceful spring and a longer breath, but Peter always insisted that +his inferiority to the minister was a voluntary concession to the +Dominie's superior dignity. It was, however, a rivalry that always ended +in a firmer grip at parting. These little festivals, in which young and +old freely mingled, cultivated to perfection the best and kindest +feelings of both classes. Age mellowed to perfect sweetness in the +sunshine of youthful gayety, and youth learned from age how at once to +be merry and wise. + +At length June arrived; and though winter lingered in _spates_, the song +of the skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. When the dream-like +voice of the cuckoo should be heard once more, Peter and Margaret had +determined to take a long summer trip. They were to go first to Perth, +where Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then to Glasgow and see +Ronald. But God had planned another journey for Peter, even one to a +"land very far off." A disease, to which he had been subject at +intervals for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal character and Peter +needed no one to tell him that his days were numbered. + +He set his house in order, and then, going with Margaret to his summer +dwelling, waited quietly. He said little on the subject, and as long as +he was able, gave himself up with the delight of a child to watching the +few flowers in his garden; but still one solemn, waylaying thought made +these few last weeks of life peculiarly hushed and sacred. Ronald had +been sent for, and the old man, with the clear prescience that sometimes +comes before death, divined much and foresaw much he did not care to +speak about--only that in some subtle way he made Margaret perceive that +Ronald was to be cared for and watched over, and that to her this +charge was committed. + +Before the summer was quite over Peter Sinclair went away. In his +tarrying by the eternal shore he became, as it were, purified of the +body, and one lovely night, when gloaming and dawning mingled, and the +lark was thrilling the midnight skies, he heard the Master call him, and +promptly answered, "Here am I." Then "Death, with sweet enlargement, did +dismiss him hence." + +He had been considered a rich man in Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald--who +had become accustomed to a Glasgow standard of wealth--was much +disappointed. His whole estate was not worth over six thousand pounds; +about two thousand pounds of this was in gold, the rest was invested in +his houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cottage in Stromness, where +Peter's wife had been born. He gave to Ronald £1800, and to Margaret +£200 and the life rent of the real property. Ronald had already received +£1400, and, therefore, had no cause of complaint, but somehow he felt as +if he had been wronged. He was older than his sister, and the son of the +house, and use and custom were not in favor of recognizing daughters as +having equal rights. But he kept such thoughts to himself, and when he +went back to Glasgow took with him solid proof of his sister's +devotion. + +It was necessary, now, for Margaret to make a great change in her life. +She determined to remove to Stromness and occupy the little four-roomed +cottage that had been her mother's. It stood close to that of Geordie +Twatt, and she felt that in any emergency she was thus sure of one +faithful friend. "A lone woman" in Margaret's position has in these days +numberless objects of interest of which Margaret never dreamed. She +would have thought it a kind of impiety to advise her minister, or +meddle in church affairs. These simple parents attended themselves to +the spiritual training of their children--there was no necessity for +Sunday Schools, and they did not exist. She was not one of those women +whom their friends call "beings," and who have deep and mysterious +feelings that interpret themselves in poems and thrilling stories. She +had no taste for philosophy or history or social science, and had been +taught to regard novels as dangerously sinful books. + +But no one need imagine that she was either wretched or idle. In the +first place, she took life much more calmly and slowly than we do; a +very little pleasure or employment went a long way. She read her Bible +and helped her old servant Helga to keep the house in order. She had +her flowers to care for,--and her brother and lover to write to. She +looked after Geordie Twatt's little motherless lads, went to church and +to see her friends, and very often had her friends to see her. It +happened to be a very stormy winter, and the mails were often delayed +for weeks together. This was her only trouble. Ronald's letters were +more and more unsatisfactory; he was evidently unhappy and dissatisfied +and heartily tired of his new study. Posts were so irregular that often +their letters seemed to be playing at cross purposes. She determined as +soon as spring opened to go and have a straightforward talk with him. + +So the following June Geordie Twatt took her in his boat to Thurso, +where Captain Thorkald was waiting for her. They had not met since Peter +Sinclair's death, and that event had materially affected their +prospects. Before it their marriage had been a possible joy in some far +future; now there was no greater claim on her care and love than the +captain's, and he urged their early marriage. + +Margaret had her two hundred pounds with her, and she promised to buy +her "plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. In those days girls made +their own trousseau, sewing into every garment solemn and tender hopes +and joys. Margaret thought that proper attention to this dear stitching +as well as proper respect for her father's memory, asked of her yet at +least another year's delay; and for the present Captain Thorkald thought +it best not to urge her further. + +Ronald received his sister very joyfully. He had provided lodgings for +her with their father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a tea merchant +in the Cowcaddens. The Cowcaddens was then a very respectable street, +and Margaret was quite pleased with her quarters. She was not pleased +with Ronald, however. He avowed himself thoroughly disgusted with the +law, and declared his intention of forfeiting his fee and joining his +friend Walter Cashell in a manufacturing scheme. + +Margaret could _feel_ that he was all wrong, but she could not reason +about a business of which she knew nothing, and Ronald took his own way. +But changing and bettering are two different things, and, though he was +always talking of his "good luck" and his "good bargains", Margaret was +very uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was partly to blame for this; his +pawky face and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents to all such +boasts; nor did he scruple to say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, +Ronald, an' it is at the _guid bargains_ I aye pause an' ponder." + +The following winter was a restless, unhappy one; Ronald was either +painfully elated or very dull; and, soon after the New Year, Walter +Cashell fell into bad health, went to the West Indies, and left Ronald +with the whole business to manage. He soon now began to come to his +sister, not only for advice, but for money. Margaret believed at first +that she was only supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when her cash was +all gone, and Ronald urged her to mortgage her rents she resolutely shut +her ears to all his plausible promises, and refused to "throw more good +money after bad." + +It was the first ill-blood between them, and it hurt Margaret sorely. +She was glad when the fine weather came, and she could escape to her +island home, for Ronald was cool to her, and said cruel things of +Captain Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his sister had refused to +help him. + +One day, at the end of the following August, when most of the +towns-people--men and women--had gone to the moss to cut the winter's +peat, she saw Geordie Twatt coming toward the house. Something about his +appearance troubled her, and she went to the open door and stood waiting +for him. + +"What is it, Geordie?" + +"I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o' +Stennis to-night at eleven o'clock." + +"Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such an hour?" + +"Thy brother; but thou'lt come--yes, thou wilt." + +Margaret's very lips turned white as she answered: "I'll be there--see +thou art, too." + +"Sure as death! If naebody spiers after me, thou needna say I was here +at a', thou needna." + +Margaret understood the caution, and nodded her head. She could not +speak, and all day long she wandered about like a soul in a restless +dream. + +Fortunately, every one was weary at night, and went early to rest, and +she found little difficulty in getting outside the town without notice; +and one of the ponies on the common took her speedily across the moor. + +Late as it was, twilight lingered over the silent moor, with its old +Pictish mounds and burial places, giving them an indescribable aspect of +something weird and eerie. No one could have been insensible to the +mournful, brooding light and the unearthly stillness, and Margaret was +trembling with a supernatural terror as she stood amid the solemn circle +of gray stones and looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, brown +hills of Harray. + +From behind one of these gigantic pillars Ronald came toward +her--Ronald, and yet not Ronald. He was dressed as a common sailor, and +otherwise shamefully disguised. There was no time to soften things--he +told his miserable story in a few plain words: + +"His business had become so entangled that he knew not which way to +turn, and, sick of the whole affair, he had taken a passage for +Australia, and then forged a note on the Western Bank for £900. He had +hoped to be far at sea with his ill-gotten money before the fraud was +discovered, but suspicion had gathered around him so quickly, that he +had not even dared to claim his passage. Then he fled north, and, +fortunately, discovering Geordie's boat at Wick, had easily prevailed on +him to put off at once with him." + +What cowards sin makes of us! Margaret had seen this very lad face death +often, among the sunken rocks and cruel surfs, that he might save the +life of a ship-wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet the creditors +whom he had wronged, he had committed a robbery and was flying from the +gallows. + +She was shocked and stunned, and stood speechless, wringing her hands +and moaning pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. Often the first +result of a bitter sense of sin is to make the sinner peevish and +irritable. + +"Margaret," he said, almost angrily, "I came to bid you farewell, and +to promise you, _by my father's name_! to retrieve all this wrong. If +you can speak a kind word speak it, for God's sake--if not, I must go +without it!" + +Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid sobs and kisses, said all that +love so sorely and suddenly tried could say. He could not even soothe +her anguish by any promise to write, but he did promise to come back to +her sooner or later with restitution in his hand. All she could do now +for this dear brother was to call Geordie to her side and put him in his +care; taking what consolation she could from his assurance that "he +would keep him out at sea until the search was cold, and if followed +carry him into some of the dangerous 'races' between the islands." If +any sailor could keep his boat above water in them, she knew Geordie +could; _and if not_--she durst follow that thought no further, but, +putting her hands before her face, stood praying, while the two men +pulled silently away in the little skiff that had brought them up the +outlet connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. Margaret would have +turned away from Ronald's open grave less heart-broken. + +It was midnight now, but her real terror absorbed all imaginary ones; +she did not even call a pony, but with swift, even steps walked back to +Stromness. Ere she had reached it, she had decided what was to be done, +and next day she left Kirkwall in the mail packet for the mainland. +Thence by night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and a week after her +interview with Ronald she was standing before the directors of the +defrauded bank and offering them the entire proceeds of her Kirkwall +property until the debt was paid. + +The bank had thoroughly respected Peter Sinclair, and his daughter's +earnest, decided offer won their ready sympathy. It was accepted without +any question of interest, though she could not hope to clear off the +obligation in less than nine years. She did not go near any of her old +acquaintances; she had no heart to bear their questions and condolences, +and she had no money to stay in Glasgow at charges. Winter was coming on +rapidly, but before it broke over the lonely islands she had reached her +cottage in Stromness again. + +There had been, of course, much talk concerning her hasty journey, but +no one had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pursuit after Ronald had +been entirely the bank's affair, had been committed to private +detectives and had not been nearly so hot as the frightened criminal +believed. His failure and flight had indeed been noticed in the Glasgow +newspapers, but this information did not reach Kirkwall until the +following spring, and then in a very indefinite form. + +About a week after her return, Geordie Twatt came into port. Margaret +frequently went to his cottage with food or clothing for the children, +and she contrived to meet him there. + +"Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he," he said, with an assumption of +indifference. + +"Oh, Geordie! where?" + +"A ship going westward took him off the boat." + +"Thank God! You will say naught at all, Geordie?" + +"I ken naught at a' save that his father's son was i' trouble, an' +trying to gie thae weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was fain eneuch +mesel' to balk them." + +But Margaret's real trials were all yet to come. The mere fact of doing +a noble deed does not absolve one often from very mean and petty +consequences. Before the winter was half over she had found out how +rapid is the descent from good report. The neighbors were deeply +offended at her for giving up the social tea parties and evening +gatherings that had made the house of Sinclair popular for more than one +generation. She gave still greater offence by becoming a workingwoman, +and spending her days in braiding straw into the (once) famous Orkney +Tuscans, and her long evenings in the manufacture of those delicate +knitted goods peculiar to the country. + +It was not alone that they grudged her the money for these labors, as so +much out of their own pockets--they grudged her also the time; for they +had been long accustomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for their +children's garments, for nursing the sick and for help in weddings, +funerals and all the other extraordinary occasions of sympathy among a +primitively social people. + +Little by little, all winter, the sentiment of disapproval and dislike +gathered. Some one soon found out that Margaret's tenants "just sent +every bawbee o' the rent-siller to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was a +double offence, as it implied a distrust of her own townsfolk and +institutions. If from her humble earnings she made a little gift to any +common object its small amount was a fresh source of anger and contempt; +for none knew how much she had to deny herself even for such curtailed +gratuities. + +In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden stinginess and indifference to her +townsfolk was the common wonder and talk of every little gathering. Old +friends began to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly ignore her; +and at last even old Helga took the popular tone and said, "Margaret +Sinclair had got too scrimping for an auld wife like her to bide wi' +langer." + +Through all this Margaret suffered keenly. At first she tried earnestly +to make her old friends understand that she had good reasons for her +conduct; but as she would not explain these good reasons, she failed in +her endeavor. She had imagined that her good conscience would support +her, and that she could live very well without love and sympathy; she +soon found out that it is a kind of negative punishment worse than many +stripes. + +At the end of the winter Captain Thorkald again earnestly pressed their +marriage, saying that, "his regiment was ordered to Chelsea, and any +longer delay might be a final one." He proposed also, that his father, +the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, should have charge of her Orkney +property, as he understood its value and changes. Margaret wrote and +frankly told him that her property was not hers for at least seven +years, but that it was under good care, and he must accept her word +without explanation. Out of this only grew a very unsatisfactory +correspondence. Captain Thorkald went south without Margaret, and a very +decided coolness separated them farther than any number of miles. + +Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, and his remarks about Margaret +Sinclair's refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid hands as her +own" increased very much the bitter feeling against the poor girl. At +the end of three years the trial became too great for her; she began to +think of running away from it. + +Throughout these dark days she had purposely and pointedly kept apart +from her old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his influence over her +might tempt her to confidence. Latterly the doctor had humored her +evident desire, but he had never ceased to watch over and, in a great +measure, to believe in her; and, when he heard of this determination to +quit Orkney forever, he came to Stromness with a resolution to spare no +efforts to win her confidence. + +He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to her, reminded her of her father's +generosity and good gifts to the church and the poor, and said: "O, +Margaret, dear lass! what good at a' will thy silent money do thee in +_that Day_? It ought to speak for thee out o' the mouths o' the +sorrowfu' an' the needy, the widows an' the fatherless--indeed it ought. +And thou hast gien naught for thy Master's sake these three years! I'm +fair 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a name as thy father's." + +What could Margaret do? She broke into passionate sobbing, and, when the +good old man left the cottage an hour afterward there was a strange +light on his face, and he walked and looked as if he had come from some +interview that had set him for a little space still nearer to the +angels. Margaret had now one true friend, and in a few days after this +she rented her cottage and went to live with the dominie. Nothing could +have so effectually reinstated her in public opinion; wherever the +dominie went on a message of help or kindness Margaret went with him. +She fell gradually into a quieter but still more affectionate +regard--the aged, the sick and the little children clung to her hands, +and she was comforted. + +Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonderfully narrowed, but when the tide +is fairly out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year of her poverty +there was from various causes, such an increase in the value of real +estate, that her rents were nearly doubled, and by the end of the +seventh year she had paid the last shilling of her assumed debt, and was +again an independent woman. + +It might be two years after this that she one day received a letter that +filled her with joy and amazement. It contained a check for her whole +nine hundred pounds back again. "The bank had just received from Ronald +Sinclair, of San Francisco, the whole amount due it, with the most +satisfactory acknowledgment and interest." It was a few minutes before +Margaret could take in all the joy this news promised her; but when she +did, the calm, well-regulated girl had never been so near committing +extravagances. + +She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, and, throwing herself at his +knees, cried out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! father! Here is your +money! Here is the poor's money and the church's money! God has sent it +back to me! Sent it back with such glad tidings!"--and surely if angels +rejoice with repenting sinners, they must have felt that day a far +deeper joy with the happy, justified girl. + +She knew now that she also would soon hear from Ronald, and she was not +disappointed. The very next day the dominie brought home the letter. +Margaret took it upstairs to read it upon her knees, while the good old +man walked softly up and down his study praying for her. Presently she +came to him with a radiant face. + +"Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?" + +"Yes, father; it is very well." Then she read him the letter. + +Ronald had been in New Orleans and had the fever; he had been in Texas, +and spent four years in fighting Indians and Mexicans and in herding +cattle. He had suffered many things, but had worked night and day, and +always managed to grow a little richer every year. Then, suddenly, the +word "California!" rung through the world, and he caught the echo even +on the lonely southwestern prairies. Through incredible hardships he had +made his way thither, and a sudden and wonderful fortune had crowned his +labors, first in mining and afterward in speculation and merchandising. +He said that he was indeed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest to +her Arcadean views the sum might appear incredible. + +Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and clasped her hands above it. +Her face was beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister she must have +looked just as Margaret looked when they brought in her lost brother, in +the best robe and the gold ring. + +The dominie was not so satisfied. A good many things in the letter +displeased him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and went away from her. +"It is a' _I_ did this, an' _I_ did that, an' _I_ suffered you; there is +nae word o' God's help, or o' what ither folk had to thole. I'll no be +doing ma duty if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en." + +The old man was little used to writing, and the effort was a great one, +but he bravely made it, and without delay. In a few curt, idiomatic +sentences he told Ronald Margaret's story of suffering and wrong and +poverty; her hard work for daily bread; her loss of friends, of her +good name and her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, ma lad, that ye +dinna acknowledge God in; an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'er +late for thy credit. I wad hae thought better o' it had thou made it +when it took the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy great wealth, a few +hun'red pounds is nae matter to speak aboot." + +But people did speak of it. In spite of our chronic abuse of human +nature it is, after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in good more than +in evil. The story of Ronald's restitution is considered honorable to +it, and it was much made of in the daily papers. Margaret's friends +flocked round her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" as simply and +honestly as little children, and the dominie did not fail to give them +the lecture on charity that Margaret neglected. + +Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to his son anent these transactions, +or whether the captain read in the papers enough to satisfy him, he +never explained; but one day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's and +asked for Margaret. He had probably good excuses for his conduct to +offer; if not, Margaret was quite ready to invent for him--as she had +done for Ronald--all the noble qualities he lacked. The captain was +tired of military life, and anxious to return to Orkney; and, as his +own and Margaret's property was yearly increasing: in value, he foresaw +profitable employment for his talents. He had plans for introducing many +southern improvements--for building a fine modern house, growing some of +the hardier fruits and for the construction of a grand conservatory for +Margaret's flowers. + +It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald was a very ordinary lord for a +woman like Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and obey;" but few men +would have been worthy of her, and the usual rule which shows us the +noblest women marrying men manifestly their inferiors is doubtless a +wise one. + +A lofty soul can have no higher mission than to help upward one upon a +lower plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, as the dominie said, +"_no that bad_," had the fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret's +stature in Margaret's atmosphere. + +While these things were occurring, Ronald got Margaret's letter. It was +full of love and praise, and had no word of blame or complaint in it. He +noticed, indeed, that she still signed her name "Sinclair," and that she +never alluded to Captain Thorkald, and the supposition that the stain on +his character had caused a rupture did, for a moment, force itself upon +his notice; but he put it instantly away with the reflection that +"Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after all, and quite unworthy of his +sister." + +The very next mail-day he received the dominie's letter. He read it +once, and could hardly take it in; read it again and again, until his +lips blanched, and his whole countenance changed. In that moment he saw +Ronald Sinclair for the first time in his life. Without a word, he left +his business, went to his house and locked himself in his own room. + +_Then Margaret's silent money began to speak._ In low upbraidings it +showed him the lonely girl in that desolate land trying to make her own +bread, deserted of lover and friends, robbed of her property and good +name, silently suffering every extremity, never reproaching him once, +not even thinking it necessary to tell him of her sufferings, or to +count their cost unto him. + +What is this bitterness we call remorse? This agony of the soul in all +its senses? This sudden flood of intolerable light in the dark places of +our hearts? This truth-telling voice which leaves us without a particle +of our self-complacency? For many days Ronald could find no words to +speak but these, "O, wretched man that I am!" + +But at length the Comforter came as swiftly and surely and mysteriously +as the accuser had come, and once more that miracle of grace was +renewed--"that day Jesus was guest in the house of one who was a +sinner." + +Margaret's "silent money" now found a thousand tongues. It spoke in many +a little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair held in his arms until it +was strong enough to stand alone. It spoke in schools and colleges and +hospitals, in many a sorrowful home and to many a lonely, struggling +heart--and at this very day it has echoes that reach from the far West +to the lonely islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, and the +sea-shattering precipices of Duncansbay Head. + +It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip to +the Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso--the old town of +Thor--for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a week +for Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was a +gift from an old friend in California, and is called "The Margaret +Sinclair." + + + + +JUST WHAT HE DESERVED. + + +There is not in its own way a more distinctive and interesting bit of +Scotland than the bleak Lothian country, with its wide views, its brown +ploughed fields, and its dense swaying plantations of fir. The +Lammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and the veils of smoke that lie about +Edinburgh are on its horizon, and within that circle all the large +quietude of open grain fields, wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, and +far-stretching pastures where the red and white cows ruminate. The +patient processes of nature breed patient minds; the gray cold climate +can be read in the faces of the people, and in their hearts the seasons +take root and grow; so that they have a grave character, passive, yet +enduring; strong to feel and strong to act when the time is full ready +for action. + +Of these natural peculiarities Jean Anderson had her share. She was a +Lothian lassie of many generations, usually undemonstrative, but with +large possibilities of storm beneath her placid face and gentle manner. +Her father was the minister of Lambrig and the manse stood in a very +sequestered corner of the big parish, facing the bleak east winds, and +the salt showers of the German ocean. It was sheltered by dark fir woods +on three sides, and in front a little walled-in garden separated it from +the long, dreary, straight line of turnpike road. But Jean had no +knowledge of any fairer land; she had read of flowery pastures and rose +gardens and vineyards, but these places were to her only in books, while +the fields and fells that filled her eyes were her home, and she loved +them. + +She loved them all the more because the man she loved was going to leave +them, and if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful to her, then it was +like to be that she also would go far away from the blue Lammermuirs, +and the wide still spaces of the Lothians. She stood at the open door of +the manse with her lover thinking of these things, but with no real +sense of what pain or deprivation the thought included. She was tall and +finely formed, a blooming girl, with warmly-colored cheeks, a mouth +rather large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. But the best of all +her beauty was the soul in her face; its vitality, its vivacity and +immediate response. + +However, the time of love had come to her, and though her love had grown +as naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could tell what changes it +would make. For Gavin Burns had been educated in the minister's house +and Jean and he had studied and fished and rambled together all through +the years in which Jean had grown from childhood into womanhood. Now +Gavin was going to New York to make his fortune. They stepped through +the garden and into the long dim road, walking slowly in the calm night, +with thoughtful faces and clasped hands. There was at this last hour +little left to say. Every promise known to Love had been given; they had +exchanged Bibles and broken a piece of silver and vowed an eternal +fidelity. So, in the cold sunset they walked silently by the river that +was running in flood like their own hearts. At the little stone bridge +they stopped, and leaning over the parapet watched the drumly water +rushing below; and there Jean reiterated her promise to be Gavin's wife +as soon as he was able to make a home for her. + +"And I am not proud, Gavin," she said; "a little house, if it is filled +with love, will make me happy beyond all." + +They were both too hopeful and trustful and too habitually calm to weep +or make much visible lament over their parting; and yet when Gavin +vanished into the dark of the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy house +door very slowly. She felt as if she was shutting part of herself out of +the old home forever, and she was shocked by this first breaking of the +continuity of life; this sharp cutting of regular events asunder. +Gavin's letters were at first frequent and encouraging, but as the +months went by he wrote more and more seldom. He said "he was kept so +busy; he was making himself indispensable, and could not afford to be +less busy. He was weary to death on the Saturday nights, and he could +not bring his conscience to write anent his own personal and earthly +happiness on the Sabbath day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, +whether he wrote or not; and they were past being bairns, always telling +each other the love they were both so sure of." + +Late in the autumn the minister died of typhoid fever, and Jean, +heartbroken and physically worn out, was compelled to face for her +mother and herself, a complete change of life. It had never seemed to +these two women that anything could happen to the father and head of the +family; in their loving hearts he had been immortal, and though the +disease had run its tedious course before their eyes, his death at the +last was a shock that shook their lives and their home to the very +centre. A new minister was the first inevitable change, and then a +removal from the comfortable manse to a little cottage in the village of +Lambrig. + +While this sad removal was in progress they had felt the sorrow of it, +all that they could bear; and neither had dared to look into the future +or to speculate as to its necessities. Jean in her heart expected Gavin +would at once send for them to come to America. He had a fair salary, +and the sale of their furniture would defray their traveling expenses. + +She was indeed so sure of this journey, that she did not regard the +cottage as more than a temporary shelter during the approaching winter. +In the spring, no doubt, Gavin would have a little home ready, and they +would cross the ocean to it. The mother had the same thought. As they +sat on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, they talked of this +event, and if any doubts lurked unconsciously below their love and trust +they talked them away, while they waited for Gavin's answer to the +sorrowful letter Jean had sent him on the night of her father's burial. + +It was longer in coming than they expected. For a week they saw the +postman pass their door with an indifference that seemed cruel; for a +week Jean made new excuses and tried to hold up her mother's heart, +while her own was sinking lower and lower. Then one morning the +looked-for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart to read it alone; Mrs. +Anderson sat down and waited, with dropped eyes and hands tightly +clasped. She knew, before Jean said a word, that the letter had +disappointed her. She had remained alone too long. If all had been as +they hoped the mother was certain Jean would not have deferred the good +tidings a moment. But a quarter of an hour had passed before Jean came +to her side, and then when she lifted her eyes she saw that her daughter +had been weeping. + +"It is a disappointment, Jean, I see," she said sadly. "Never mind, +dearie." + +"Yes, mother; Gavin has failed us." + +"We have been two foolish women, Jean. Oh, my dear lassie, we should +have lippened to God, and He would not have disappointed us! What does +Gavin Burns say?" + +"It is what he does _not_ say, that hurts me, mother. I may as well tell +you the whole truth. When he heard how ill father was, he wrote to me, +as if he had foreseen what was to happen. He said, 'there will be a new +minister and a break-up of the old home, and you must come at once to +your new home here. I am the one to care for you when your father is +gone away; and what does it matter under what sun or sky if we are but +together?' So, then, mother, when the worst had come to us I wrote with +a free heart to Gavin. I said, 'I will come to you gladly, Gavin, but +you know well that my mother is very dear to me, and where I am there +she also must be.' And he says, in this letter, that it is me he is +wanting, and that you have a brother in Glasgow that is unmarried and +who will be willing, no doubt, to have you keep his house for him. There +is a wale of fine words about it, mother, but they come to just this, +and no more--Gavin is willing to care for me, but not for you and I will +not trust myself with a man that cannot love you for my sake. We will +stay together, mammy darling! Whatever comes or goes we will stay +together. The man isna born that can part us two!" + +"He is your lover, Jean. A girl must stick to her lover." + +"You are my mother. I am bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh and +love of your love. May God forsake me when I forsake you!" + +She had thrown herself at her mother's knees and was clasping and +kissing the sad face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered the last +words. And the mother was profoundly touched by her child's devotion. +She drew her close to her heart, and said firmly: + +"No! No, my dearie! What could we two do for ourselves? And I'm loth to +part you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the sacrifice, you so lovingly +offer me. I will write to my brother David. Gavin isna far wrong there; +David is a very close man, but he willna see his sister suffer, there +is no fear of that." + +"It is Jean that will not see you suffer." + +"But the bite and the sup, Jean? How are we to get them?" + +"I can make my own dresses and cloaks, so then I can make dresses and +cloaks for other people. I shall send out a card to the ladies near-by +and put an advertisement in the Haddington newspaper, and God can make +my needle sharp enough for the battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, +don't cry! We have God and each other, and none can call us desolate." + +"But you will break your heart, Jean. You canna help it. And I canna +take your love and happiness to brighten my old age. It isna right. I'll +not do it. You must go to Gavin. I will go to my brother David." + +"I will not break my heart, mother. I will not shed a tear for the +false, mean lad, that you were so kind to for fourteen years, when there +was no one else to love him. Aye, I know he paid for his board and +schooling, but he never could pay for the mother-love you gave him, just +because he was motherless. And who has more right to have their life +brightened by my love than you have? Beside, it is my happiness to +brighten it, and so, what will you say against it? And I will not go to +Gavin. Not one step. If he wants me now, he will come for me, and for +you, too. This is sure as death! Oh, mammy! Mammy, darling, a false lad +shall not part us! Never! Never! Never!" + +"Jean! Jean! What will I say at all" + +"What would my father say, if he was here this minute? He would say, +'you are right, Jean! And God bless you, Jean! And you may be sure that +it is all for the best, Jean! So take the right road with a glad heart, +Jean!' That is what father would say. And I will never do anything to +prevent me looking him straight in the face when we meet again. Even in +heaven I shall want him to smile into my eyes and say, 'Well done, +Jean!'" + + +CHAPTER II. + +Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insure +them some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed not +uncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to +Lambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and giving +her, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter's +expenses. This order of things went on without change or intermission +for five years, and the little cottage gradually gathered in its clean, +sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson took +entire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from +morning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliations +and annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere with +the cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonely +life. + +She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, in +which neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavin +ceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm was +reached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But such +hours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" in +them much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her nature +ripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than her +twentieth year had promised. + +One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jean +felt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappiness +made her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim her +eyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean did +not know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and she +wondered what she had come to tell her. + +"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean," she said, "and I thought +Gavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days." + +Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, Mary +Burns," she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep to +myself these days." + +"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be the +mistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where I +taught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one may +say, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'm +thinking I shall have a happy time with him in America." + +"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you +'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to do +to-night than I can well manage." + +This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called for +an unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent her +appearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost lover +to think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her mother +and talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening, +went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they spent a more +confidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be a +comfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning she +noticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found her +in her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world. + +It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind. +She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle David +came at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she suffered +no hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. And +oh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swift +return to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a cruel +effacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of the +third day after the funeral he said, kindly: + +"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is far +beyond tears." + +"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come and +never name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smile +for everybody." + + "Death is forgetfulness, Jean; + ... 'one lonely way + We go: and is she gone? + Is all our best friends say.' + +"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother has +been to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bit +sticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a new +life. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth +your keeping you can save in your memory." + +"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. I +can find my own bread if you will just love me a little." + +"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put that +weary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch." + +So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow. +He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what she +expected--certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the least +expensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reached +Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manner +as soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and a +carriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a large +dwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her into +a handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Anderson +her rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herself +surrounded by undreamed of luxury. + +Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learned +to understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of her +life. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere she +discovered that it was largely spent in two directions--scientific +discovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted to +chemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles of +total abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jean +could not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One of +the savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her; +and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, which +had all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till he +found, and so not lose his labor." + +Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicoll +gave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did he +ever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home," he +said to his friends. No words could have better explained the position. +In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summer +they sailed far north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; to +Orkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the light +of the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean was +thirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become a +woman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways, +she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You have +made my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he said to her on the last +solemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honest +love! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you every +bawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left nae +dead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and the +siller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If it +should come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you, +I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weel +spent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But it +is a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that." + +This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away had +opened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to the +school of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a home of +love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, +untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was not +the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her +hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover. + +About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Mary +was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have to +store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it +at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the +right hand and the left," he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargain +that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary." + +"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be +wasted," answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love +of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city." + +"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and +if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley." + +"Jean Anderson?" + +"Ay." + +"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she +is. She is not for the like of you, Gavin--a bit country dressmaker, +poor, and past liking." + +Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following +letter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. If +you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look +at. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days." +That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chance +for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to be +trusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself." + +Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it as +clearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking it +over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her +mother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without even +justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And with +this picture she wrote--"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five years +since, and there has been changes since." + +She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were +unfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, +and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor; +he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not +envy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better looking, and far more +stylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley. + +Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated her +failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at _his_ +failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an +uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed +at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want of +response. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should +she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? The +idea took possession of her, and she carried it out. + +She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and the +morning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair of +gloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and moving +her position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summer +blankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling a +funny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked their +separate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, by +varying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for one +moment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in every +way. He was no longer handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him, +and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulous +authoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at every +point. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothing +careless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his whole +appearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more mean +and plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jean +was taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face, +spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answered +her in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusion +was complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she had +looked at him at all. + +But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, under +her new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintance +in reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a great +fortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrig +that is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented the +castle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looks +of her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye make +fine birds!" + +Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been with +the firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell them +he had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday to +attend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personal +influence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers," he said to Mary. + +"There is Annie Riley," answered Mary. + +"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marry +Jean, and settle myself in Scotland." + +"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. You +have promised to marry her." + +"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, I +would like to know?" + +"I think you will find out." + +In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and he +hastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended no +secret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmen +with admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. There +was a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who did +not remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fear +he had come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast, +he strolled out to make his own investigations. + +There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on a +neighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there a +finely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly for +him to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "It +will be her lawyer or architect," he thought; and he walked rapidly +onward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walking +suit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell into +conversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he was +watching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spaces +of the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happiness +that it angered him. + +"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have business +here." + +"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that is +the professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University." + +"They are married, then?" + +"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married a +month syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking. +I'll drink their health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller." + +Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. His +business in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him; +he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. He +had lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no words +to express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the first +weight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean's +beauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And all +for Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marry +her, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner. + +For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him a +touching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased to +love her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin did +tell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, and +that he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said something +about his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentiment +that he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness. + +Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and +Gavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with +damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love +letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in +the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, +his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But +pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she +really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough +in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, +and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted +to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell +his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He +wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, +and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called +unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go +to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit. + +"I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning +the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I +will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she +has got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marry +Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet +beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!" + +No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he +knew right well their private opinion was that he had received _just +what he deserved_. + + + + +AN ONLY OFFER. + + +"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?" + +"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, +Julia. I am forty-three now, remember." + +"Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?" + +"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer." + +"And you refused it?" + +"No." + +"Then he died, or went away?" + +"No." + +"Or deserted you?" + +"No." + +"Then you deceived him, I suppose?" + +"I did not." + +"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something +dreadful" + +"He was rich and handsome." + +"Suppose you tell me about him." + +"I never talk about him to any one." + +"Did it happen at the old place?" + +"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened +when I was sixteen." + +"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?" + +"He was a fine city gentleman." + +"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about +it; you cannot see to work longer." + +Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and +confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her +hands, and smiling sadly, said: + +"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at +Ryelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two +elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched +them a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into the +house, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped +and spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at the +gate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is +Mr. Wakefield in?' + +"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him,' which I +immediately did. + +"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way with +him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like +talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the +house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight; +then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.' + +"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?' + +"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is in +bad health.' + +"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?' + +"'I know it is young Alfred Compton--that is enough for me.' + +"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father.' + +"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician--a +Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no +more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn. + +"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on +the subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. +'But,' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married +at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.' + +"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several +large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and I +saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, very +fair-man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I saw +also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no +doctor would wait upon him so subserviently. + +"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine +that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed +to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton was +too ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; and +again, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though he +pleaded urgently for them. + +"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed to +be important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, and +requested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. I +suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, +so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a +sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked through +that part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had been +politely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangers +increased Mr. Compton's nervous condition.' I did not believe this, and +I determined to try the experiment. + +"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I +smiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and came +toward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; he +stooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that +it seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walked +up and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's +wagon. + +"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was +concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, that +she not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted it +in many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize its +value. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good +morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally to +accompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood. + +"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We were +soon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way to +make himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knew +of, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid for +me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found him +irresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must have +been thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomer +than any younger man could have done. + +"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in +us, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had much +fewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a little +way up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how I +received the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman was +keeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined to +take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one +evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to +see his relatives. + +"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by +the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared +that they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the only +friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the +secret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him into +paroxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or at +least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in +the rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to a +pitch which father seriously disliked. + +"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; only +the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon a +boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very +much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'Miss +Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr. +Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amuse +him?' + +"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the +messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we +rambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the day +was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I +proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally +a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us. + +"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that +Alfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wild +look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my +efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked +me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'his +wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, and +vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of +going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had +wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. + +"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were +going to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away, +and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But he +became suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with the +greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter. + +"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to lose +all control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearly +sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In +the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of our +workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our +sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it. + +"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are +you, sir? Come here instantly.' + +"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have no +right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and +I shall not permit it any more.' + +"'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!' + +"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzed +with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically +as a dog might follow his master's call. + +"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. Alfred +Compton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am +his--_keeper_.'" + +"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!" + +"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it; +but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and +that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he +became uncontrollable in an asylum." + +"Did you see him again?" + +"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad; +that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come some +day and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa, +whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me very +unkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he +was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and went +west with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little old +maid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep +his fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when he +died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my own +lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear." + +"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?" + +"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose +Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought +it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health." + +"Poor aunt!" + +"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will +believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps +more sincere than many wiser men." + +After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in +speaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the young +maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred +Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more +positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subject +never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her +own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams. + +One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old +subject until both felt it to be exhausted--at least for that night. +Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is +snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, there +is a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he is +coming here." + +"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to +call to-night." + +"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person." + +Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she had +talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a +very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant +announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her +reflections, and went into the reception-room. + +In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere +she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the +room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred +Compton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with +enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the +beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly this one was not handsome. He +was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine +figure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he +was still dressed with scrupulous care. + +The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished +a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine +with an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe +Wakefield, best and loveliest of women." + +Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two +old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long +wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, +driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of +Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly. + +"Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me in +his care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe my +restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and +ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my +ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise." + +Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they +never tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by any +contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never +weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and +womanly than in the days of their first courtship. + +She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use any +other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe--or rather Mrs. +Compton--resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would +imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but those +who have known him as long as I have," she continually avers, "can +possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my +husband." + + + + +TWO FAIR DECEIVERS. + + +What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking +on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it +is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that +either makes money or spends it. + +Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he +has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has +spent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both +stories conclude in the same way. + +"I have not a thousand dollars left, John." + +"Nor I, Cleve." + +"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all +the old gentleman's money already?" + +"I only got $20,000; I owed half of it." + +"Only $20,000! What did he do with it?" + +"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went +away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I +had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000. +That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin." + +"And the widow--where is she?" + +"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the +St. Maurs, of Maryland." + +"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?" + +"Why, I never thought of such a thing." + +"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; +say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude +to your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call and +pay respects," etc., etc. + +John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the +note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office. + +That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it +with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, +high-bred little lady, with + + "Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, + Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, + Lips like fragrant posy," + +and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the +happiness of others. + +But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She +was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as +his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had +seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid +plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little +widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and +smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter. + +"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want +to consult you, dear, about a visitor." + +Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is +it, Fan?" + +"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have +inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if +it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow." + +"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the +Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place." + +"No; I have a better plan than that--Clementine, do stop reading a few +minutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and +Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in the +place, and I will take none of the servants with me." + +"Well?" + +"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor +friend and companion." + +"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'--an excellent comedy. How I shall +snub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing +you. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?" + +"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I came +back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until +now. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?" + +"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything until +their particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the letter +together. What is the gentleman's name?" + +The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.' Do you +know him, Clementine?" + +"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall +in love with the name--do you? But pray accept the offer for both +gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear." Then Clementine returned +to the consideration of the lace in _coquilles_ for her new evening +dress. + +The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed and +carried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, and one evening at the +end of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clare +had engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charming +ease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, in +her plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively the +idea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in which +to rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order, +and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank. + +Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter in +a rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress of +spotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummate +ease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party. +John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informal +companionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a few +days John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin +John, do this," and "Cousin John, come here," continually; and one night +when Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritable +enough to give his objections the form of speech. + +"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare." + +"I think she is a very lovely woman, John." + +"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I have +no mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills. +The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every way +inferior makes me angry enough, I assure you." + +"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John." + +"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in us +deceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow--why not +marry her? I am quite willing you should." + +"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They have +been favorably received, I think." + +"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shall +hardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clement +and myself." + +"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what on +earth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothing +will not make a decent living." + +"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor to +say 'Yes,' I will make a decent living out of my profession." + +From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to his +supposed cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widow +perceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be bought +with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and the +widow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhaps +she was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Cleve +made a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quite +naturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had first +fixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months. + +It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with their +lovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to be +quite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present, +or the _dénouement_ would come prematurely. Circumstances favored her +determination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into her +friend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve has +asked me to marry him." + +"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have." + +"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare." + +"Did you accept him?" + +"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the city +in October. You are going to New York this winter, are you not?" + +"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be his +wife to-night." + +"I told you men think and act in pairs." + +"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin had +ill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself; +absolutely said, Clement, that _you_ were a sufficient excuse for Mr. +Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promised +if I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of your +outrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made a +home for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry John +Selden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us." + +"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs. +However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shall +we do?" + +"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready for +me by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors." + +So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant letters +and future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough; +but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes of +invitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in ---- +street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wished +to make his entrance into his future home as became the prospective +master of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of not +suffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemen +who would probably be there. + +Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, the +true widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hitherto +worn, but magnificent in white crêpe lisse and satin, her arms and +throat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Her +companion had assumed now the rôle of simplicity, and Cleve was +disappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambéry gauze +dress. + +John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and the +love-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both her +hands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement." + +Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but +we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before +real life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. +_Cousin John_, I hope you are not disappointed." Then she put her hand +into John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their +explanation. + +Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying +circumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking down +at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the +tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a man +of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did +not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to +do. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could +marry; she had deceived him, too--he had a sudden and severe spasm of +morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport +to play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeply +disappointed and grieved, etc., etc. + +Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and +her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations. +She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes +embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room +and talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so. + +"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of +blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I promised you my final +answer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me that +trouble. Good evening, sir." + +Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon +recovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and +hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. +She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and +John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the +list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John and +his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had +gone in their company. + +"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden's +wife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Some +fellows are always unlucky in love affairs--I always am." + +Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of +unnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to +starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him. + +"Oh, it's that fool Belmar," he muttered; "I shall have to offer him a +ride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back? +Have a ride?" + +"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her this +afternoon." + +"Your wife! When were you married?" + +"Last month, in Paris." + +"And the happy lady was--" + +"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune. +Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child." + +"What?" + +"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3,000,000 in money and +real estate, and a heart beyond all price." + +"How on earth did you meet her?" + +"She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Selden--you know John Selden. She +has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friends +when they were girls together." + +Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a +finable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trust +himself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he made +to himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve +Sullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, and +that he well deserved it. + + + + +THE TWO MR. SMITHS. + + +"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; it +is my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. William +Smith! If it had been Alexander Smith--" + +"Or Hyacinth Smith." + +"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!" + +"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the lady +for the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties! +They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar into +the fire and began to buckle on his spurs. + +"Come with me, Carrol." + +"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better than +myself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so." + +"_I_ don't like Alice's style at all." + +"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settled +income, is skin-deep." + +If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took the +criticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income is +satisfactory; and besides that, she has all kinds of good qualities, +and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, a +suitable name for them!" + +"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her name +also?" + +"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in his +wife's, Carrol." + +"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride." + +So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupation +gave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man, +and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a very +great man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished and +fastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the air +of being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves. + +Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and +he was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of going +to them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To see +her in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great and +beautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charming +aimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofs +of her having been born in the purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenu +could ever hope to imitate them. + +Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of polite +shifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; and +the circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of her +position were to the other a real holiday-making. + +Alice met Mr. Smith with _empressement_, fluttered about the tea-tray +like a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and was +as full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose. + +"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been +trying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Now +you can be my substitute." + +"Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women ought +to have the same rights as men?" + +"Really, Miss Alice, I--I don't know. When women have got what they call +their 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges' +also?" + +"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrub +floors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect the +corner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pick +of everything." + +"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of the +country is in their hands, will they still expect to find time for +five-o'clock teas?" + +"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country, +and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or their +drawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leave +the other undone." + +"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been trying +to do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out of +one day." + +"Of course they will." + +"But how?" + +"Oh, machines and management. It will be done." + +"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice." + +"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with all +their boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementary +proposition, 'It will be, because it will be.'" + +Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to the +conversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossible +it was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed, +before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their +_tete-à-tete_ tea, two or three ladies joined the party, and the hour +was up, and the opportunity lost. + +However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested a +moment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and her +eyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as he +had determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined to +let himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her, +for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must be +confessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case in +which he was personally interested. + +Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return from +a very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began to +consider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr. +Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his +passionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and his +despairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person and +manners had made a great impression on her; she had been very near +loving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch of +electricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved. + +Such proposals seldom or never take women unawares. Eleanor had been +expecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short, +happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lines +which she believed would make him supremely happy. + +Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh, +you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alice +dear; I have a secret to tell you. I am--going--to--marry--Mr.--Smith." + +"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. +Poor Eleanor!" + +"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him--honestly, you +know?" + +"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste in +cravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in any +position out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, +always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the back +or arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith is +handsome; very much so." + +"Oh, you do admit that?" + +"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty." + +"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?" + +"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he is very 'nice,' and very +respectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare say +you will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do, +Eleanor; and--oh dear me!--how I should hate a husband of that kind!" + +"You little hypocrite!--with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman's +supremacy.'" + +"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say +_many-sidedness_--it is a more womanly definition. But if it is really +to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?" + +This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a couple +of hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; and +before matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full of +anticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author of +them, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom. + +"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be a +handsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clothes +will all come from Paris, I dare say." + +"I think we will go to Paris first." Then Eleanor went into a graphic +description of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she had +experienced them during her first bridal tour. "It is the most +fascinating city in the world, Alice." + +"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such an +out-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has to +sail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shall +have to go." + +"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you." + +"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall have +to try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the way +across, of course, but then--" + +"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?" + +"I intend to--for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with the +same set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation would +become!" + +"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down to +breakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call at +five o'clock to-morrow--or rather to-day--and we shall have a +_tete-à-tete_ tea." + +Alice determined that it should be strictly _tete-à-tete._ She went to +spend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thought +the lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange their +wedding. + +There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside the +door, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She was +trying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's new +husband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong. + +"I shall be dreadfully in the way--_his way_, I mean--and he will want +to send me out of the room, and I shall not go--no, not if I fall asleep +on a chair looking at him." + +With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered the +parlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her face +Alice could not understand. + +"Shut the door, dear." + +"Alone?" + +"I have been so all evening." + +"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?" + +"Mr. Smith did not call." + +"Not come!" + +"Nor yet sent any apology." + +The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, both +white and silent. + +"What will you do, Eleanor?" + +"Nothing." + +"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queer +mistakes do happen." + +"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room; +it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubt +but that he received it." + +"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he is +hardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. I +have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed.' Mr. +Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview." + +Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" but +through this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the white +feather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. +Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners toward +him, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when she +had--however innocently--given him the keenest personal slight? + +Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and what +is heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she had +quite decided that her lover would call the following day, and her +thoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for any +anxiety he might have suffered. + +But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many following +ones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last hope that he +would ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said, +"You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Sam +says he is to be away two years." + +"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness. + +"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has been +talking about the trip for six months." + +"Really!--Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery for +Mrs. Hollis to look at?" + +So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused a +diversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were not +named again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is the +use of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor to +Alice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention of +the subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes do +not necessarily possess the finest tempers. + +Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest. +Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend's +singular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He +supposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smith +not to take a pretty, rich woman like her into his calculations. For +his part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt that +he had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl; +they had less nonsense about them," etc. + +That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of course +she suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who parade +their suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all, +endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hysterical +sobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress common +to weak women. + +Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but Eleanor +Bethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest social +impropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the proper +mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, anise +and cummin due to her position. + +Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect--it compelled Alice +to talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, in +discussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all, +it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. And +there is something very assuaging to grief in this occupation. Before +it was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshiny +temper. + +"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to +herself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery. + +At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, and +nowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol's +influence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor--quite a +novel one," she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal trip +in Carrol's yacht!" + +"Whose idea is that?" + +"Carrol's and _mine too_, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliest +life. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issue +your own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easy +conscience" + +"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?" + +"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance of +ticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesome +letters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in +the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid." + +So the marriage took place at the end of the season, and Alice and +Carrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss what +to do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gone +there, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw them +together. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe was +out of the question. + +While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid--a beautiful +girl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I am +going to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. "Papa has +heard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have a +special car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty." + +"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I was +dreading the old routine in the old places; but this will be +delightful." + +Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethune +found herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. It +was a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose like +Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look of +intense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder and +annoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable +thing; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she never +thought of shirking it. + +So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and even +quickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself. +The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. At +first she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it in +such words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmly +settled on the following form: + +"_Messrs. Locke & Lord_: + +"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is of +the greatest importance." + +When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam." +But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, and +she could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The man +stood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay about +the message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertainty +ruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and return +to her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched the +whole proceeding, said: + +"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that you +have lost your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can return +the money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the +'American.'" + +"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother. +I gratefully accept your offer." + +Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalist +who was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; so +that the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterward +inaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. It +was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which, +even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of money +for the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the door +of the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedy +arrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars. + +This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's last +lover--a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome and +gentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor's +prejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery, +pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the very +first day of their acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but one +thought--the winning of Eleanor Bethune. + +When she returned to New York in the autumn she ventured to cast up her +accounts with life, and she was rather amazed at the result. For she was +quite aware that she was in love with this William Smith in a way that +she had never been with the other. The first had been a sentimental +ideal; the second was a genuine case of sincere and passionate +affection. She felt that the desertion of this lover would be a grief +far beyond the power of satin and lace to cure. + +But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and his +love transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed to +find its native air. It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenly +atmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed to +her that no change could make her happier. + +But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thought +marriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking. Eleanor and he +were sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when he +whispered this opinion to her. + +"It is only four months since we met, dear." + +"Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you four +months before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you. On +the 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado to +look after the Silver Cliff Mine. My carriage was ordered, and I was +waiting at my hotel for it. A servant brought me a letter--the dearest, +sweetest little letter--see, here it is!" and this William Smith +absolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the first +William Smith's offer. + +Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled. + +"What did you think, dear?" + +"That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me. It +was directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands. I was +not going to seek up any other W. Smith." + +"But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and you +did not know 'Eleanor Bethune.'" + +"Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it _was intended_ for me. I can +imagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching you +send the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. +Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible. I was +coming back to New York to look for you." + +"And, instead, she went to you in Colorado." + +"Only think of that! Why, love, when that blessed telegraph clerk said, +'Who sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. Eleanor Bethune,' I wanted +to fling my hat to the sky. I did not lose my head as badly when they +found that new lead in the Silver Cliff." + +"Won't you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William? It was +written to the wrong Smith." + +"It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith. +Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do what +you like with the letter." + +Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning letter +made a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss. + + + + +THE STORY OF MARY NEIL. + + +Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saints +and martyrs. There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, and +desolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty--where +with toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are being +prepared for the heavenly temple. + +This is the light that relieves the deep shadow of that awful cloud of +poverty which ever hangs over this rich and prosperous city. I have been +within that cloud, wet with its rain of tears, chilled with its gloomy +darkness, "made free" of its innermost recesses; therefore I speak with +authority when I say that even here a little child may walk and not +stumble, if Jesus lead the way or hold the hand. + +Nay, but children walk where strong men fall down, and young maidens +enter the kingdom while yet their parents are stumbling where no light +from the Golden City and "the Land very far off" reaches them. Last +winter I became very much interested in such a case. I was going to +write "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have been the strangest misnomer. +Happy Mary Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to contradict my pen. + +And yet when I first became acquainted with her condition, she was +"poor" in every bitter sense of the word. + +A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child of misery baptized with tears," +what had her seventeen years been but sad and evil ones? Cold and +hunger, cares and labors far beyond her strength sowed the seeds of +early death. For two years she struggled amid such suffering as dying +lungs entail to help her mother and younger brothers and sisters, but at +last she was compelled to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering which +she could no longer assuage by her helpful hands and gentle words. + +Her religious education had not been quite neglected, and she dimly +comprehended that through the narrow valley which lay between Time and +Eternity she would need a surer and more infallible guide than her own +sadly precocious intellect. Then God sent her just the help she +needed--a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman full of the love of Jesus. + +Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of the Border Land, and very soon +Mary had learned how to walk without fearing any evil. Certain passages +of Scripture burned with a supernatural glory, and made the darkness +light; and there were also a few hymns which struck the finest chords +in her heart, and + + "'Mid days of keenest anguish + And nights devoid of ease, + Filled all her soul with music + Of wondrous melodies." + +As she neared the deeper darkness of death, this was especially +remarkable of that extraordinary hymn called "The Light of Death," by +Dr. Faber. From the first it had fascinated her. "Has he been _here_ +that he knows just how it feels?" she asked, wonderingly, and then +solemnly repeated: + + "Saviour, what means this breadth of death, + This space before me lying; + These deeps where life so lingereth, + This difficulty of dying? + So many turns abrupt and rude, + Such ever-shifting grounds, + Such strangely peopled solitudes, + Such strangely silent sounds?'" + +Her sufferings were very great, and sometimes the physical depression +exerted a definable influence on her spiritual state. Still she never +lost her consciousness of the presence of her Guide and Saviour, and +once, in the exhaustion of a severe paroxysm, she murmured two lines +from the same grand hymn: + + "Deeper! dark, dark, but yet I follow: + Tighten, dear Lord, thy clasp." + +Ah! there was something touching and noble beyond all words, in this +complete reliance and perfect trust; and it never again wavered. + +"Is it _very_ dark, Mary dear?" her friend said one morning, the _last_ +for her on earth. + +"Too dark to see," she whispered, "but I can go on if Christ will hold +my hand." + +After this a great solemnity shaded her face; she lost all consciousness +of this world. The frail, shadowy little body lay gray and passive, +while that greatest of all struggles was going on--the struggle of the +Eternal out of Time; but her lips moved incessantly, and occasionally +some speech of earth told the anxious watchers how hard the conflict +was. For instance, toward sundown she said in a voice strangely solemn +and anxious: + + "Who are we trying to avoid? + From whom, Lord, must we hide? + Oh! can the dying be decoyed, + With the Saviour by his side?" + +"Loose sands and all things sinking!" "Are we near eternity?" "Can I +fall from Thee even now?" and ejaculations of similar kind, showed that +the spiritual struggle was a very palpable one to her; but it ended in a +great calm. For two hours she lay in a peace that passeth understanding, +and you would have said that she was dead but for a vague look of +expectancy in the happy, restful face. Then suddenly there was a +lightening of the whole countenance; she stretched out her arms to meet +the messenger of the King, and entered heaven with this prayer on her +lips: + + "_Both hands_, dear Lord, _both hands_.'" + +Don't doubt but she got them; their mighty strength lifted her over the +dark river almost dry shod. + + "Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon + Lie in her tent--for on the golden street + She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn + With her unsandalled feet." + + + + +THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE. + + +Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace a strange bustle and +excitement had come--the master was returning with a young bride, whom +report spoke of as "bewitchingly beautiful." It was easy to believe +report in this case, for there must have been some strong inducement to +make Frederick Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman barely twenty. +It was not money; Mr. Kurston had plenty of money, and he was neither +ambitious nor avaricious; besides, the woman he had chosen was both poor +and extravagant. + +For once report was correct. Clementina Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, +had been a great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in silks and diamonds, +was a woman dedicated, by Nature for conquest. + +It was Clementina's beauty that had prevailed over the love-hardened +heart of the gay old gallant, who had escaped the dangers of forty +seasons of flirtation. He was entangled in the meshes of her golden +hair, fascinated by the spell of her love-languid eyes, her mouth like a +sad, heavy rose, her faultless form and her superb manners. He was blind +to all her faults; deaf to all his friends--in the glamour of her +enchantments he submitted to her implicitly, even while both his reason +and his sense of other obligations pleaded for recognition. + +Clementina had not won him very easily; the summer was quite over, +nearly all the visitors at the stylish little watering-place had +departed, the mornings and evenings were chilly, every day Mr. Kurston +spoke of his departure, and she herself was watching her maid pack her +trunks, and in no very amiable temper contemplating defeat, when the +reward of her seductive attentions came. + +"Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an interview." + +She gladly accorded it; she robed herself with subtle skill; she made +herself marvelous. + +"Mother," she said, as she left her dressing-room, "you will have a +headache. I shall excuse you. I can manage this business best alone." + +In an hour she came back triumphant. She put her feet on the fender, and +sat down before the cheerful blaze to "talk it over." + +"It is all right, mother. Good-by to our miserable shifts and +shabby-genteel lodgings and turned dresses. He will settle Kurston Chace +and all he has upon me, and we are to be married next month." + +"Impossible, Tina! No _modiste_ in the world could get the things that +are absolutely necessary ready in that time." + +"Everything is possible in New York--if you have money--and Uncle Gray +will be ready enough to buy my marriage clothes. Besides, I am going to +run no risks. If he should die, nothing on earth could console me for +the trouble I have had with him, but the fact of being his widow. There +is no sentiment in the affair, and the sooner one gets to ordering +dinners and running up bills, the better." + +"Poor Philip Lee!" + +"Mother, why did you mention him? Of course he will be angry, and call +me all kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a particle of common +sense he must see that it was impossible for me to marry a poor +lawyer--especially when I had such a much better offer. I suppose he +will be here to-night. You must see him, mother, and explain things as +pleasantly as possible. It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. +Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the ravings and protestations +he is sure to indulge in." + +In this supposition Clementina was mistaken. Philip Lee took the news of +her engagement to his wealthy rival with blank calmness and a civil wish +for her happiness. He made a stay of conventional propriety, and said +all the usual polite platitudes, and then went away without any evidence +of the deep suffering and mortification he felt. + +This was Clementina's first drop of bitterness in her cup of success. +She questioned her mother closely as to how he looked, and what he said. +It did not please her that, instead of bemoaning his own loss, he should +be feeling a contempt for her duplicity--that he should use her to cure +his passion, when she meant to wound him still deeper. She felt at +moments as if she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth and position +she had so hardly won, only she knew him well enough to understand that +henceforward she could not easily deceive him again. + +It was pleasant to return to New York this fall; the news of the +engagement opened everyone's heart and home. Congratulations came from +every quarter; even Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done so well for +herself, and signified his approval by a handsome check. + +The course of this love ran smooth enough, and one fine morning in +October, Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. Henceforward Clementina +Kurston was a woman to be courted instead of patronized, and many a +woman who had spoken lightly of her beauty and qualities, was made to +acknowledge with an envious pang that she had distanced them. + +This was her first reward, and she did not stint herself in extorting +it. To tell the truth, Clementina had many a bitter score of this kind +to pay off; for, as she said in extenuation, it was impossible for her +to allow herself to be in debt to her self-respect. + +Well, the wedding was over. She had abundantly gratified her taste for +splendor; she had smiled on those on whom she willed to smile; she had +treated herself extravagantly to the dangerous pleasure of social +revenge; she was now anxious to go and take possession of her home, +which had the reputation of being one of the oldest and handsomest in +the country. + +Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxicated with love, and not a little +flattered by the brilliant position which his wife had at once claimed. +Now that she was his wife, it amused him to see her order and patronize +and dispense with all that royal prerogative which belongs to beauty, +supported by wealth and position. + +Into his great happiness he had suffered no doubt, no fear of the +future, to come; but, as the day approached for their departure for +Kurston Chace, he grew singularly restless and uneasy. + +For, much as he loved and obeyed the woman whom he called "wife," there +was another woman at Kurston whom he called "daughter," that he loved +quite as dearly, in a different way. In fact, of his daughter, Athel +Kurston, he stood just a little bit in fear, and she had ruled the +household at the Chace for many years as absolute mistress. + +No one knew anything of her mother; he had brought her to her present +home when only five years old, after a long stay on the Continent. A +strange woman, wearing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came with the +child as nurse; but she had never learnt to speak English, and had now +been many years dead. + +Athel knew nothing of her mother, and her early attempts to question her +father concerning her had been so peremptorily rebuffed that she had +long ago ceased to indulge in any curiosity regarding her. +However--though she knew it not--no one regarded her as Mr. Kurston's +heir; indeed, nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned such a +conclusion. True, he loved her dearly, and had spared no pains in her +education; but he never took her with him into the world, and, except in +the neighborhood of the Chace, her very existence was not known of. + +She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, not +likely to obey. He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; he +had said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both facts +could no longer be concealed. + +But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and he +was rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairs +between them without troubling himself to enter into explanations with +either of them. So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assuming +that she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised her +a pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possible +arrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house. + +To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The elegantly dressed young lady who +met her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her a +genuine surprise. Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the idea +of a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed +her. But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground; +she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from the +vantage-ground of her retirement sent Félicité to take observations. + +The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, and +Mrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the drawing-room fully +prepared to defend her rights. + +"Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when we +arrived?" + +This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing manner +she had always found omnipotent. + +"That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina." + +This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on the +defensive generally assume. + +"Miss Kurston? Your sister, Frederick?" + +"No; my daughter, Clementina." + +"But you were never married before?" + +"So people say." + +"Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a person +of--" + +"I see no reason why you should not--that is, if you live in the same +house with me." + +A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and the +infatuated husband was willing to promise anything--everything--that his +charmer demanded--that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston's influence +was really stronger than her step-mother's, and the promises extorted +from his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his nobler +feelings. + +A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief sufferer +here was Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere and +profound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake. + +One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, to +procure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, +assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum; +but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, as +she had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing a +degree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her. + +This letter completely broke the power of Clementina over her husband. +He asserted at once his authority, and insisted on returning immediately +to New York, where he thought it likely Athel had gone, and where, at +any rate, he could find suitable persons to aid him in his search for +her--a search which was henceforth the chief object of his life. + +A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. Kurston at once assumed the +position of a leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to her +satisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in the exclusive circle in which +she moved, and she speedily began the pretty, penitent, dejected rôle +which she judged would be most effective with him. But, though she would +not see it, Philip Lee was proof against all her blandishments. He was +not the man to be deluded twice by the same false woman; he was a man of +honor, and detested the social ethics which scoffed at humanity's +holiest tie; and he was deeply in love with a woman who was the very +antipodes of the married siren. + +Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston mansion, and became a great +favorite, and finally the friend and confidant of its master. Gradually, +as month after month passed, the business of the Kurston estate came +into his hands, and he could have told, to the fraction of a dollar, the +exact sum for which Clementina Gray sold herself. + +Two years passed away. There was no longer on Clementina's part, any +pretence of affection for her husband; she went her own way, and devoted +herself to her own interests and amusements. He wearied with a hopeless +search and anxiety that found no relief, aged very rapidly, and became +subject to serious attacks of illness, any one of which might deprive +him of life. + +His wife now regretted that she had married so hastily; the settlements +promised had been delayed; she had trusted to her influence to obtain +more as his wife than as his betrothed. She had not known of a +counter-influence, and she had not calculated that the effort of a +life-long deception might be too much for her. Quarrels had arisen in +the very beginning of their life at Kurston, the disappearance of Athel +had never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston became violently angry if +the settlement and disposing of his property was named. + +One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel's +disappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurston +to sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. He +signed the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lock +the door and sit down. + +"I am going," he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I +do not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled that +makes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter--the lawful +heiress of the Kurston lands--whom my wife drove, by subtle and +persistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able to +discover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put in +possession of her rights." + +"But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?" + +"They are all in this box--everything that is necessary. Take it with +you to your office to-night. Her mother--ah, me, how I loved her--was a +Polish lady of good family; but I have neither time nor inclination now +to explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities which +induced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much for +what society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or my +conscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and the +living!" + +Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sank +gradually during the following week, and died--his last word, +"Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dying +injunction, to Philip Lee. + +A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor of +a sentimental woman to her first and--as she chose to consider it--her +only true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, +dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management of +the Kurston property. + +Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possible +nor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. The +world began to freely connect their names, and it was with much +difficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of his +indifference to the rich and beautiful widow. + +He found himself, indeed, becoming gradually entangled in a net of +circumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of. + +The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like a +lawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed his +engagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils the +artful widow was encompassing him with--he must marry some one else. + +But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him; +yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He had +half a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to begin +with. + +So he put on his hat and went to his sister's house. He knew she was out +driving--had seen her pass five minutes before on her way to the park. +Then what did he go there for? Because he judged from experience, that +at this hour lovely Pauline Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, +was at home and alone. + +He was not wrong; she came into the parlor by one door as he entered it +by the other. The coincidence was auspicious, and he warmly pressed his +suit, pouring into Pauline's ears such a confused account of his +feelings and his affairs as only love could disentangle and understand. + +"But, Philip," said Pauline, "do you mean to say that this Mrs. Kurston +makes love to you? Is she not a married woman, and her husband your best +friend and patron?" + +"Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead!" + +"Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my father! my father!" And the poor girl +threw herself, with passionate sobbings, among the cushions of the sofa. + +This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondly +loved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress of +Kurston Chace! + +Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully her +father had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowing +of, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he had +done her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supreme +circle of the Kurstons. + +She had hidden her identity in her mother's maiden name--the only thing +she knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flight +from her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reason +to suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, by +cruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of her +father to protect her. + +It now became Philip's duty to acquaint the second Mrs. Kurston with +her true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate Athel +Kurston in her rights. + +Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions--even his friends +believed him to have been cognizant all the time of the identity of +Pauline Alexes with Athel Kurston--and he was complimented on his +cleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of the +widow, for an incumbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these things +scarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel. + +As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gave +up the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was glad +to get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow and +disappointment," etc. + +But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth's +greatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling in +unrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she had +rejected for his poverty. + +She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of his +country. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to the +woman she hated as their "mother," and knew that they filled with light +and love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificed +her affection and her womanhood. + + + + +"ONLY THIS ONCE." + + +Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night +was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, +thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, +and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills. + +David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him +"temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard +wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him +love her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God. + +The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's +voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and +were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took +their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for +an old man in the late gloaming. + +Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark +furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a +stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out, +"Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye." + +The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage +near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a +day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and +was hungry and worn out. + +David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner +and assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition +among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David +acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten +cake and his embers. + +It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the +hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he +stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they +came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies +David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they +weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say. + +The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben," +with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great +men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean and +cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a +little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten +cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man +reading. + +"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn." + +The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott +rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire. +The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently +in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then +the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions. + +"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught +o' a gentleman." + +David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied: + +"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty +to judge him." + +When Archie spoke again it was of other matters. + +"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the +sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like. +There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't +find it out." + +"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's +worth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say." + +It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's +steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; +but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even +the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest +condition. + +When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David +was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the +morning than he had done at night. + +"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly. + +Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but +strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he +had never tasted porridge before. + +"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent +oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple's +omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased +the old man. + +The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a +fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling +mists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw +something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He +looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said: + +"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?" + +"Sir!" + +There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, +shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed +this movement with great interest. + +"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this +way. Do you know who they are?" + +"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be +policemen--I dinna ken them mysel'." + +"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell +you the whole truth." + +"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me; +yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are." + +There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and +he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by +overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems. + +The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited +until his companion had regained his breath, said: + +"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as +may be; I dinna like fine speeches." + +"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea +dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a +hard man, so I run away." + +"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed +to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the +beginning." + +The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated +ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his +employer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, +and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, +hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passing +ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor +mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed. + +"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's +a awfu' drawback." + +"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I've +been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted +to-day." + +"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart, +when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what I +will do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it's +nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, and +get him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, a +decent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade--bookkeeping. +Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'll +gie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a +big hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up. + +"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen, +forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. I +dinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, +if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you, +there 'ud be meikle use in it," for Alexander Semple had heard the +proposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to the +good man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer in +order to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" to +denude himself of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on the +sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully in +David's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave up +the £9 14s. 2d. in his possession. + +"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he said; "the bargain is fair enough +for you." + +"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna hae +keepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends." + +The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The £9 +odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangement +proposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; he +acknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of his +appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principles +and was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness, +and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriage +of Mr. Semple's trunks cost him. + +Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hill +cottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherd +and his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, though +ignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home, +soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive from him. And once +Archie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was never +weary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a few +weeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister's +affairs. + +Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle of +summer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel was +complicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summer +gloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he +had loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate to +school for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell; +he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently +without avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katie +looked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolent +manner. + +That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger as +the lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to +Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been in +Greenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that the +couple had married and were to sail for America. They then discovered +that Archie's desk had been opened and £46 in notes and gold taken. +Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archie +was angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seem +averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that if +he made known his loss, _he also_ must confess that he had knowingly +harbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity of +wronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would give +him credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course of +conduct. + +Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simple +people a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savings +of a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient to +replace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple. +On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrison +and Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailed +for America the next day. After this certainty father and son never +named the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening, +some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave. + +"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did ten +years ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous lives--never! +Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. +If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did." + +"I will, father." + +During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles. +Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, and +said there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently, +and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and +their baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was that +Alexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsome +presents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally, +and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her head +proudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage." + +But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long they +must be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and the +fair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and +mystery. + +Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father's +death married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit of +siller." Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his +wife's brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly but +surely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and a +douce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters. + +One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passing +through the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire! +Fire!" arose on every side of him. + +"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy, +narrow wynds around. + +"In Gordon's Wynd." + +He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make his +way up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house was +one of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it was +almost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that not +unfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made a +bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice. + +By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house were +removed, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women and +children across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountain +training had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him. +Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go +home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor, +showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, and +screaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only too +well. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had said +in dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor +of the opposite house again. + +In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death and +safety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage. +Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, and +carried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized his +preserver. + +"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! The +last of seven!" + +"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie and +your child!" + +Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of the +burning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smoke +had smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardly +time to save his own life. + +"They are dead, Semple!" + +Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of grief, moaned and +cried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserable +creature on earth. + +After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint of +selfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there was +not much now left to work upon--health, honor, self-respect were all +gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and then +make boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of his +wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, and +everything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune. + +Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for every +decent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spoke +ill of him behind his back. + +However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last very +long. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was called +upon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance toward +him; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of the +grave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged all +its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had been +extended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wasted +opportunities. + +"Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he said, "and tell your four brave +boys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for +_only this once_. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that +_comes with sin_ will _go with sorrow_. And never to doubt that to every +_evil doer_ will certainly come his _evil day_." + + + + +PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY. + + +I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom I +have no conventional authority to like--people out of "my set," and not +always of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always been +fortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendid +exceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that all +of us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friends +that circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate, +the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractive +to me. + +In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I +believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at +any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone +through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and +that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at +twenty different points. + +Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud +satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. He +looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his +ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did; +human beings don't know everything. + +People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder that +our acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and that +one of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was to +Petralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but not +me. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find out +that the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in the +streets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the best +hotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the other +necessaries of a pleasant existence. + +He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we went +together. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had told +myself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill procession +again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half an +hour's ride, Jack," I felt like going, and I went. + +Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing +happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes +flashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if +he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew +suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was +approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had +no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly +beautiful. + +I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there +was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon +complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still +passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident +suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of +meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, +lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they +entered a stately house together, "Are they married?" + +"Yes." + +"He seems devotedly in love with her." + +"He loved her two years before he saw her." + +"Impossible." + +"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story." + +"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together." + +"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock." + +Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious +in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests +under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of +everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging +chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a +bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, +and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana. + +I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was +Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that +easel so that you can see the picture on it." + +I did so. + +"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the +locality--describe it." + +"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long +streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short +grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful +colors." + +"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what +else do you see?" + +"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl +standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored +flowers." + +"Describe the girl to me." + +I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and +waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has--Petralto, what makes you +ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe _light_; and +the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have +thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her." + +"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood. +When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full of +yellow jasmine. I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my whole +life, and every joy and hope it contained." + +"What were you doing in Texas?" + +"What are you doing in New York? I was born in Texas. My family, an old +Spanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build San +Antonio in 1730. I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do--half my time +in the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side of +nature. I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been an +artist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in my +twentieth year I went to Rome to study. + +"I can pass the next five years. I do not pretend to regret them, +though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity. I +enjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in the +matter. I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind. I +loved nature and I loved art. I warmed both hands at the glowing fire of +life. Time may do his worst. I have been happy, and I can throw those +five careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour. + +"But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got a +letter urging my immediate return home. My father had got himself +involved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health. My younger +brother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranch +needed authoritative overlooking. I was never so fond of art as to be +indifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurrying +West. + +"Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me! The +noble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church; +somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, +company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexican +peons, was sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished, to find how easily +I went back to my old life, and spent whole days in the saddle +investigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch. + +"I had been riding one day for ten hours, and was so fatigued that I +determined to spend the night with one of my herdsmen. He had a little +shelter under some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, and after a cup of +coffee and a meal of dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down the +river bank. Then the cool, dusky shadows of the wood tempted me. I +entered it. It was an enchanted wood, for there stood Jessy Lorimer, +just as I had painted her. + +"I did not move nor speak. I watched her, spell-bound. I had not even +the power, when she had mounted her pony and was coming toward me, to +assume another attitude. She saw that I had been watching her, and a +look, half reproachful and half angry, came for a moment into her face. +But she inclined her head to me as she passed, and then went off at a +rapid gallop before I could collect my senses. + +"Some people, Jack, walk into love with their eyes open, calculating +every step. I tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my senses, +narrowed in one moment the whole world down to one bewitching woman. I +did not know her, of course; but I soon should. I was well aware she +could not live very far away, and that my herd must be able to give me +some information. I was so deeply in love that this poor ignorant +fellow, knowing something about this girl, seemed to me to be a person +to be respected, and even envied. + +"I gave him immediately a plentiful supply of cigars, and sitting down +beside him opened the conversation with horses, but drifted speedily +into the subject of new settlers. + +"'Were there any since I had left?' + +"'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one likely family.' + +"'Much of a family?' + +"'You may bet on that, sir.' + +"'Any pleasant young men?' + +"'Reckon so. Mighty likely young gal.' + +"So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lorimer, my beauty's father, was a +Scotchman, who had bought the ranch which had formerly belonged to the +old Spanish family of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty Inez and +Dolores Yturri, with their black eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy +_embonpoint_; and thought of golden-haired Jessy Lorimer in their dark, +latticed rooms. + +"Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful Jessy! How I loved her in those +happy days that followed. How I humored her grave, stern father and +courted her brothers for her sake! I was a slave to the whole family, +so that I might gain an hour with or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret it +now? Not one moment. Such delicious hours as we had together were worth +any price. I would throw all my future to old Time, Jack, only to live +them over again." + +"That is a great deal to say, Petralto." + +"Perhaps; and yet I will not recall it. In those few months everything +that was good in me prospered and grew. Jessy brought out nothing but +the best part of my character. I was always at my best with her. No +thought of selfish pleasure mingled in my love for her. If it delighted +me to touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against my cheek, to meet +her earnest, subduing gaze, it also made me careful by no word or look +to soil the dainty purity of my white lily. + +"I feared to tell her that I loved her. But I did do it, I scarcely know +how. The softest whisper seemed too loud against her glowing cheek. She +trembled from head to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture when she +first put her little hand in mine, and suffered me to draw her to my +heart. Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think of it. I--I first, I +alone, woke that sweet young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, but +no one else can ever be to her what I have been." + +And here Petralto, giving full sway to his impassioned Southern nature, +covered his face with his hands and wept hot, regretful tears. + +Tears come like blood from men of cold, strong temperaments, but they +were the natural relief of Petralto's. I let him weep. In a few minutes +he leaped up, and began pacing the room rapidly as he went on: + +"Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with a dour, stiff refusal that left +me no hope of any relenting. 'He had reasons, more than one,' he said; +'he was not saying anything against either my Spanish blood or my +religion; but it was no fault in a Scotsman to mate his daughter with +people of her own kith.' + +"There was no quarrel, and no discourtesy; but I saw I could bend an +iron bar with my pleadings just as soon as his determination. Jessy +received orders not to meet me or speak to me alone; and the possibility +of disobeying her father's command never suggested itself to her. Even I +struggled long with my misery before I dared to ask her to practice her +first deceit. + +"She would not meet me alone, but she persuaded her mother to come once +with her to our usual tryst in the wood. Mrs. Lorimer spoke kindly but +hopelessly, and covered her own face to weep while Jessy and I took of +each other a passionate farewell. I promised her then never to marry +anyone else; and she!--I thought her heart would break as I laid her +almost fainting in her mother's arms. + +"Yet I did not know how much Jessy really was to me until I suddenly +found out that her father had sent her back to Scotland, under the +pretence of finishing her education. I had been so honorably considerate +of Jessy's Puritan principles that I felt this hasty, secret movement +exceedingly unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became hateful to me, the +duties of the ranch distracting; and my brother Felix returning about +this time, we made a division of the estate. He remained at the Garcia +mansion, I rented out my possessions, and went, first to New Orleans, +and afterward to New York. + +"In New York I opened a studio, and one day a young gentleman called and +asked me to draw a picture from some crude, imperfect sketch which a +friend had made. During the progress of the picture he frequently called +in. For some reason or other--probably because we were each other's +antipodes in tastes and temperament--he became my enthusiastic admirer, +and interested himself greatly to secure me a lucrative patronage. + +"Yet some subtle instinct, which I cannot pretend to divine or explain, +constantly warned me to beware of this man. But I was ashamed and angry +at myself for linking even imaginary evil with so frank and generous a +nature. I defied destiny, turned a deaf ear to the whisperings of my +good genius, and continued the one-sided friendship--for I never even +pretended to myself that I had any genuine liking for the man. + +"One day, when we had become very familiar, he ran up to see me about +something, I forget what, and not finding me in the outer apartments, +penetrated to my private room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox first +saw the woman you saw with him to-night--the picture which you are now +looking at--and he fell as desperately in love with it, in his way, as I +had done in the Guadalupe woods with the reality. I cannot tell you how +much it cost me to restrain my anger. He, however, never noticed I was +angry. He had but one object now--to gain from me the name and residence +of the original. + +"It was no use to tell him it was a fancy picture, that he was sighing +for an imagination. He never believed it for a moment. I would not sell +it, I would not copy it, I would not say where I had painted it; I kept +it to my most sacred privacy. He was sure that the girl existed, and +that I knew where she lived. He was very rich, without an occupation or +an object, and Jessy's pure, lovely face haunted him day and night, and +supplied him with a purpose. + +"He came to me one day and offering me a large sum of money, asked me +finally to reveal at least the locality of which I had painted the +picture. His free, frank unembarrassed manner compels me to believe that +he had no idea of the intolerable insult he was perpetrating. He had +always been accustomed to consider more or less money an equivalent for +all things under the sun. But you, Jack, will easily understand that the +offer was followed by some very angry words, and that his threat to hunt +the world over to find my beauty was not without fear to me. + +"I heard soon after that Will Lennox had gone to the South. I had +neither hidden nor talked about my former life and I was ignorant of how +much he knew or did not know of it. He could trace me easily to New +Orleans; how much further would depend upon his tact and perseverance. +Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am uncertain, but my heart fell +with a strange presentment of sorrow when I saw his name, a few weeks +afterward, among the European departures. + +"The next thing I knew of Will Lennox was his marriage to some famous +Scotch beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty was +Jessy Lorimer. I feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon." + +"Will you call there?" + +"I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly she +pressed the invitation?" + +"Do not accept it, Petralto." + +He shook his head, and remained silent. The next afternoon I was +astonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. +He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to men +accustomed to have the whole world minister unto them. + +He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, +boastful conversation. He did not notice the ashy face, the blazing +eyes, the set lips, the trembling hands, of the passionate Spanish +nature, until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of unreasonable words and +taunts, and ordered Lennox out of his presence. + +Even then the stupid, good-natured, purse-proud man could not see his +danger. He began to apologize to me for Petralto's rudeness, and excuse +"anything in a fellow whom he had cut out so badly." + +"Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved me first; you can never have her +whole heart. Begone! If I had you on the Guadalupe, where Jessy and I +lived and loved, I would--" + +The sentence was not finished. Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, +and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. I +stayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleased +with him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a +few consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over. + +"Lennox tortured me," he said, passionately. "How could he be so +unfeeling, so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn what chain of +circumstances led him to find out my love and then steal her? Everything +he said tortured me but one fact--Jessy was alone and thoroughly +miserable. Poor little pet! She thought I had forgotten her, and so she +married him--not for love; I won't believe it." + +"But," I said, "Petralto, you have no right to hug such a delusion; and +seeing that you had made no attempt to follow Jessy and marry her, she +had every right to suppose you really had forgotten her. Besides, I +think it very likely that she should love a young, rich, good-looking +fellow like Will Lennox." + +"In not pursuing her I was following Jessy's own request and obeying my +own plighted promise. It was understood between us that I should wait +patiently until Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs would then +have regarded her as her own mistress and acknowledged her right to +marry as she desired; and if I did not write, she has not wanted +constant tokens of my remembrance. I have trusted her," he said, +mournfully, "without a sign from her." + +That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox and the devotion of her husband +were on every tongue. But married is not mated, and the best part of +Jessy Lorimer's beauty had never touched Will Lennox. Her pure, simple, +poetic temperament he had never understood, and he felt in a dim, +uncertain way that the noblest part of his wife escaped him. + +He could not enter into her feelings, and her spiritual superiority +unconsciously irritated him. Jessy had set her love's first music to the +broad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wronging +herself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. This +reserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of those +self-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simply +true to the light within her. But her way was not Will Lennox's way, her +finer fancies and lighter thoughts were mysteries to his grosser nature. + +So the thing happened which always has and always will happen in such +cases; when the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's great personal +beauty had lost their first novelty and power, she gradually became to +her husband--"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his +horse." + +I did not much blame Will Lennox. It is very hard to love what we do not +comprehend. A wife who could have sympathized in his pursuits, talked +over the chances of his "Favorite," or gone to sea with him in his +yacht, would always have found Will an indulgent and attentive husband. +But fast horses did not interest Jessy, and going to sea made her ill; +so gradually these two fell much further apart than they ought to have +done. + +Now, if Petralto had been wicked and Jessy weak, he might have revenged +himself on the man and woman who had wrought him so much suffering. But +he had set his love far too high to sully her white name; and Jessy, in +that serenity which comes of lofty and assured principles, had no idea +of the possibility of her injuring her husband by a wrong thought. Yet +instinctively they both sought to keep apart; and if by chance they met, +the grave courtesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the other left +nothing for evil hopes or thoughts to feed upon. One morning, two years +after Jessy's marriage, I received a note from Petralto, asking me to +call upon him immediately. To my amazement, his rooms were dismantled, +his effects packed up, and he was on the point of leaving New York. + +"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?" + +"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, +society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. +I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men." + +So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him +forgot him--forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him. + +I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German +philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot +Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged +and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divine +philosophy," took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not waste +my time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I +did not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare. + +Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three years +after Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenly +entered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I have +used the word "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutes +that Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of a +bridegroom. + +Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feeling +congratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow came +back so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, +and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride. + +I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wondered +what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I +rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of +eternal fidelity to his first love. + +I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in +fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Will +must be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, +when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly I +shut my book and lit my cigar. + +"'All's well that ends well,' my dear fellow," I said, when we had both +smoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox's +death. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot." + +Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for that +threat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was drowned at sea two +years ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near the +shore, and all on board perished." + +"I did not hear of it at the time." + +"Nor I either. I will tell you how I heard. About a year ago I went, as +was my frequent custom, to the little open glade in the forest where I +had first seen Jessy. As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I saw a +beautiful woman, clothed in black, walk slowly toward the very same +jasmine vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull down a loaded +branch. Can you guess how my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet and +cried out before I knew what I was doing, 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' She +stood quite still, looking toward me. Oh, how beautiful she was! And +when at length we clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I knew +without a word that my love had come to me." + +"She had waited a whole year?" + +"True; I liked her the better for that. After Will's death she went to +Scotland--put both herself and me out of temptation. She owed this much +to the memory of a man who had loved her as well as he was capable of +doing. But I know how happy were the steps that brought her back to the +Guadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon under the jasmine vine paid +for all. I am the happiest man in all the wide world." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +******* This file should be named 16222-8.txt or 16222-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/2/2/16222 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/old/16222.txt b/old/16222.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..caf2003 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/16222.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8056 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Winter Evening Tales, by Amelia Edith +Huddleston Barr + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Winter Evening Tales + "Cash," a Problem of Profit and Loss; Franz Müller's Wife; The Voice at Midnight; Six and Half-a-Dozen; The Story of David Morrison; Tom Duffan's Daughter; The Harvest of the Wind; The Seven Wise Men of Preston; Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money; Just What He Deserved; An Only Offer; Two Fair Deceivers; The Two Mr. Smiths; The Story of Mary Neil; The Heiress of Kurston Chace; Only This Once; Petralto's Love Story + + +Author: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr + + + +Release Date: July 6, 2005 [eBook #16222] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Louise Pryor, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(https://www.pgdp.net) + + + +WINTER EVENING TALES + +by + +AMELIA E. BARR + +Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife," +"Friend Olivia," etc., etc. + +Published by +The Christian Herald +Louis Klopsch, Proprietor, +Bible House, New York. + +1896 + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +PREFACE. + + +In these "Winter Evening Tales," Mrs. Barr has spread before her readers +a feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. +There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such a +luminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along so +delightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"--each a perfect gem +of romance, in an artistic setting--the author has touched many phases +of human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with the +spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. +Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanity +that characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and women +are creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they +move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and the +strong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and not +a make-believe. + +Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. She +unconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm +that moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read any +of her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, +for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, the +misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introduces +us. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their noble +and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited by the absurd and +incongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled by +the frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as can +only come from pure and noble souls. + +In these "Tales," as in many of her other works, humble life has held a +strong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn +in this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its wide +range, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has but +little relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a strong +love for those whose condition makes life for them something real and +earnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, the +Christian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr and +her work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, but +spiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes for +morality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christian +understands the term. + +G.H. SANDISON. + +_New York, 1896._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + +"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss +Franz Mueller's Wife +The Voice at Midnight +Six and Half-a-Dozen +The Story of David Morrison +Tom Duffan's Daughter +The Harvest of the Wind +The Seven Wise Men of Preston +Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money +Just What He Deserved +An Only Offer +Two Fair Deceivers +The Two Mr. Smiths +The Story of Mary Neil +The Heiress of Kurston Chace +Only This Once +Petralto's Love Story + + + + +Winter Evening Tales. + + + + +CASH. + +A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED BY DAVID LOCKERBY. + + +PART I. + + "Gold may be dear bought." + +A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from it +was the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet, +though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor of +old time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and +midway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind it +noble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air of +still delightful studies." + +From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One of +them set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain, +breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, +shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around him and said, mournfully, +"Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! I +never tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it and +Eden." + +"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High street +has its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college, +and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm not +above preaching for my saint." + +"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such a +head and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore, +there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may come +even to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet." + +"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better to +be Lord Provost of Glasgow city." + +"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; and +what now if he had had ten?" + +"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are you +going to Mary Moir's to-night?" + +"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away." + +David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongate +there was no time for further remark. Willie Caird turned eastward +toward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon set +down before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the +back door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmest +shadow of a smile. + +"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?" + +"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anent +you till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mair +sense, or further away." + +"Why should they quarrel about me?" + +"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? But +the mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wad +fain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; while +maister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and add +Ellenmount to Lockerby, and--" + +"And if I could, Janet?" + +"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in a +bottle." + +"But what was the upshot, Janet?" + +"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk." + +Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down again +his face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had been +against the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite familiar to +him; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for the +ministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants of +the King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence which +they enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for her +son. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And were +not even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind a +minister in his gown and bands?" + +Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better. +All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling his +flock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of him +becoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands of +Ellenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. During +these twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to their +several intentions. + +Now David's teachers--without any knowledge of these diverse +influences--had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talents +confided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of God +and humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and had +with all his book-learning the very smallest intimate acquaintance with +himself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and had +not even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love for +gold which really was the ruling passion in his breast. + +The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, and +he was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly down +stairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quite +resolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individual +opinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen of +two-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up and +perfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul." About his +thirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; but +even now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was very +attractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortably +disposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew better +than begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have he +determined to retain. + +After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading, +Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in the +background." + +David leisurely turned to the title page. "'Selections from the Latin +Poets,' father." + +"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or some +book o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie." + +"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: but +there is no way a man may take and not find the humanities good +road-fellows." + +"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you want +him to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can serve +him or no." + +"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife--it's nane +o' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names--and, Davie, your uncle +maks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it." + +"What is it, father?" + +"Twa years you are to serve him for L200 a year; and at the end, if both +are satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buy +you--and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldest +bank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinna +fling awa' good fortune--dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look it +to you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun--for twenty years I +hae been telling mysel' 'my Davie will win again the bonnie braes o' +Ellenmount.'" + +There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled and +warmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they came +nearer to each other than they had ever done before. + +And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sich +temptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' the +Gordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and I +trow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll just +gang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew and +serve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and, +Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing and +every plack and bawbee o' my money." Then, seeing no change in David's +face, she made her last, great concession--"And, Davie, you may marry +Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as may +be." + +"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand, +Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you hae +served your twa years I'se buy you a L20,000 share in the Gordon Bank, +and a man wi' L20,000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. But +I'm aboon bribing you--a fair offer isna a bribe." + +The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved to +make his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtually +granted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worth +having without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now that +he had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little as +ever. + +"The first step binds to the next," he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may +have something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think over +things until the morn." + +A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, and +though it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subject +tedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by the +light in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming out +of the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, the +white-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some cold +moor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked. + +"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," said Janet, "an' the breast o' a +bird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way." David was of +the same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things and +the pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant +and friend--a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyish +troubles or youthful scrapes. + +It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when he +pushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberry +dainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared money +on you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going to +college, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fause +Englishers?" + +"I am going to London, Janet." + +"Whatna for?" + +"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet--it is a +solemn charge." + +"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's council +chamber that I ken of." + +"Mary wants me to go to London." + +"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. I +wouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for a +moment--but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go by +himsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritance +for a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! but +the children o' Esau live for ever." + +"Mary said,"-- + +"I dinna want to hear what Mary said. It would hae been nae loss if +she'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an' +hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir, +dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going to +keep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body." + +Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road to +London as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeply +offended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways very +annoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. His +mother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that was +a constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell him +that "he was clean out o' the way o' duty." + +"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and +the verra tongue o' Apollos--weapons wherewith to reason against all +unrighteousness and to win the souls o' men." + +"Special pleading, Willie." + +"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take the +trouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' a +sword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple took +to the balances and the 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do you +not mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young men +in St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows--every ane o' them to +its mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' on +fire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed you +to the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, +Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold." + +From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it had +not been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seat +by Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendid +dreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty so +bewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her. +Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife, +even if he should take up the cross laid down before him--and as for +giving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be a +possible duty in such a contingency. + +But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to David +by the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on the +morning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together to the +Caledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seat +in his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'se +warrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' should +thrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse." + +"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget to +give according to my prosperings." + +"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and never +forget that money is money's brither--an' you put two pennies in a purse +they'll creep thegither. + +"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and though +rich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'll +tak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that are +God's." + +"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind, +father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leave +the world no better for my living." + +"God bless you, lad; and the L20,000 will be to the fore when it is +called for, and you shall make it L60,000, and I'll see again Ellenmount +in the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers, +and gie without grudging of your increase." + +David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand the +struggle going on in his father's heart--the wish to say something that +might quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarily +tender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby was +miserable and ashamed that morning in the service. + +And yet he was not selfish in the matter--that much in his favor must be +admitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved so +dearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken great +interest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing him +a successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom pride +of lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper than +individual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty was +to the house of Lockerby. + +He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, nor +were his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child to +the same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a great +trial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and though +Mrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment, +everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind of +comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angry +silence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfare +of sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet, +though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin," had been forty +years in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions on +any subject. + +Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as the +Eve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie," +she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' the +sunshine for pounds sterling!" + +From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preached +little daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the very +stem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that +"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir's +temptations." + +"For she just bewitched the laddie," said Janet, angrily; and, +doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet's +administration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir. + + +PART II. + +"God's work is soon done." + +It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he will +only become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight one +morning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours. +It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men sat +silent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought of +the college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and the +symposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had been +days when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with things +impossible," or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon," had not been +unreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's dreary +gospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair to +be tabulated in averages. + +He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritated +him. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not always +welcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was going +one way and he another. They might never see each other again; and-- + + If they should meet one day, + If _both_ should not forget + They could clasp hands the accustomed way. + +For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subject +yet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted in +one twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings of +his home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrant +sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of his +name. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctioned +nothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were of +those well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as +"the sitters in pews." + +In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to opera +and theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; on +fine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten their +dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but there +were none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in the +same degree as they were to David. + +To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been to +him; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories of +wonderful sermons and solemn sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. +Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thames +and humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone could +recall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping +crowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousand +hearthstones: + + O God of Bethel, by whose hand + Thy people still are led. + +He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus," heard above the +witching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's," or the tearful +tenderness of "Communion." + +To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter of +course, as a part of their daily life and education. David had been +obliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and his +mother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to +cultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and he +frankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it was +harder work getting to hell than to heaven. + +But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, and +begin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he had +not heard from Mary for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him that +while he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill and +suffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothing +but sickness would have made Mary forget him. + +The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her, +full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of their +future life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did not +fail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort of +self-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night write +long letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There was +a good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and his +marriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keep +the influence of the old and better life around him to be in closer +communion with it." + +Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and said +cheerily, "Good morning, uncle." + +"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here." + +Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretched +hands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is she +dead?" + +"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething wrang but will turn to right. Mary +Moir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear the +news from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a loss +that's a great gain." + +"Who did she marry?" + +"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as his +gold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi' +the match--or the settlements--and Mary comes o' a gripping kind. +There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' they +werena fastened on." + +Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk on +the subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But it +was a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for a +loftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused to +spring up into active existence a passion which was to rule him +absolutely--a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship had +proved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kinds +were a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for him +than to become a rich man. + +"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby's +name; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking to +David Lockerby as they do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, and +wisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money is +best of all things." + +Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments. +Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for the +first time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged +himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope. +Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told his +brother-in-law that the L20,000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he +choose to advance David in the firm. + +"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime. +The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contented +until he settles cannily doon to his interest tables." + +So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firm +of Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some of +the pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarely +seen among men of his own age--women he never mingled with. He removed +to his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his life +very much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a run +northward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the Continent, but +nearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan or +investment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man, +and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever more +affectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made an +independent woman by his grateful consideration. + +He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time he +visited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to see +him. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm of +Gordon & Co. he came home at the new year, and presented his father with +the title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew was +welcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman." "I +hae lived lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, with happy tears; +and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again for +many years. For while a man works for another there is an ennobling +element in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has become +the greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed; +the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum of +his daily life. + +Ten years later both his uncle and father were dead, and both had left +David every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working more +eagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds of +thousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby was +the richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of age +fortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife and +children, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worried +Janet continually on this subject. + +"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, +an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' his +bargains." + +"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me--an' him sae honored, an' guid +an' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him." + +"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody's +charged him wi' wrangdoing--that's enough. There's nae need to set him +up for a saint." + +"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet." + +"I was that blind--ance." + +"We are blind creatures, Janet." + +"Wi' _excepts_, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers." + +This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at the +same time David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, +wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a sudden +crisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedly +to Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered public +opinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long as +the outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, +in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service. + +He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questions +or advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not have +allowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than he +could choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finally +followed a company which increased continually until they entered an old +church in the Canongate. + +Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleased +than offended David, and the air of antiquity about the place +consecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of their +purest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Church +on the Doo Hill in Glasgow--just such a large, bare, solemn-looking +house of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of the +precentor, the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did not +notice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for he +was holding a session with his own soul. + +A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon was +beginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister had +been changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some old +Jewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying in +the wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '_What +shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own +soul_?'" + +For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had found +him out again--it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, +David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, +thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. +Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious of +the moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs the +trees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, and +smote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer. + +_What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit_? +David was quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but here +was a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of the +church, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to +the pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer in +nature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. +Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of a +hunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When he +looked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and he +was compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue uttering +the ever present thought. + +But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtless +his lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He told +himself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that had +affected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old times +with Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence. + +The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committee +room. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. No +one hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency, +help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said +the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face. + +And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. +He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own--only his +own--but something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave up +his lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speak +his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having +losses; and something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave +such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its +hand. + +The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and +almost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks +that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost +unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. +William Caird, 22 Moray place." David knew enough of Edinburgh to know +that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and +therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie's +library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful +boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and +sports as if he was one of them. + +"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie's +greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other's +hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one +had seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit of +Willie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen are +reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual +experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was +neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their +conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie +had raised. + +But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding each +other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and +opened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself able +to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. + +"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, +that ever you asked yon fearsome question of--and I know it. I have +achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I have +wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever +the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have made +money--plenty of it--and it does not pay me. What am I to do?" + +"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave to +the rich man--'distribute unto the poor--and come, follow me!'" + +Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle +Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams +touched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laid +out in it. + +"You shall be more blessed than your namesake," said Willie, "for though +David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded +therewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see +the topstone brought on with rejoicing." + +Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of the +worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded +"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble building +arose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farms +of Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, and +into every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread. + +In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David's +energies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many other +good works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his time +and labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's +Hall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stir +the cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and their +pocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade against +drunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped away +from Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a public +meeting and started a subscription list with L1000 down on the table. + +But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one of +them always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o' +her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie +"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns." + +"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we might +live to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house." + +"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o' +sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him--" + +"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day." + +"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' +a L1000 argument." + +"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, and +who would therefore gie nothing at a'." + +"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve his +condition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count on +the good work going on." + +"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'--" + +"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in +auld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' David +Lockerby 'blessed.'" + + + + +FRANZ MUeLLER'S WIFE. + + +"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant +or Dugald Stewart?" + +"None of them. I am reading _Faust_." + +"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself in +the clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers to +the right about, stick to Shakespeare." + +"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women." + +"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, +condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousin +Christine Stromberg." + +"I do not know the young lady." + +"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brother +Max was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?" + +"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men look +alike." + +"But you will go?" + +"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuse +yourself while I dress." + +"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think of +Christine." + +For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. +He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the +careless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like a +familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of +his life for any clew to this familiarity. + +He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, +thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lighted +up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still +and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even the +regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and +Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Mueller. +No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall in +love with you." + +Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for love +for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one but +the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no +one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are +sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally +willing to respect it. + +Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who +fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. It +was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never +have really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. As +soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltation +possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a +brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare +exhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty +and wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching +him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what +questions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the +clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her. + +"I wonder where I have seen him before," she murmured--"I wonder where +it was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, +and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was +only to take it up again in dreams. + +As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "One +has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness," +he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the +waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but +dawning day. + +"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine." At this point in his +love he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on any +probability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he had +found his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definite +avenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again. + +He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. +Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, +and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to have +breakfast," she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Mueller, and +have a cup of coffee with us." + +Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it out +as he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked in +her long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows of +pale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that he +made an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he had +not the slightest conception. + +A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily suffered +some wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste like +ordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls +became sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quite +sure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful as +that breakfast on the avenue. + +When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride. +They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and the +trees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies and +the spring airs were full of happiness and hope. Christine was arranging +and watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz's +hands and hers had lingered happily together. So now love gave to this +mortal an immortal's confidence. He never thought of sighing and fearing +and trembling. His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believed +that sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say to +her. + +"Shall we ride?" he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at her +with eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness. + +Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of what +people would say. But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, +and laughed at society; and before Christine had decided which of her +costumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door. + +How they rattled up the avenue and through the park! How the green +branches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped about +them! By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgotten +they were mortal. Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidence +of love's exaltation into love's silent tender melancholy, were just as +blissful. + +They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, but +just before they parted Franz said, "I have been waiting thirty years +for you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed." + +And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought her +blush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gave +them to him. + +Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor. Franz +must have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweet +weeks and months for him. He followed the Strombergs to Newport, and +laid his whole life down at Christine's feet. There was no definite +engagement between them, but every one understood that would come as +surely as the end of the season. + +Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, but +the romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched. +And Franz was not anxious at all on this score. His father, a shrewd +business man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. "It +is not the boy's fault," he said to his partner, "he gets it from his +grandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it." + +So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contented +himself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate and +securities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase. He +had bought wisely, and Franz's income was a certain and handsome one, +with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficient +to maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had been +accustomed. + +So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. +All he had should be Christine's and her father should settle the matter +just as he thought best for his daughter. In a general way this was +understood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathize +with the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during these +enchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charm +of their young lives' idyl. + +Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancient +superstition and themselves done something to mar their perfect +happiness. Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure to +follow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, to +have also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate. + +But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the October +days had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had been +so green and gay, Franz's dream was rudely broken--broken by a Mr. James +Barker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth _three +millions_. In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal of +influence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and over +Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him. + +Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone knew the whole secret; for of +course money was at the foundation. Indeed, in these days, in all public +and private troubles, it is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but "How +much is it?" Franz Mueller and James Barker Clarke hated each other on +sight. Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth man +could ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionate +affection. + +In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the +possibility of such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of +such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and +if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations +that she had accepted so happily all summer. As for Christine, she had +constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with +weeping. + +At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a +month with some relative near Boston. A pitiful little note from +Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information +as to the locality of her relative's house, and no invitation to call, +he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him--wait +patiently for their return. + +At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently +written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and +anger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found +the house where Christine was staying. He was received at first very +shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, +the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help +it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very +miserable. + +Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, "just for five +minutes." The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, +weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The five +minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back +to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been +broken in two for this life. + +One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz," +he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old +Clarke?" + +"Yes." + +"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine." + +"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a woman +appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her +forcing her to do it." + +"I thought she was to be your wife." + +"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that. +If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine +Stromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child! +God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his +friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation. + +In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine +and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style +of extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine's +reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but +though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their +suggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna +and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she +went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a +wretched spectre. + +They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a +look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no +recognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered that +she had done very well to herself. + +Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the +world regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and her +father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franz +watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy +coldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily +jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched +passion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" he +asked himself; "and these little ones, what have they done?" So at last +he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to +regard them as part and portion of his love. + +But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected. +Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis came +to tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, for +he had found out that the beaten track is the safest. + +"Franz," he said, "have you heard about Clarke? His affairs are +frightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago." + +"And Christine? Does she know? Who has gone to her?" + +"My wife is with her. Clarke shot himself in his own room. Christine was +the first to reach him. He left a letter saying he was absolutely +ruined." + +"Where will Christine and the children go?" + +"I suppose to her father's. Not a pleasant place for her now. +Christine's step-mother dislikes both her and the children." + +Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling of +disappointment. "I thought he would have done something for her," he +said to his wife. "Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent." + +Ten days after he came home with a different story. "There never was a +woman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine," he said. "Hardy & Hall +sent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on her +before her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It seems the +old gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and in +order to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy's +charge two beautifully furnished cottages. There is something like an +accumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one is +luckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once. I +always thought the property was Hardy's own before. Very thoughtful in +Clarke." + +"It is not Clarke one bit. I don't believe he ever did it. It is some +arrangement of Franz Mueller's." + +"For goodness' sake don't hint such a thing, Lizzie! Christine would not +go, and we should have her here very soon. Besides, I don't believe it. +Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since." + +The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife's opinion. "What do +you think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to me to-day and asked if +Clarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars. I told him Clarke gave +me two thousand about the time we were married." + +"'Say _loaned_, Louis,' he answered, 'to oblige me. Here is two +thousand and the interest for six years. Go and pay it to Christine; she +must need money.' So I went." + +"Is she settled comfortably?" + +"Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz is sure to marry her, and he is +growing richer every day." + +It seemed as if Louis's prediction would come true. Franz began to drive +out every afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he contented himself with just +passing Christine's gate. But he soon began to stop for the children, +and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in the +parlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea. + +For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few others +noticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion left +him weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the last +summer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their first +one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years ago +with the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had only +strength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes into +her face. + +One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin," he said, +"your friend Mueller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days, +perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is near +the last." + +"Does he know it?" + +"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once." + +So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his last +preparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis," he +said; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. I +have not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when--when I am +gone. + +"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me: +there are ten of them, every one ten years old." + +"Is that all, dear Franz?" + +"Yes; my will has long been made. Except a legacy to yourself, all goes +to Christine--dear, dear Christine!" + +"You love her yet, then, Franz?" + +"What do you mean? I have loved her for ages. I shall love her forever. +She is the other half of my soul. In some lives I have missed her +altogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one." + +"Do you know what you are saying, Franz?" + +"Very clearly, Louis. I have always believed with the oldest +philosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permitted +them in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes to +meet and comfort each other. Do you think I saw Christine for the first +time in your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer and grander memories +of her than any linked to this life. I must leave her now for a little. +God knows when and where we meet again; but _He does know_; that is my +hope and consolation." + +Whatever were Louis's private opinions about Franz's theology it was +impossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend's last +instructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had long +been strange to his-heart. + +In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine's. It was the last +physical effort he was capable of. No one saw the parting of those two +souls. He went with Christine's arms around him, and her lips whispering +tender, hopeful farewells. It was noticed however, that after Franz's +death a strange change came over Christine--a beautiful nobility and +calmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiest +aims. + +Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left. The +ten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went to +the grave with him, but the rest were of such an extraordinary nature +that Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and then +at her request leaving them for her to dispose of. They were indeed +letters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, and +directed to every place in which she had sojourned. In all of them she +was addressed as "Beloved Wife of my Soul," and in this way the poor +fellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart. + +To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these all +referred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned in +Christine's and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he had +written only for his own comfort. But it was perhaps well they fell into +Christine's hands: she could not but be a better woman for reading the +simple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness and +child-like submission as the goal of its duties. + +Seven years after Franz's death Christine and her daughter died together +of the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left sole +inheritor of Franz's wealth. + +"A German dreamer!" + +Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers. And perchance he that seeks +fame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, +when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life "as a dream +when one awaketh." + + + + +THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT. + + +"It is the King's highway that we are in; and know this, His messengers +are on it. They who have ears to hear will hear; and He opens the eyes +of some, and they see things not to be lightly spoken of." + +It was John Balmuto who said these words to me. John was a Shetlander, +and for forty years he had gone to the Arctic seas with the whale boats. +Then there had come to him a wonderful experience. He had been four days +and nights alone with God upon the sea, among mountains of ice reeling +together in perilous madness, and with little light but the angry flush +of the aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that strong faith in the +Unseen which made him an active character in the facts I am going to +relate. + +After his marvelous salvation, he devoted his life to the service of God +by entering that remarkable body of lay evangelists attached to the +Presbyterian Church in Highland parishes, called "The Men," and he +became noted throughout the Hebrides for his labors, and for his +knowledge of the Scriptures. + +Circumstances, that summer, had thrown us together; I, a young woman, +just entering an apparently fortunate life; he, an aged saint, standing +on the borderland of eternity. And we were sitting together, in the gray +summer gloaming, when he said to me, "Thou art silent to-night. What +hast thou, then, on thy mind?" + +"I had a strange dream. I cannot shake off its influence. Of course it +is folly, and I don't believe in dreams at all." And it was then he said +to me, "It is the King's highway that we are in, and know this, His +messengers are on it." + +"But it was only a dream." + +"Well, God speaks to His children 'in dreams, and by the oracles that +come in darkness.'" + +"He used to do so." + +"Wilt thou then say that He has ceased so to speak to men? Now, I will +tell thee a thing that happened; I will tell thee just the bare facts; I +will put nothing to, nor take anything away from them. + +"'Tis, five years ago the first day of last June. I was in Stornoway in +the Lews, and I was going to the Gairloch Preachings. It was rough, +cheerless weather, and all the fishing fleet were at anchor for the +night, with no prospect of a fishing. The fishers were sitting together +talking over the bad weather, but, indeed, without that bitterness that +I have heard from landsmen when it would be the same trouble with them. +So I gathered them into Donald Brae's cottage, and we had a very good +hour. I noticed a stranger in the corner of the room, and some one told +me he was one of those men who paint pictures, and I saw that he was +busy with a pencil and paper even while we were at the service. But the +next day I left for the Preachings, and I thought no more of him, good +or bad. + +"On the first of September I was in Oban. I had walked far and was very +tired, but I went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after I had eat my +kippered herring and drank my tea, I felt better. Then I talked with +John about the resurrection of the body, for he was in a tribulation of +thoughts and doubts as to whether our Lord had a permanent humanity or +not. + +"And I said to him, John, Christ redeemed our whole nature, and it is +this way: the body being ransomed, as well as the spirit, by no less a +price than the body of Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glorified. +Now, then, after I had gone to my room, I was sitting thinking of these +things, and of no other things whatever. There was not a sound but that +of the waves breaking among the rocks, and drawing the tinkling pebbles +down the beach after them. Then the ears of my spiritual body were +opened, and I heard these words, _'I will go with thee to Glasgow!'_ +Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 'I am ready!' I began to +argue with myself thus: 'Whatever for should I go to Glasgow? I know not +anyone there. No one knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to be left. +I have no money for such a journey--' + +"I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then I dreamed of--or I saw--a woman +fair as the daughters of God, and she said, _'I will go with thee to +Glasgow!'_ With a strange feeling of being hurried and pressed I +awoke--wide awake, and without any conscious will of my own, I answered, +'I am ready. I am ready now.' + +"As I left the cottage it was striking twelve, and I wondered what means +of reaching Glasgow I should find at midnight. But I walked straight to +the pier, and there was a small steamer with her steam up. She was +blowing her whistle impatiently, and when the skipper saw me coming, he +called to me, in a passion, 'Well, then, is it all night I shall wait +for thee?' + +"I soon perceived that there was a mistake, and that it was not John +Balmuto he had been instructed to wait for. But I heeded not that; I was +under orders I durst not disobey. She was a trading steamer, with a +perishable cargo of game and lobsters, and so she touched at no place +whatever till we reached Glasgow. One of her passengers was David +MacPherson of Harris, a very good man, who had known me in my +visitations. He was going to Glasgow as a witness in a case to be tried +between the Harris fishers and their commission house in Glasgow. + +"As we walked together from the steamer, he said to me, 'Let us go round +by the court house, John, and I'll find out when I'll be required.' That +was to my mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, whatever road +was taken, and I turned with him the way he desired to go. He found the +lawyer who needed him in the court house, and while they talked together +I went forward and listened to the case that was in hand. + +"It was a trial for murder, and I could not keep my eyes off the young +man who was charged with the crime. He seemed to be quite broken down +with shame and sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the court closed and +the constables took him away. As he passed me our eyes met, and my heart +dirled and burned, and I could not make out whatever would be the matter +with me. All night his face haunted me. I was sure I had seen it some +place; and besides it would blend itself with the dream which had +brought me to Glasgow. + +"In the morning I was early at the court house and I saw the prisoner +brought in. There was the most marvelous change in his looks. He walked +like a man who has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. But now it +troubled me more than ever. Whatever had I to do with the young man? Yet +I could not bear to leave him. + +"I listened and found out that he was accused of murdering his uncle. +They had been traveling together and were known to have been at Ullapool +on the thirtieth of May. On the first of June the elder man was found in +a lonely place near Oban, dead, and, without doubt, from violence. The +chain of circumstantial evidence against his nephew was very strong. To +judge by it I would have said myself to him, 'Thou art certainly +guilty.' + +"On the other side the young man declared that he had quarreled with his +uncle at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He had then taken passage +in a Manx fishing smack which was going to the Lews, but he had +forgotten the name of the smack. He was not even certain if the boat was +Manx. The landlord of the inn, at which he said he stayed when in the +Lews, did not remember him. 'A thing not to be expected,' he told the +jury, 'for in the summer months, what with visitors, and what with the +fishers, a face in Stornoway was like a face on a crowded street. The +young man might have been there'-- + +"The word _Stornoway_ made the whole thing clear to me. The prisoner was +the man I had noticed with a pencil and paper among the fishers in +Donald Brae's cottage. Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I had been +sent to Glasgow. I walked quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet from +my head, I said to the judge, 'My lord, the prisoner _was_ in Stornoway +on the first of June. I saw him there!' + +"He gave a great cry of joy and turned to me; and in a moment he called +out: 'You are the man who read the Bible to the fishers. I remember you. +I have your likeness among my drawings.' And I said, 'I am the man.' + +"Then my lord, the judge, made them swear me, and he said they would +hear my evidence. For one moment I was a coward. I thought I would hide +God's share in the deliverance, lest men should doubt my whole +testimony. The next, I was telling the true story: how I had been called +at midnight--twice called; how I had found Evan Conochie's boat waiting +for me; how on the boat I had met David MacPherson, and been brought to +the court house by him, having no intention or plan of my own in the +matter. + +"And there was a great awe in the room as I spoke. Every one believed +what I said, and my lord asked for the names of the fishers who were +present in Donald Brae's cottage on the night of the first of June. Very +well, then, I could give many of them, and they were sent for, and the +lad was saved, thank God Almighty!" + +"How do you explain it, John?" + +"No, I will not try to explain it; for it is not to be hoped that anyone +can explain by human reason the things surpassing human reason." + +"Do you know what became of the young man?" + +"I will tell thee about him. He is a very rich young man, and the only +child of a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her great goodness to the +Lord's poor. But when his mother died it did not go well and peaceably +between him and his uncle; and it is true that he left him at Ullapool +without a word. Well, then, he fell into this sore strait, and it seemed +as if all hope of proving his innocence was over. + +"But that very night on which I saw him first, he dreamed that his +mother came to him in his cell and she comforted him and told him, +'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall speak for thee.' He never +doubted the heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked me. 'My mother +never deceived me in life; would she come to me, even in a dream, to +tell me a lie? Ah, no!'" + +"Is he still alive?" + +"God preserve him for many a year yet! I'll only require to speak his +name"--and when he had done so, I knew the secret spring of thankfulness +that fed the never-ceasing charity of one great, good man. + +"And yet, John," I urged, "how can spirit speak with spirit?" + +"'_How?_' I will tell thee, that word 'how' has no business in the mouth +of a child of God. When I was a boy, who had dreamed 'how' men in London +might speak with men in Edinburgh through the air, invisible and +unheard? That is a matter of trade now. Can thou imagine what subtle +secret lines there may be between the spiritual world and this world?" + +"But dreams, John?" + +"Well, then, dreams. Take the dream life out of thy Bible and, oh, how +much thou wilt lose! All through it this side of the spiritual world +presses close on the human side. I thank God for it. Yes, indeed! Many +things I hear and see which say to me that Christians now have a kind of +shame in what is mystical or supernatural. But thou be sure of this--the +supernaturalism of the Bible, and of every Christian life is not one of +the difficulties of our faith, _it is the foundation of our faith_. The +Bible is a supernatural book, the law of a supernatural religion; and to +part with this element is to lose out of it the flavor of heaven, and +the hope of immortality. Yes, indeed!" + +This conversation occurred thirty years ago. Two years since, I met the +man who had experienced such a deliverance, and he told me again the +wonderful story, and showed me the pencil sketch which he had made of +John Balmuto in Donald Brae's cottage. He had painted from it a grand +picture of his deliverer, wearing the long black camlet cloak and +head-kerchief of the order of evangelists to which he belonged. I stood +reverently before the commanding figure, with its inspired eyes and rapt +expression; for, during those thirty years, I also had learned that it +was only those + + Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours + Weeping upon their bed have sate, + Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers. + + + + +SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN. + + +Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and fallen, trampled in the mire +and mud of the conflict, then the ranks closed again and left no place +for her. So she crawled aside to die. With a past whose black despair +was as the shadow of a starless night, a future which her early +religious training lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the strong +bands of a pitiless death dragging her to the grave--still she craved, +as the awful hour drew near, to see once more the home of her innocent +childhood. Not that she thought to die in its shelter--any one who knew +David Todd knew also that was a hopeless dream; but if, IF her +father should say one pardoning word, then she thought it would help her +to understand the love of God, and give her some strength to trust in +it. + +Early in the evening, just as the sun was setting and the cows were +coming lowing up the little lane, scented with the bursting lilac +bushes, she stood humbly at the gate her father must pass in order to go +to the hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. Very soon she saw +him coming, his Scotch bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps steadied +by his shepherd's staff. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyes +looked far over the hills; for David was a mystic in his own way, and +they were to him temples not made with hands in which he had seen and +heard wonderful things. Here the storehouses of hail and lightning had +been opened in his sight, and he had watched in the sunshine the tempest +bursting beneath his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and been waited +upon by spectral mists. The voices of winds and waters were in his +heart, and he passionately believed in God. But it was the God of his +own creed--jealous, just and awful in that inconceivable holiness which +charges his angels with folly and detects impurity in the sinless +heavens. So, when he approached the gate he saw, but would not see, the +dying girl who leaned against it. Whatever he felt he made no sign. He +closed it without hurry, and then passed on the other side. + +"Father! O, father! speak one word to me." + +Then he turned and looked at her, sternly and awfully. + +"Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken naught o' thee." + +Without another glance at the white, despairing face, he walked rapidly +on; for the spring nights were chilly, and he must gather his lambs into +the fold, though this poor sheep of his own household was left to +perish. + +But, if her father knew her no more, the large sheep-dog at his side was +not so cruel. No theological dogmas measured Rover's love; the stain on +the spotless name of his master's house, which hurt the old man like a +wound, had not shadowed his memory. He licked her hands and face, and +tried with a hospitality and pity which made him so much nearer the +angels than his master to pull her toward her home. But she shook her +head and moaned pitifully; then throwing her arms round the poor brute +she kissed him with those passionate kisses of repentance and love which +should have fallen on her father's neck. The dog (dumb to all but God) +pleaded with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic gestures; but she turned +wearily away toward a great circle of immense rocks--relics of a +religion scarcely more cruel than that which had neither pity nor +forgiveness at the mouth of the grave. Within their shadow she could die +unseen; and there next morning a wagoner, attracted by the plaintive +howling of a dog, found her on the ground, dead. + +There are set awful hours between every soul and heaven. Who knows what +passed between Lettice Todd and her God in that dim forsaken temple of a +buried faith? Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of tears, and +her face was beautiful with a strange peace, though its loveliness was +marred and its youth "seared with the autumn of strange suffering." + +At the inquest which followed, her stern old father neither blamed nor +excused himself. He accepted without apology the verdict of society +against him; only remarking that its reproof was "a guid example o' +Satan correcting sin." + +Scant pity and less ceremony was given to her burial. Death, which draws +under the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty and ambition of men, +covering them with those two narrow words _Hic jacet_! gives also to the +woman who has been a sinner all she asks--oblivion. In no other way can +she obtain from man toleration. The example of the whitest, purest soul +that ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is ignored in the church +He founded. The tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely woman stooped to +folly," found no way of escape for her but to "die;" and those closet +moralists, with filthy fancies and soiled souls, who abound in every +community, regard her with that sort of scorn which a Turk expresses +when he says "Dog of a Christian." Poor Lettice! She had procured this +doom--first by sacrificing herself to a blind and cruel love, and then +to the importunate demands of hunger, "oldest and strongest of +passions." Ah! if there was no pity in Heaven, no justice beyond the +grave, what a cruel irony this life would be! For, while the sexton +shoveled hastily over the rude coffin the obliterating earth, there +passed the graveyard another woman equally fallen from all the apostle +calls "lovely and of good report." One whose youth and hopes and +marvelous beauty had been sold for houses and lands and a few thousand +pounds a year. But, though her life was a living lie, the world praised +her, because she "had done well unto herself." Yet, at the last end, the +same seed brought forth the same fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Hall +learned, with bitter rapidity, that riches are too poor to buy love. +Scarcely had she taken possession of her splendid home before she longed +for the placid happiness of her mother's cottage, and those evening +walks under the beech-trees, whose very memory was now a sin. Over her +beautiful face there crept a pathetic shadow, which irritated the rude +and noisy squire like a reproach. He had always had what he wanted. Not +even the beauty of all the border counties had been beyond his means to +buy but somehow he felt as if in this bargain he had been overreached. +Her better part eluded his possession, and he felt dissatisfied and +angry. Expostulations grew into cruel words; cruel words came to cruder +blows. _Yes, blows_. English gentlemen thirty years ago knew their +privileges; and that was one of them. She was as much and as lawfully +his as the horses in his stables or the hounds in his kennels. He beat +them, too, when they did not obey him. Her beauty had betrayed her into +the hands of misery. She had wedded it, and there was no escape for her. +One day, when her despair and suffering was very great, some tempting +devil brought her a glass of brandy, and she drank it. It gave her back +for a few hours her departed sceptre; but at what a price! Her slave +soon became her master. Stimulus and stupefaction, physical exhaustion +and mental horrors, the abandonment of friends and the brutality of a +coarse and cruel husband, brought her at last to the day of reckoning. +She died, seven years after her marriage, in the delirium of opium. +There were physicians and servants around her, and an unloving husband +waiting for the news of his release. I think I would rather have died +where Lettice did--under the sky, with the solemn mountains lifting +their heads in a perpetual prayer around me, and that faithful dog +licking my hands, and mourning my wasted life. + +Now, wherein did these two women differ? One sinned through an intense +and self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the strongest calls of +want. Her sin, though it was beyond the pale of the world's toleration, +was yet one _according to Nature_. The other, in a cold spirit of +barter, voluntarily and deliberately exchanged her youth and beauty, the +hopes of her own and another's life, for carriages, jewels, fine +clothing and a luxurious table. She loathed the price she had to pay, +and her sin was an unnatural one. For this kind of prostitution, which +religion blesses and society praises, there seems to be no redress; but +for that which results as the almost inevitable sequence of one lapse of +chastity _we_, the pious, the virtuous, the irreproachable, are all to +blame. Who or what make it impossible for them to retrace their steps? +Do they ever have reason to hope that the family hearth will be open to +them if they go back? Prodigal sons may return, and are welcomed with +tears of joy and clasped by helping hands; but alas! how few parents +would go to meet a sinning daughter. Forgetting our Master's precepts, +forgetting our human frailty, forgetting our own weakness, we turn +scornfully from the weeping Magdalen, and leave her "alone with the +irreparable." Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. We would +deprecate _any_ loosening of this great house-band of society; but we +do say that where it is the _only distinction_ between two women, one of +whom is an honored matron, and the other a Pariah and an outcast, there +is "something in the world amiss"--something beyond the cure of law or +legislation, and that they can only be reached by the authority of a +Christian press and the influence of Christian example. + + + + +THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON. + + +I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with the +face of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for a +man of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face with +something of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringe +of soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob +Roryson fashion. + +The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where he +and his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhood +together. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentious +headgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty had +been cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed. + +"Sandy had one just like it," he would say. "We bought them thegither in +Aberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy is +the day!" + +So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, +candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It is +his true history I am telling to-day. + +Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hunger +and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified +in his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whom +he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him +bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet. + +When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a +"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the +plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would +help another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in their +hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. The +American Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith and +kin, and offered to teach them his own craft. + +For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an +ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt +sure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the Great +West could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his +brother to its dangers and privations. + +"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're +no to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune, +and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'll +spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad." + +"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?" + +"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it no +shame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with a +loving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as he +could see it. + +It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidence +and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise. +After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings +after his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost each +other." For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered +his loyal heart. + +He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long years +of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble +as Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was +scattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence very +frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, +so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him. + +Then seven years after Sandy's departure the very house in which they +had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and +probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have +told anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should +come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a +letter reaching him less and less likely. + +Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more of +a dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simple +little body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. They +had one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whom +Davie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits were +faithfully reproduced. + +It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled. +Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "Little +Sandy." Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itself +became to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy's +pleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yet +through it ran one golden thread of romance. + +In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and in +winter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to his +wife and child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look for +fortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and the +enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale. + +Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life with +a glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find Uncle +Sandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and no +end of them in some safe bank, besides. + +But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade and +began to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated all +their hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in his +own name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home. + +He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. There +was nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain. +She was bright and capable, but they _felt_ a want they were not able to +analyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the ruling +spirit of their own lives. + +This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did right +because it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure to +do it. When they had been married three years the war broke out, and +soon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, who +was daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and, +indeed, their case looked hard enough. + +At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but a +family consultation soon showed that this was impossible without +hopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silence +which follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of an +irremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a very +unexpected manner. + +"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd +find your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had more +than twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now, +isn't it?" + +He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really was +asking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offer +into fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroic +than the perfect self-abnegation of his manner. + +The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had been +practicing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Davie +went to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home. + +This was the break-up of Davie's life. His wife went to live with Sandy +and Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold. + +Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affected +to be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the parting +came, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sad +enough to the one old heart who had counted its cost. + +In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein of +romance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lost +brother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, and +he had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemed +possible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enough +apart. + +Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grew +poorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort for +all his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poor +Sandy." + +Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie. +There was no wife to meet him--she had been three months in the grave +when he got back to New York--and going to his daughter-in-law's home +was not--well, it was not like going to his own house. + +Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she was grateful to Davie, but she +did not _love_ the old man. + +He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless. +He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Other +men could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step out +from the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions as +his failing strength permitted him to fill. + +Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both," he +said, "and he thought father had deserved his rest." + +But Davie shook his head--"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earn +it now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough." He was +still cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke of +his brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with many +others. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. I +am not going to write its history. + +It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spite +of its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place--not +pleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass, +when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narrowed +down to a fight with actual cold and hunger. + +It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonely +claim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, the +tender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks, +threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children's +wants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whom +they once were very tender. + +David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie counted +grudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His little +newspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewer +papers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made little +losses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying it +would "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he is +now sixteen and bright enough to look after his own." + +This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all through +the summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie's +plans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, +and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thought +which haunted his own--_would they commit him, then, to the care of +public charities?_ + +"We have no time to love each other," he muttered, sadly, "and my bite +and sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'll +speak to Sandy myself about it--poor lad! It will come hard on him to +say the first word." + +The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and that +night, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandy +came in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie +began to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, +and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one that +had been discussed many times before. + +"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventy +cents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting off +what is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffee +to-night, and _his_ bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. It +is very hard on us all!" + +"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves the +old man--God bless him! He was a good father to me." + +"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children's +bread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him down +to-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will be +better off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must do +it, Sandy; I can bear this no longer." + +"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year's +presents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearly +eighteen dollars, you know." + +"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can take +the business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worse +and worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie's +earnings besides. Sandy, _it has got to be_! Do it while we can make +something by the step." + +"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if I +take it," and David could hear that his son's voice trembled. + +In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and his +father knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart was +yet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into a +happy sleep. + +In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of the +argument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neither +astonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the day +and asked him to "go down the avenue a bit." + +He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and the +sorrow of it; but something would not let him do it. In the first +place, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all the +gay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streets +gave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciously +into his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly +determined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal with +his father. + +Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of +days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank, +and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they +were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the +last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never +have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it. + +As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent; +his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and +the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost +more pitiful than tears. + +At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a +start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were +sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he +turned Davie quickly round, and said: + +"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no, +by heaven! though I die for it!" + +"Just a little further, Sandy." + +And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very +well understood. + +"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!" + +Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and +resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been +going. + +Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children and +the trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thing +to him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to the +father whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all their +lives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand, +they climbed the dark tenement stair together. + +Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair aside +hastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her very +first words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!--so glad!" + +She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, and +he made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery for +the little extras with which she celebrated his return at supper. He +understood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleep +that night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial and +come out conqueror. + +The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heart +there was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered the +poor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with the +children. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him still +softened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round his +papers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup of +coffee and a bit of bread and bacon. + +Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So then +he took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate and +drank. + +In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in his +pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, went +out without a word to anyone. + +The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbed +him. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in +18--, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wall +street, he would hear of something to his advantage." + +His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was going +now to hear something about Sandy. + +"He said 'sure as death,' and he would mind that promise at the last +hour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtless +send, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a lad +like him!" + +When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to stand +unnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sank +to their usual placid level. At length some one said: + +"Well, old man, what do _you_ want?" + +"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what _you_ wanted." + +"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward--I think you will find +out, then, what we want." + +He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, without +answering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it. + +An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking into +the fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk. +The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with an +annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door. + +"I am David Morrison, sir." + +"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, +lad!" + +As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that it +was like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he became +conscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were two +physicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish and +anxiety. + +"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on a +system too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass of +wine." + +Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during it +what a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sad +history in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, +and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys. + +But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admiration +with which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understood +pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken. + +"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, +in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just +handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too." + +Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very +handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor +and sorrow on his face; and he had known both. + +For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle +to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie +had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two. + +When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, +carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his +brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle +equally hopeless and poor. + +But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call +of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania +village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was +successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, +and went into the oil business. + +"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it +is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from +time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we +would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your +share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury." + +It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without any +further protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highest +compliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmly +believed the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmly +believe in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it." So Davie +looked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified to +fifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to the +credit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of a +schoolboy: + +"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?" + +"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. +Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but +the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. I +think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at +it. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know." + +"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together and +we'll live together--that is, if you would like it." + +"What would I like better?" + +"Maybe you have a wife, and then--" + +"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have no +one but you." + +"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest +dairy in the State, Sandy." + +"That is just my idea, Davie." + +Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, +and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than +uneasy about him. + +"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself +to-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news from +them so long." + +So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers +parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thought +they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to +get out and run home. + +When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire +in the stove and wee Davie--his namesake--was sitting, half crying, +before it. + +The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, and +tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place. + +"What's the matter, Davie?" + +"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and Jack +Dacey gave me a beating besides; and--and I really do think my toes are +frozen off." + +Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered + +"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw new +clothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comes +mammy." + +Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach +when she saw Davie. + +"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daft +about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where--" + +Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a +new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only +say: "Father! father! what is it?" + +"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has just +given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear +lass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God." + +By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, and +Sallie said: + +"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father." + +Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had +seen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that something +wonderful had happened. + +"What is the matter, father?" + +"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfort +and plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happy +home for us all in some nice country place." + +When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his face +with his hands, sobbed out: + +"Thank God! thank God!" + +It was late that night before either the children or the elders could go +to sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were going +to buy together, and then he said to his son: + +"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?" + +"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to grow +fast." + +"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in a +month." + +"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon be +work enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the children +can go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have often +dreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true." + +But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brother +were settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village Alexander +Morrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, and +had begun to do very well. + +Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Sallie +presided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruit +garden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and best +of all, _it was their own_--a New Year's gift from the kindest of +grandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing the +Brothers Morrison. + +They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. +What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bears +both their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, +for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother David +agrees, I do," or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more to +say," etc. + +Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must be +lonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal of +quiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy have +each of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are both +very fond of young Sandy and the children. + +Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talked +over at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons and +holidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost as +much as they do Sallie. + +As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross with +care and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperity +was good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. She +has grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to +her children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and her +husband's heart trusts in her. + +Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity give +cheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessing +on what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errand +may happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortune +through all the years of life. + + + + +TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER. + + +Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you +would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you +saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's +parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for +the habit. + +One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a +comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was +busily painting. His cheery little wife--pretty enough in spite of her +thirty-seven years--was reading the interesting items in the morning +papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite +tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when +the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, +dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of +"Ah! che la morte ognora." + +But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very +middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor +door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan +painted stood in the aperture--a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning +gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair +falling around her. + +"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a +newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most +becoming with my new seal-skin set." + +"Ask papa." + +"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a +poor live girl, it does not interest him." + +"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically." + +"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists +don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?" + +"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it +will do you good to hear it." + +"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I +prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan +skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la +morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted. + +"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?" + +"See here." + +"Tickets for Booth's?" + +"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just +about the same numbers." + +"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?" + +Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different +things. + +"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?" + +"Of course I did mamma--I told him in the nicest kind of way that we +must only be dear friends, and so on." + +"Then why did he send these tickets?" + +"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men +enjoy burning." + +"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of +being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from +papa simply to tell me this?" + +"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's +daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all +the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's +engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting." + +It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan +took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about wedding +dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if +they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of +grown-up fairy lore. + +But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was +worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and +the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the +tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon +it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture +as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she +tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning +subjects, for a "good-by" kiss. + +"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed +in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed +it." + +"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, +and take to studying _Harper's Bazar_ for effects; then your women will +look a little more natural." + +"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!" + +"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of +papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look +like?" + +"Frights, Miss Kitty." + +"Of course they do. Now, papa." + +"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack +and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh +wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle +and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, +"You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, +Kitty, I am afraid." + +"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian +Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You +know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm +clear on that subject, Jack." + +"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do." + +"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the +country. I am sure that would not do." + +Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he +sighed, and was silent. + +Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought +to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked +you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!" + +"You don't dislike me, Kitty?" + +"Not at all. I think you are first-rate." + +"It is my profession, then?" + +"Exactly." + +"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?" + +"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will +Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful." + +"Now, Kitty!" + +"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at +nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to +jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid +passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his +manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!" + +"But she thoroughly enjoys it." + +"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be +real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was +splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book." + +"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor--at the altar, if you like--never to +bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my +profession." + +"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, +perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use +of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the +manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were +_mine_, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was." + +Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed +Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was +forced to pretend he had ruined her glove. + +"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am +quite sure I could make plenty of money for you." + +"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not +go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in +calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am +mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm +fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the +time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms +of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty +occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us +they are." + +"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?" + +"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that +loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every +summer to see views." + +"To see views?" + +"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and +jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand +landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or +the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know +papa _will_ go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown +away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one +kind or another." + +Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush +that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he +meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some +third party. + +"Why, Max, when did you get home?" + +"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry +words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the +rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone. + +But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, +though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as she +had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into +being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes +claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became +suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, +saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max +Raymond. + +It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then +he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether +he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a +change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take +possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal +of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than +might have been expected. + +For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; +Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she +submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when +she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him. + +But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening--those grand old Romans walking +on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the +calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, and +looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and +present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream. + +She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back +into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable +stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old +radiant, careless Kitty. + +"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut ----'s +criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?" + +"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and +Barrett backed him up handsomely." + +"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear +it." + +"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good +night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning." + +"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?" + +"Jack Warner, I expect." + +"Hum! I don't think so." + +"Men don't know everything, Tom." + +"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line +are only guesses at truth." + +"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will +explain herself in the morning." + +But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more +inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read +them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with +her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and +inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures +and literary societies: Max took her. + +Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of +men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. +He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty +willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty. + +"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, +after studying his daughter reading the _Endymion_ without a yawn. + +"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on +painting. Kitty is in love." + +"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible." + +"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!" + +"With whom?" + +"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was +pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born +thought with his favorite melody. + +Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's +delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, +intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; +and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods +box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and +when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question. + +"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she +would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along +without it." + +"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down." + +"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss." + +"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May +or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you +just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a +step in your direction." + +Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a +pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, +Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or +Saratoga?" + +"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak." + +"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my +little daughter to have her whim for once." + +"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want +either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch +with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not +going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at +Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I +couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation." + +"Where must we go, then?" + +"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many +new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, +you deserve your own way about your holiday." + +And Tom Duffan said, "_Thank you, Kitty_," in such a peculiar way that +Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally +left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, +"Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past +ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I +shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the +Branch, and asked you for a $500 check--serve you right, too." + +But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty +went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, +straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, +sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end +of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no +will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never +to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only +him, to the end of her life. + +All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent +little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she +had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's +respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She +remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said +something about studying law together; and with these items, and the +satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given +her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages. + +Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it +was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. +When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents and +preparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a great +deal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she would +not suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with," +she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen +and a straight petticoat." + +Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and +talked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, +went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphant +in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. +She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose +congratulations found their climax in the following statement: + +"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary +piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do say +that Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful." + +"_Mr. Raymond's last book_!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, +with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand. + +"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear." + +Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her +visitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, +and said, "What is Max's business--a lawyer?" + +"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, and +a great--" + +"_Writer?_" + +"Yes." + +"Writes books and magazine articles and things?" + +"Yes." + +Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "_I thought +so._ I wish Jack Warner was at home." + +"What for?" + +"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will +keep." + +Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he +returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. +His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting and +singing and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times that +Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. +Raymond. + +"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the +city. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?" + +Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see what +other miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty. So he went, and came +back wondering. + +"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the +professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?" + +"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts +his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies +his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through +thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt +spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on +earth should ever induce her to marry a writer." + +"What did she say?" + +"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, +you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married _the +man_.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is +your offering toward the advancement of science and social +regeneration?'" + +"What then?" + +"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; _it +is a labor of love_.'" + +"Well I never!" + +"Nor I either." + + + + +THE HARVEST OF THE WIND. + +CHAPTER I. + + "As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no + rule over his own spirit." + + + "My soul! Master Jesus, my soul! + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, + An' de more I dig him de better he spring: + My soul! + Dar's a little thing lays in my heart + An' he sets my soul on fire: + My soul! + Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!" + +The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and +he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as +he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he +rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his +left hand. + +"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef +he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He +communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then +threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of +growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the +field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among +the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the +cypress. + +Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy--a very +handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned +upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid +switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He +said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame. + +"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat +kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present +time." + +"My father objects to every one I like." + +"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his +good." + +"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he +asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this +letter." + +"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message +from you, Massa Davie." + +In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable +passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike. + +"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done +carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!" + +"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the +trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. +Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs +chiming to his uneven, crashing tread. + +Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de +drefful temper; got it each side ob de house--father and mother, bofe. I +hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man--got it +bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring +hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving +unselfishness of a prayer in them. + +In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from +father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and +self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio--a +daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a +happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life +away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David +remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he +had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between +father and son, a great gulf. + +He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all +control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. +But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had +been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had +been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives +commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere +exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not +forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special +creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made +any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; +he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not +yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary. + +He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and +he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing +in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself +out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan +architecture--broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to +rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every +side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro +cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the +hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it +was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum +and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip +trees. + +The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his +national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as +it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the +grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His +household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good +management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied +upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, +there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would +rise to every occasion. + +And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved +his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but +when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly +taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his +sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on +which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one +another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate +independence on the other, kept them far apart. + +Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel +than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house +until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David +joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the +road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand. + +This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than +he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was +a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he +regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard +of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake +it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, +smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he +ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could +tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, +relieve his own conscience of a burden. + +Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu +leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He +regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. +The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing +white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the +bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He +was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman +must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just +such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a +recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice. + +"Lulu!" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?" + +"Not since you forbid me." + +He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not +have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people +for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their +intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James +Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the +question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to have +kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?" +For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that +he might have made a mistake. + +The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, +the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The +swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge +of the prairie--the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded +world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In +his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, +let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware +that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a +thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, +all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention. + +He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking +of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had +given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into +his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there +with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered +higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of it +than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. +Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the +affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should +understand one another. + +But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own +traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently +settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen +and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy +appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its +advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both +fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and +declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this +subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, +James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and +not make an effort to save him. + +At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined +to ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then he +could talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight the +great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft, +but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp--a ten-acre patch of +grass on the summit of some low hills. + +The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight men +were slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediately +challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaley +rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand +to his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before. +He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed look +about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a +determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a +six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife. + +"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer." + +"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. David +Lorimer is on watch till midnight." + +He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating +in the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silent +before the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer, +your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter you +make your palaver the better it will suit me." + +Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and the +retort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man of +Whaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him he +was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance. + +Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever galloped +through Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. He +was the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellow +hair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley. + +"Davie," and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to +your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o' +life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude father +to ye." + +It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quite +appreciated the concession, but he answered-- + +"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up." + +"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en do +sae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth to +plague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' ye +anent some decenter way of life than this." + +The talk was not altogether a pleasant one; but both yielded something, +and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man to +fill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not linger +after this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without the +ceremony of a "good-bye," he turned his horse's head eastward again. + +Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers from +emigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemed +determined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeply +offended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that he +kept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked me +how I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square," +he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that David +began to feel it impossible to restrain his temper. + +Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, grows +rapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began to +notice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the young +Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying. + +"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long," remarked an old +drover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with such a vim that +he's no appetite for his food left." + +"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it." + +At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen men +among them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer any +pretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, low +spurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, +gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. All +the lower ridges were savagely bald and hot--a glen, paved with gold and +walled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake down +into the breathless valley! + +The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David was +weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch. +It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather was +gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving +clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle. + +The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no +lightning. + +"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night," said one of the men. +"I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights +as this one." + +"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a cayote frightens one in a drove the +panic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run.'" + +"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of ten +thousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same +moment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. But +you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin' +was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'd +keep clear of him, ef I was you." + +"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!" + +"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out. +Take your own way now." + +For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own +heart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned a +deaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he +passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. David +asked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?" + +"I was." + +"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!" + +Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight +thousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of +them exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind leveling +a forest, they were off in the darkness. + +The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering +of hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worth +of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and +gave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders," and then he +sprang for his own mule. + +David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight and +stood still. + +"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you have +Spanish blood in you." + +A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fell +without a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a +minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed one +instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself +up to the wild passion of the pursuit. + +By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, +clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant +becoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; he +knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing along +by the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined +the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the +left so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turned +the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the +right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag +end of the line. + +Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, +and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and +were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Men +who had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work were +amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round the +mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, +and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The +"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and +exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle. + +"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job like +this himself." + +"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?" + +"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run' +commenced." + +No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for +conversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were +weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices +had been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a +messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and he +knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him. + +He offered to return to camp and report "all right," and the offer was +accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a +belt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of +unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the +underwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made +all natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him. +He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in every +moments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from +which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the +shameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father's +love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for +it came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, +the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's passionate +revenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, +cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked. +Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours +gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not +daring-- + + "--to search through what sad maze, + Thenceforth his incommunicable ways + Follow the feet of death." + + +CHAPTER II. + + "--and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. + 15. + +Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments +when she appears to be asleep--when the stars, large and white, bend +stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or +flower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah +smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia +flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were little +ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their +quarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence had +passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the +dreaming earth. + +There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In ten +days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in +the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does +grow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing +for David's return, and forming plans through which the future might +atone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, +rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless +sleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and +thought with him. + +Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue, +and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow +was there in it? + +"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?" + +Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and +the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went to +the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to +greet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and +stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father. + +In a moment all the new tenderness was gone. + +In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter? +What hae ye been doing now?" + +"I have shot Whaley!" + +The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly +audible. The father rose and faced his wretched son. + +Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?" + +"Dead!" + +"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shot +you?--it was in self-defence?--it was an accident? Speak, dear!" + +"He called me a coward, and--" + +"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and +having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to +come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down your +rifle, sir!" + +Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you come +here? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I do +Davie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed it +with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, +all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that the +indulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him. + +"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it is +my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession." + +"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done your +duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do. +Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole +care. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and +stand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadful +Christian!" + +"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!" + +"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!--you will get no pity here. Fly!" + +"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!" + +"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do +as you will with me." And he laid his rifle upon the table. + +Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair +beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity. + +"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nor +deceptions." + +"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run,' just as my time was +out. Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the +leaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with my +Spanish blood--it was my dear mother's." + +"That is it," answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for +its restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolish +pride." + +"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no +right to insult me." + +The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was the +collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental +anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, +believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but +assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. First +he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the +quarters to arouse Plato. + +When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious +youth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he +felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at +his feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slight +reaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted; +bring some wine here!" Then he remembered the weakness of the voice +which had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched." + +When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father. +There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart +of hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even when +he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself +from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach. + +Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. He +was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the +uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body. + +"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be +allowed to leave the house." + +"Yes, sar." + +"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences." + +No answer. + +"You understand that, Plato?" + +"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout de +consequences." + +"Go, and do as I bid you!" + +When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to do +right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great +tempest: he could not see any road at all. There was a Bible on his +dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and +the sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the Great +Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it. +He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would +escape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair +character mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings were +so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, +to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as a +father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" he +thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and +honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign +there supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten and +astonished on a threshold he could not pass. + +In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him. +Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt +refreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful +death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what +chance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulu +sat by his side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expression +of suffering, at once defiant and despairing--a barren suffering, +without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they +had to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with few +words. + +"You must go now, beloved." + +He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. The +next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished +face. Then he was alone with Plato. + +"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?" + +"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some +bread and meat, and _dis_, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato." +Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his +lifetime. + +"How much is there, Plato?" + +"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little." + +"It was for your freedom, Plato." + +"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef you +git free, dat is all I want." + +They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. The +brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside +her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food. +The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, +and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but when +he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror +and his mental suffering. + +Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black +spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. They +had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; +they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Both +were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for +James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would +hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience. + +Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little +trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of +those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind +whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain. + +"Tell Master David to come here." + +"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were +trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked +his master calmly in the face. + +"Did I not tell you to stop him?" + +"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the +messenger--Plato could not do it!" + +"How did he go?" + +"On de little brown mare--his own horse done broke all up." + +"How much money did you give him?" + +"Money, sar?" + +"How much? Tell the truth." + +"Four hundred dollars." + +"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast." + +At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In the +house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold +and left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning was +going on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and +motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and +pretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day, +pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfall +made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further +bad news. + +On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word of +comfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the +wall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in the +atmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be made +so wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became a +reproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed; +he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the +probability of pursuit. + +On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer's +house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. He +tried to forget that _something_ had happened which made life appear a +different thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. The +negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their +last basket of cotton--all of them silent, depressed with their +weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the +autumn twilight. + +Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their +cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then +he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At +the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep. + +"Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, +but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging. + +"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be +wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning." + +He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his +soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down. + +"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I +brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can +make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about as +likely a young man as I ever saw." + +Still no answer. + +"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may +make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the +morning?--say about ten o'clock." + +"Yes. Will you have some supper?" + +"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the +circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. +Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?" + +"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff." + +He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his +hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be +tried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had not +confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his +evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him. + +At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the +course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles +distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained +clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His +heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, +by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of +saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, +"So this is the end of it, David?" + +"Yes. It is the end." + +"You ought not to have run away." + +"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have +put you all right." + +"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the +act." + +"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end +possible." + +"Have you then confessed the murder?" + +He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. +"Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with +the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in +the house." + +"But you have not yourself confessed?" + +"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you +would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of +denouncing your own son!" + +"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae +gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?" + +"How could I, father?" + +He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. +After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, +until--all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!" + +The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the +outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The +sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of +David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were +extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their +sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the +discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the +continent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only +refused assistance, but had shot his employer. + +"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravating +name." + +The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in +Texas that epithet would justify a murder; "but," he added, "most any +Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand +head of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so +myself." + +He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after many +hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice! +Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mental +constitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was +meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming +eyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard +something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, +"Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!" + +Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his +duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the +seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth +their natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became +clear to him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He cried +out with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!" + +The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was only +able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At the +earliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm, +almost cheerful. "The worst is over father," he said. "I have done a +great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing +to suffer it." + +"But after death! Oh, David, David--afterward!" + +"I shall dare to hope--for Christ also has died, the just for the +unjust." + +Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that +eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would +shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened; +for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, +and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least +part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine +vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ with +him that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; and +though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared +to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men +cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to +believe. + +"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, +there is nae doubt o' that." + +"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater." + +"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, +David, David!" + +"I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only +believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't +take it from me." + +Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray +when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the +twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was +opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long +irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of +the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse +to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the +scornful mention of his mother's race. + +There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder +Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular +man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; +and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had +honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of +the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very +nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a +coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative +moment. + +As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. +There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, +there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches +itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a +trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had +accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for +his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on +the death-sentence before they left their seats. + +And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying +it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient +number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for +any length of time. David was to die at sunset. + +Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all +pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But +these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What +confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses +were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of +mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the +Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of +those royal compassions which astonish even the angels. + +When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his +father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with +eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it +is." + +Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale +as ashes when he read the contents. + +"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered. + +"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you." + +The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared +to voice it. It was this-- + +"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I +dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life." + +For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose +and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry +trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their +verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no +pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty. + +Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He +pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully +satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim." + +But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he +must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the +punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death +like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every +rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they +were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially +false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men +gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further +pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his +hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request +would be granted. + +Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the +prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope +on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and +abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned +with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of +mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. +There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the +party walked. + +Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: +and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and +deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was +willing to pay the penalty of his crime." + +Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! +His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind +him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of +exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a +touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary +days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless. + +Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though +silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched +father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful +hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few +minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a +clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the +branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; +perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood. + +The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which +covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his +father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! _Now_!" As +the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. +He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's +groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of +suffering about him which no one thought of resisting. + +He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and +wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all +fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they +untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of +dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of +man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is +indifferent to all outside itself. + +When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the +house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to +him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a +companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff +having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, +Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room +and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead +opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw +all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what +it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over +and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing +repentance. + +In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. +But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. +Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces +and words. She was quite aware _what_ was in her uncle's lonely room. +Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came +to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," +and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dying +message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the +dead. + +At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an +urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing +in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu +had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the +slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, +more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, +the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind +them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves +across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last +it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth. + +When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, +their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air +with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl +was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's +unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the +winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own +consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept +her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her +with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, +she died. + +One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very +soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want +your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?" + +He winced visibly, and remained silent. + +"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. +They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you +must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this +time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?" + +"I will do my best, dear." + +"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will +need company soon." + +"Do you think you are dying, dear?" + +"I know I am dying." + +"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?" + +She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and +then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could +press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone +away"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting +by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The +fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been +too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's +doing. What was there for him to say? + +The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfully +at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he +persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they +loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave +them his own name, and suffered them to call him father. + +As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy +of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present +to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the +stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour +of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no +sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he +understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and +that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins +be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come +to the holy land: for-- + + "Down in the valley of death + A cross is standing plain; + Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, + And the ground has a deep red stain. + This cross uplifted there + Forbids, with voice Divine, + Our anguished hearts to break for the dead + Who have died and made no sign. + As they turned at length from us, + Dear eyes that were heavy and dim, + May have met his look, who was lifted there, + May be sleeping safe in Him." + + + + +THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON. + + +Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present +century--the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge. + +The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short +consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career +will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which +gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year +1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a +parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution +still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political +animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and +the prostration of the manufacturing business. + +His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his +grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton +spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition +with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder +Livesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and +spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the +first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of +calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no +certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to +improvements and ready to test an advance movement. + +That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. +The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so that +wealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of it +one-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinful +extravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmers +for raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist in +threshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for a +bare existence. + +Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Joseph +managed, "by hook or crook," to learn how to read, write and count a +little, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would have +been fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will. + +Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, +which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp that its walls +were constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark days +dared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacy +of L30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hard +apprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years. + +But the troubles that had begun before his birth--and which did not +lighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832--had +then attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of both +private charities and the national government. + +The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, +and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, near +Manchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of the +English weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the following +year, thousands of starving men started _en masse_ to London. They were +followed by the military and brought back for punishment or died +miserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a +smaller number Derby. + +But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined no +body of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; then +cutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets, +Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profit +from this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him to +make at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginning +founded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote a +long life to public usefulness and benevolence. + +But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his family +increased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; so +disastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorize +the Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on large +works of from L500 to L10,000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade was +everywhere stagnant, L60,000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feed +the starving, and the government issued 40,000 articles of clothing. The +quarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, mills +were everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30,000 "hands" turned +out. + +During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how much +misery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to public +houses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men of +the working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged in this +work. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directed +entirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then a +necessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and important +a duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; and +clergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one," "two" or +"three-bottle men." + +But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures were +doing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him to +take a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person on +business; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. +Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. +He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that of +others, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions. + +He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partial +reforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon the +association the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with his +efforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean" +was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed. + +The disputes were very angry and bitter; far more so than we at this +day can believe possible, unless we take into account the universal +national habits and its poetic and domestic associations with every +phase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his views +though it was not until the following year he was able to take another +step forward. + +It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge of +total abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering the +matter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come in +and talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey asked +King if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from all +liquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, +laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, +Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged to +one of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken. + +A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the main +part of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue the +argument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew up +and signed the following document, which is still preserved: + + "We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, + whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as + medicine. + + "JOHN GRATREX, + EDWARD DICKINSON, + JOHN BROADBENT, + JNO. SMITH, + JOSEPH LIVESEY, + DAVID ANDERTON, + JNO. KING." + +All these reformers were virtually _working_ men, though most of them +rose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of the +origin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, +within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in right +of their convictions. + +But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prospered +just where it was most needed--among the operatives and "the common +people." One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, +stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. +Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadest +patois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. He +always spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coined +what he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said: +"No half-way measures here. Nothing but the _te-te total_ will do." + +Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as the +name of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiastic +cheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforward +known as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate of +the cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds and +thousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston and +followed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly his +name and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known now +wherever Christianity and civilization are known. + + + + +MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT MONEY. + + +"It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna win by it." + +"Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whiskey that turned ma boat +tapsalteerie, Geordie Twatt." + +"Thou had better blame Hacon; he turned the boat _Widdershins_ an' what +fule doesna ken that it is evil luck to go contrarie to the sun?" + +"It is waur luck to have a drunken, superstitious pilot. Twatt, that +Norse blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. Fear God, an' mind thy +wark, an' thou needna speir o' the sun what gate to turn the boat." + +"My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot stirring it up, Sinclair. I come +o' a mighty kind--" + +"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full about their ancestors having been +horses. It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be laird o' theesel' +before I'll trust thee again with ony craft o' mine." Then Peter +Sinclair lifted his papers, and, looking the discharged sailor steadily +in the face, bid him "go on his penitentials an' think things o'er a +bit." + +Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased with +himself; he believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. +And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind of +even to increase his satisfaction. The gray old town of Kirkwall lay in +supernatural glory, the wondrous beauty of the mellow gloaming blending +with soft green and rosy-red spears of light that shot from east to +west, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring fleet outside +the harbor was as motionless as "a painted _fleet_ upon a painted +ocean"--the men were sleeping or smoking upon the piers--not a foot fell +upon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round the +public fountains, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, +knitting and gossiping. + +Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man inclined to analyze such things, +but they had their influence over him; for, as he drifted slowly home in +his skiff, he began to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, and to +wonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been. "An' +yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, +and the boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to life! Na, na, I'm no +called upon to put life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey." + +Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood his +daughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as he +looked at her, for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women of +the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastened +his skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springy +heath toward a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, +and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as of +its tiny garden; for there, with great care and at great cost, he had +managed to rear a few pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, and +other hardy English flowers. Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, +and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gently +the great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geese and +fish, touched these frail, trembling blossoms. + +"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to see the bonnie bit things; +when I can get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh; I'd like weel to +see such fields an' gardens an' trees as I hear thee tell on." + +Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows and +wheat fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she had seen during her +school days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling a +wonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and, as he cut slice after slice +from his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses and apple-blossoms, +and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, +and said, "It tasted, father, as if it had been grown in the Garden of +Eden." + +After such conversations Peter was always stern and strict. He felt an +actual anger at Adam and Eve; their transgression became a keenly +personal affair, for he had a very vivid sense of the loss they had +entailed upon him. The vague sense of wrong made him try to fix it, and, +after a short reflection, he said in an injured tone: + +"I wonder when Ronald's coming hame again?" + +"Ronald is all right, father." + +"A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to be +loaded, an' the books sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing or +saving. Where is he?" + +"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some time +with an Englishman he fell in with at Perth." + +"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auld +world notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 'tween John O'Groat's an' +Lambaness he doesna run after. I wish he were as anxious to serve in +the Lord's temple--I would build him a kirk an' a manse for it." + +"We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fighting +and making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholar +and a poet at last among them." + +Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, +and, as for scholarship, he asserted that the books were better kept +when he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he remembered +Geordie Twatt's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on this +subject: "Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' the +lives o' Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an' a' for the sake o' +liquor!" + +Margaret looked at the brandy bottle standing at her father's elbow, +and, though she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter. + +"You arna to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop--Geordie +never does." + +"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When Magnus +Hay has struck the first blow he is quite ready to draw his dirk and +strike the last one; and Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and to +spare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balances out of +his hands. There are few folks that in all things offend not." + +She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hair +yellow as down, her eyes cool and calm and blue as night; her whole +attitude so serene, assured and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left +his glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "good night." + +In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his office, was to +send for the offending sailor. + +"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, +thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be ready to sail +her--or upset her--i' ten days again." + +"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake--tell her I +said that, Master." + +"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is a +lang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an' +thou wilt mind this--_things promised are things due_." + +Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he was +good-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment. +When night came, and he watched for Margaret on the sands, he was +delighted to see that Ronald was with her. The lad had come home and +nothing was now remembered against him. That night it was Ronald told +him fairy-stories of great cities and universities, of miles of books +and pictures, of wonderful machinery and steam engines, of delicious +things to eat and drink. Peter felt as if he must start southward by the +next mail packet, but in the morning he thought more unselfishly. + +"There are forty families depending on me sticking to the shop an' the +boats, Ronald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is ane to step into +my shoes." + +Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately beauty and noble presence of +his sister, but yet there was some lack about him easier to feel than to +define. Perhaps no one was unconscious of this lack except Margaret; but +women have a grand invention where their idols are concerned, and create +readily for them every excellency that they lack. Her own two years' +study in an Edinburgh boarding-school had been very superficial, and she +knew it; but this wonderful Ronald could read Homer and Horace, could +play and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and write poetry. If he could +have done none of these things, if he had been dull and ugly, and +content to trade in fish and wool, she would still have loved him +tenderly; how much more then, this handsome Antinous, whom she credited +with all the accomplishments of Apollo. + +Ronald needed all her enthusiastic support. He had left heavy college +bills, and he had quite made up his mind that he would not be a minister +and that he would be a lawyer. He could scarcely have decided on two +things more offensive to his father. Only for the hope of having a +minister in the family had Peter submitted to his son's continued +demands for money. For this end he had bought books, and paid for all +kinds of teachers and tours, and sighed over the cost of Ronald's +different hobbies. And now he was not only to have a grievous +disappointment, but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair shared +fully in the Arcadean dislike and distrust of lawyers, and would have +been deeply offended at any one requiring their aid in any business +transaction with him. + +His son's proposal to be a "writer" he took almost as a personal insult. +He had formed his own opinion of the profession and the opinion of any +other person who would say a word in favor of a lawyer he considered of +no value. Margaret had a hard task before her, that she succeeded at all +was due to her womanly tact. Ronald and his father simply clashed +against each other and exchanged pointed truths which hurt worse than +wounds. At length, when the short Arcadean summer was almost over, +Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent. + +"The lad is fit for naething better, I suppose"--and the old man turned +away to shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. They shocked +Margaret; she was terrified at her success, and, falling humbly at his +feet, she besought him to forget and forgive her importunities, and to +take back a gift baptized with such ominous tears. + +But Peter Sinclair, having been compelled to take such a step, was not +the man to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, hopeless way: "He +couldna say 'yes' an' 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en drink as he +brewed." + +These struggles, so real and sorrowful to his father and sister, Ronald +had no sympathy with--not that he was heartless, but that he had taught +himself to believe they were the result of ignorance of the world and +old-fashioned prejudices. He certainly intended to become a great +man--perhaps a judge--and, when he was one of "the Lords," he had no +doubt his father would respect his disobedience. He knew his father as +little as he knew himself. Peter Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair's +opinions incorporate; and he could no more have changed them than he +could have changed the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose; and +the difference between a common lawyer and a "lord," in his eyes, would +only have been the difference between a little oppressor and a great +one. + +For the first time in all her life Margaret suspected a flaw in this +perfect crystal of a brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt her. Even +if her father's objections were ignorant prejudices, they were positive +convictions to him, and she did not like to see them smiled at, +entertained by the cast of the eye, and the put-by of the turning hand. +But loving women are the greatest of philistines: knock their idol down +daily, rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and head, and they will +still "set it up in its place," and fall down and worship it. + +Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the blindest of these characters, but +the world may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. It is faith of +this sublime integrity which, brought down to personal experience, +believes, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves on to the end, winning +finally what never would have been given to a more prudent and +reasonable devotion. So, if Margaret had her doubts, she put them +arbitrarily down, and sent her brother away with manifold tokens of her +love--among them, with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for sixty pounds, +the whole of her personal savings. + +To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed a large sum, but she hoped by the +sacrifice to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus enable him to +start his new race unweighted. It was but a mouthful to each creditor, +but it put them off for a time, and Ronald was not a youth inclined to +"take thought" for their "to-morrow." + +He had been entered for four years' study with the firm of Wilkes & +Brechen, writers and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. Her father +had paid the whole fee down, and placed in the Western Bank to his +credit four hundred pounds for his four years' support. Whatever Ronald +thought of the provision, Peter considered it a magnificent income, and +it had cost him a great struggle to give up at once, and for no evident +return, so much of his hard-earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing of +this reluctance; he simply put vouchers for both transactions in his +hand, and asked him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as it had been +earned." + +But to Margaret he fretted not a little. "Fourteen hun'red pounds a' +thegither, dawtie," he said in a tearful voice. "I warked early an' late +through mony a year for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I hae +naught but words an' promises for it. I ken, Margaret, that I am an auld +farrant trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well into which are +must put water." + +When Ronald went, the summer went too. It became necessary to remove at +once to their rock-built house in one of the narrow streets of +Kirkwall. Margaret was glad of the change; her father could come into +the little parlor behind the shop any time in the day and smoke his pipe +beside her. He needed this consolation sorely; his son's conduct had +grieved him far more deeply than he would allow, and Margaret often saw +him gazing southward over the stormy Pentland Frith with a very mournful +face. + +But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune and Peter had a good heart, +sound and sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and full of faith in +God. It is true that his creed was of the very strictest and sternest; +but men are always better than their theology and Margaret knew from the +Scriptures chosen for their household worship that in the depth and +stillness of his soul his human fatherhood had anchored fast to the +fatherhood of God. + +Arcadean winters are long and dreary, but no one need much pity the +Arcadeans; they have learned how to make them the very festival of +social life. And, in spite of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaret +thoroughly enjoyed this one--perhaps the more because Captain Olave +Thorkald spent two months of it with them in Kirkwall. There had been a +long attachment between the young soldier and Margaret; and having +obtained his commission, he had come to ask also for the public +recognition of their engagement. Margaret was rarely beautiful and +rarely happy, and she carried with a charming and kindly grace the full +cup of her felicity. The Arcadeans love to date from a good year, and +all her life afterward Margaret reckoned events from this pleasant +winter. + +Peter Sinclair's house being one of the largest in Kirkwall, was a +favorite gathering place, and Peter took his full share in all the +home-like, innocent amusements which beguiled the long, dreary nights. +No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite Ossian with more passion and +tenderness, and he enjoyed his little triumph over the youngsters who +emulated him. No one could sing a Scotch song with more humor, and few +of the lads and lassies could match Peter in a blithe foursome reel or a +rattling strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that good Dr. Ogilvie had a +more graceful spring and a longer breath, but Peter always insisted that +his inferiority to the minister was a voluntary concession to the +Dominie's superior dignity. It was, however, a rivalry that always ended +in a firmer grip at parting. These little festivals, in which young and +old freely mingled, cultivated to perfection the best and kindest +feelings of both classes. Age mellowed to perfect sweetness in the +sunshine of youthful gayety, and youth learned from age how at once to +be merry and wise. + +At length June arrived; and though winter lingered in _spates_, the song +of the skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. When the dream-like +voice of the cuckoo should be heard once more, Peter and Margaret had +determined to take a long summer trip. They were to go first to Perth, +where Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then to Glasgow and see +Ronald. But God had planned another journey for Peter, even one to a +"land very far off." A disease, to which he had been subject at +intervals for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal character and Peter +needed no one to tell him that his days were numbered. + +He set his house in order, and then, going with Margaret to his summer +dwelling, waited quietly. He said little on the subject, and as long as +he was able, gave himself up with the delight of a child to watching the +few flowers in his garden; but still one solemn, waylaying thought made +these few last weeks of life peculiarly hushed and sacred. Ronald had +been sent for, and the old man, with the clear prescience that sometimes +comes before death, divined much and foresaw much he did not care to +speak about--only that in some subtle way he made Margaret perceive that +Ronald was to be cared for and watched over, and that to her this +charge was committed. + +Before the summer was quite over Peter Sinclair went away. In his +tarrying by the eternal shore he became, as it were, purified of the +body, and one lovely night, when gloaming and dawning mingled, and the +lark was thrilling the midnight skies, he heard the Master call him, and +promptly answered, "Here am I." Then "Death, with sweet enlargement, did +dismiss him hence." + +He had been considered a rich man in Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald--who +had become accustomed to a Glasgow standard of wealth--was much +disappointed. His whole estate was not worth over six thousand pounds; +about two thousand pounds of this was in gold, the rest was invested in +his houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cottage in Stromness, where +Peter's wife had been born. He gave to Ronald L1800, and to Margaret +L200 and the life rent of the real property. Ronald had already received +L1400, and, therefore, had no cause of complaint, but somehow he felt as +if he had been wronged. He was older than his sister, and the son of the +house, and use and custom were not in favor of recognizing daughters as +having equal rights. But he kept such thoughts to himself, and when he +went back to Glasgow took with him solid proof of his sister's +devotion. + +It was necessary, now, for Margaret to make a great change in her life. +She determined to remove to Stromness and occupy the little four-roomed +cottage that had been her mother's. It stood close to that of Geordie +Twatt, and she felt that in any emergency she was thus sure of one +faithful friend. "A lone woman" in Margaret's position has in these days +numberless objects of interest of which Margaret never dreamed. She +would have thought it a kind of impiety to advise her minister, or +meddle in church affairs. These simple parents attended themselves to +the spiritual training of their children--there was no necessity for +Sunday Schools, and they did not exist. She was not one of those women +whom their friends call "beings," and who have deep and mysterious +feelings that interpret themselves in poems and thrilling stories. She +had no taste for philosophy or history or social science, and had been +taught to regard novels as dangerously sinful books. + +But no one need imagine that she was either wretched or idle. In the +first place, she took life much more calmly and slowly than we do; a +very little pleasure or employment went a long way. She read her Bible +and helped her old servant Helga to keep the house in order. She had +her flowers to care for,--and her brother and lover to write to. She +looked after Geordie Twatt's little motherless lads, went to church and +to see her friends, and very often had her friends to see her. It +happened to be a very stormy winter, and the mails were often delayed +for weeks together. This was her only trouble. Ronald's letters were +more and more unsatisfactory; he was evidently unhappy and dissatisfied +and heartily tired of his new study. Posts were so irregular that often +their letters seemed to be playing at cross purposes. She determined as +soon as spring opened to go and have a straightforward talk with him. + +So the following June Geordie Twatt took her in his boat to Thurso, +where Captain Thorkald was waiting for her. They had not met since Peter +Sinclair's death, and that event had materially affected their +prospects. Before it their marriage had been a possible joy in some far +future; now there was no greater claim on her care and love than the +captain's, and he urged their early marriage. + +Margaret had her two hundred pounds with her, and she promised to buy +her "plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. In those days girls made +their own trousseau, sewing into every garment solemn and tender hopes +and joys. Margaret thought that proper attention to this dear stitching +as well as proper respect for her father's memory, asked of her yet at +least another year's delay; and for the present Captain Thorkald thought +it best not to urge her further. + +Ronald received his sister very joyfully. He had provided lodgings for +her with their father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a tea merchant +in the Cowcaddens. The Cowcaddens was then a very respectable street, +and Margaret was quite pleased with her quarters. She was not pleased +with Ronald, however. He avowed himself thoroughly disgusted with the +law, and declared his intention of forfeiting his fee and joining his +friend Walter Cashell in a manufacturing scheme. + +Margaret could _feel_ that he was all wrong, but she could not reason +about a business of which she knew nothing, and Ronald took his own way. +But changing and bettering are two different things, and, though he was +always talking of his "good luck" and his "good bargains", Margaret was +very uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was partly to blame for this; his +pawky face and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents to all such +boasts; nor did he scruple to say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, +Ronald, an' it is at the _guid bargains_ I aye pause an' ponder." + +The following winter was a restless, unhappy one; Ronald was either +painfully elated or very dull; and, soon after the New Year, Walter +Cashell fell into bad health, went to the West Indies, and left Ronald +with the whole business to manage. He soon now began to come to his +sister, not only for advice, but for money. Margaret believed at first +that she was only supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when her cash was +all gone, and Ronald urged her to mortgage her rents she resolutely shut +her ears to all his plausible promises, and refused to "throw more good +money after bad." + +It was the first ill-blood between them, and it hurt Margaret sorely. +She was glad when the fine weather came, and she could escape to her +island home, for Ronald was cool to her, and said cruel things of +Captain Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his sister had refused to +help him. + +One day, at the end of the following August, when most of the +towns-people--men and women--had gone to the moss to cut the winter's +peat, she saw Geordie Twatt coming toward the house. Something about his +appearance troubled her, and she went to the open door and stood waiting +for him. + +"What is it, Geordie?" + +"I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o' +Stennis to-night at eleven o'clock." + +"Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such an hour?" + +"Thy brother; but thou'lt come--yes, thou wilt." + +Margaret's very lips turned white as she answered: "I'll be there--see +thou art, too." + +"Sure as death! If naebody spiers after me, thou needna say I was here +at a', thou needna." + +Margaret understood the caution, and nodded her head. She could not +speak, and all day long she wandered about like a soul in a restless +dream. + +Fortunately, every one was weary at night, and went early to rest, and +she found little difficulty in getting outside the town without notice; +and one of the ponies on the common took her speedily across the moor. + +Late as it was, twilight lingered over the silent moor, with its old +Pictish mounds and burial places, giving them an indescribable aspect of +something weird and eerie. No one could have been insensible to the +mournful, brooding light and the unearthly stillness, and Margaret was +trembling with a supernatural terror as she stood amid the solemn circle +of gray stones and looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, brown +hills of Harray. + +From behind one of these gigantic pillars Ronald came toward +her--Ronald, and yet not Ronald. He was dressed as a common sailor, and +otherwise shamefully disguised. There was no time to soften things--he +told his miserable story in a few plain words: + +"His business had become so entangled that he knew not which way to +turn, and, sick of the whole affair, he had taken a passage for +Australia, and then forged a note on the Western Bank for L900. He had +hoped to be far at sea with his ill-gotten money before the fraud was +discovered, but suspicion had gathered around him so quickly, that he +had not even dared to claim his passage. Then he fled north, and, +fortunately, discovering Geordie's boat at Wick, had easily prevailed on +him to put off at once with him." + +What cowards sin makes of us! Margaret had seen this very lad face death +often, among the sunken rocks and cruel surfs, that he might save the +life of a ship-wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet the creditors +whom he had wronged, he had committed a robbery and was flying from the +gallows. + +She was shocked and stunned, and stood speechless, wringing her hands +and moaning pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. Often the first +result of a bitter sense of sin is to make the sinner peevish and +irritable. + +"Margaret," he said, almost angrily, "I came to bid you farewell, and +to promise you, _by my father's name_! to retrieve all this wrong. If +you can speak a kind word speak it, for God's sake--if not, I must go +without it!" + +Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid sobs and kisses, said all that +love so sorely and suddenly tried could say. He could not even soothe +her anguish by any promise to write, but he did promise to come back to +her sooner or later with restitution in his hand. All she could do now +for this dear brother was to call Geordie to her side and put him in his +care; taking what consolation she could from his assurance that "he +would keep him out at sea until the search was cold, and if followed +carry him into some of the dangerous 'races' between the islands." If +any sailor could keep his boat above water in them, she knew Geordie +could; _and if not_--she durst follow that thought no further, but, +putting her hands before her face, stood praying, while the two men +pulled silently away in the little skiff that had brought them up the +outlet connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. Margaret would have +turned away from Ronald's open grave less heart-broken. + +It was midnight now, but her real terror absorbed all imaginary ones; +she did not even call a pony, but with swift, even steps walked back to +Stromness. Ere she had reached it, she had decided what was to be done, +and next day she left Kirkwall in the mail packet for the mainland. +Thence by night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and a week after her +interview with Ronald she was standing before the directors of the +defrauded bank and offering them the entire proceeds of her Kirkwall +property until the debt was paid. + +The bank had thoroughly respected Peter Sinclair, and his daughter's +earnest, decided offer won their ready sympathy. It was accepted without +any question of interest, though she could not hope to clear off the +obligation in less than nine years. She did not go near any of her old +acquaintances; she had no heart to bear their questions and condolences, +and she had no money to stay in Glasgow at charges. Winter was coming on +rapidly, but before it broke over the lonely islands she had reached her +cottage in Stromness again. + +There had been, of course, much talk concerning her hasty journey, but +no one had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pursuit after Ronald had +been entirely the bank's affair, had been committed to private +detectives and had not been nearly so hot as the frightened criminal +believed. His failure and flight had indeed been noticed in the Glasgow +newspapers, but this information did not reach Kirkwall until the +following spring, and then in a very indefinite form. + +About a week after her return, Geordie Twatt came into port. Margaret +frequently went to his cottage with food or clothing for the children, +and she contrived to meet him there. + +"Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he," he said, with an assumption of +indifference. + +"Oh, Geordie! where?" + +"A ship going westward took him off the boat." + +"Thank God! You will say naught at all, Geordie?" + +"I ken naught at a' save that his father's son was i' trouble, an' +trying to gie thae weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was fain eneuch +mesel' to balk them." + +But Margaret's real trials were all yet to come. The mere fact of doing +a noble deed does not absolve one often from very mean and petty +consequences. Before the winter was half over she had found out how +rapid is the descent from good report. The neighbors were deeply +offended at her for giving up the social tea parties and evening +gatherings that had made the house of Sinclair popular for more than one +generation. She gave still greater offence by becoming a workingwoman, +and spending her days in braiding straw into the (once) famous Orkney +Tuscans, and her long evenings in the manufacture of those delicate +knitted goods peculiar to the country. + +It was not alone that they grudged her the money for these labors, as so +much out of their own pockets--they grudged her also the time; for they +had been long accustomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for their +children's garments, for nursing the sick and for help in weddings, +funerals and all the other extraordinary occasions of sympathy among a +primitively social people. + +Little by little, all winter, the sentiment of disapproval and dislike +gathered. Some one soon found out that Margaret's tenants "just sent +every bawbee o' the rent-siller to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was a +double offence, as it implied a distrust of her own townsfolk and +institutions. If from her humble earnings she made a little gift to any +common object its small amount was a fresh source of anger and contempt; +for none knew how much she had to deny herself even for such curtailed +gratuities. + +In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden stinginess and indifference to her +townsfolk was the common wonder and talk of every little gathering. Old +friends began to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly ignore her; +and at last even old Helga took the popular tone and said, "Margaret +Sinclair had got too scrimping for an auld wife like her to bide wi' +langer." + +Through all this Margaret suffered keenly. At first she tried earnestly +to make her old friends understand that she had good reasons for her +conduct; but as she would not explain these good reasons, she failed in +her endeavor. She had imagined that her good conscience would support +her, and that she could live very well without love and sympathy; she +soon found out that it is a kind of negative punishment worse than many +stripes. + +At the end of the winter Captain Thorkald again earnestly pressed their +marriage, saying that, "his regiment was ordered to Chelsea, and any +longer delay might be a final one." He proposed also, that his father, +the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, should have charge of her Orkney +property, as he understood its value and changes. Margaret wrote and +frankly told him that her property was not hers for at least seven +years, but that it was under good care, and he must accept her word +without explanation. Out of this only grew a very unsatisfactory +correspondence. Captain Thorkald went south without Margaret, and a very +decided coolness separated them farther than any number of miles. + +Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, and his remarks about Margaret +Sinclair's refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid hands as her +own" increased very much the bitter feeling against the poor girl. At +the end of three years the trial became too great for her; she began to +think of running away from it. + +Throughout these dark days she had purposely and pointedly kept apart +from her old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his influence over her +might tempt her to confidence. Latterly the doctor had humored her +evident desire, but he had never ceased to watch over and, in a great +measure, to believe in her; and, when he heard of this determination to +quit Orkney forever, he came to Stromness with a resolution to spare no +efforts to win her confidence. + +He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to her, reminded her of her father's +generosity and good gifts to the church and the poor, and said: "O, +Margaret, dear lass! what good at a' will thy silent money do thee in +_that Day_? It ought to speak for thee out o' the mouths o' the +sorrowfu' an' the needy, the widows an' the fatherless--indeed it ought. +And thou hast gien naught for thy Master's sake these three years! I'm +fair 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a name as thy father's." + +What could Margaret do? She broke into passionate sobbing, and, when the +good old man left the cottage an hour afterward there was a strange +light on his face, and he walked and looked as if he had come from some +interview that had set him for a little space still nearer to the +angels. Margaret had now one true friend, and in a few days after this +she rented her cottage and went to live with the dominie. Nothing could +have so effectually reinstated her in public opinion; wherever the +dominie went on a message of help or kindness Margaret went with him. +She fell gradually into a quieter but still more affectionate +regard--the aged, the sick and the little children clung to her hands, +and she was comforted. + +Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonderfully narrowed, but when the tide +is fairly out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year of her poverty +there was from various causes, such an increase in the value of real +estate, that her rents were nearly doubled, and by the end of the +seventh year she had paid the last shilling of her assumed debt, and was +again an independent woman. + +It might be two years after this that she one day received a letter that +filled her with joy and amazement. It contained a check for her whole +nine hundred pounds back again. "The bank had just received from Ronald +Sinclair, of San Francisco, the whole amount due it, with the most +satisfactory acknowledgment and interest." It was a few minutes before +Margaret could take in all the joy this news promised her; but when she +did, the calm, well-regulated girl had never been so near committing +extravagances. + +She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, and, throwing herself at his +knees, cried out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! father! Here is your +money! Here is the poor's money and the church's money! God has sent it +back to me! Sent it back with such glad tidings!"--and surely if angels +rejoice with repenting sinners, they must have felt that day a far +deeper joy with the happy, justified girl. + +She knew now that she also would soon hear from Ronald, and she was not +disappointed. The very next day the dominie brought home the letter. +Margaret took it upstairs to read it upon her knees, while the good old +man walked softly up and down his study praying for her. Presently she +came to him with a radiant face. + +"Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?" + +"Yes, father; it is very well." Then she read him the letter. + +Ronald had been in New Orleans and had the fever; he had been in Texas, +and spent four years in fighting Indians and Mexicans and in herding +cattle. He had suffered many things, but had worked night and day, and +always managed to grow a little richer every year. Then, suddenly, the +word "California!" rung through the world, and he caught the echo even +on the lonely southwestern prairies. Through incredible hardships he had +made his way thither, and a sudden and wonderful fortune had crowned his +labors, first in mining and afterward in speculation and merchandising. +He said that he was indeed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest to +her Arcadean views the sum might appear incredible. + +Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and clasped her hands above it. +Her face was beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister she must have +looked just as Margaret looked when they brought in her lost brother, in +the best robe and the gold ring. + +The dominie was not so satisfied. A good many things in the letter +displeased him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and went away from her. +"It is a' _I_ did this, an' _I_ did that, an' _I_ suffered you; there is +nae word o' God's help, or o' what ither folk had to thole. I'll no be +doing ma duty if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en." + +The old man was little used to writing, and the effort was a great one, +but he bravely made it, and without delay. In a few curt, idiomatic +sentences he told Ronald Margaret's story of suffering and wrong and +poverty; her hard work for daily bread; her loss of friends, of her +good name and her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, ma lad, that ye +dinna acknowledge God in; an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'er +late for thy credit. I wad hae thought better o' it had thou made it +when it took the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy great wealth, a few +hun'red pounds is nae matter to speak aboot." + +But people did speak of it. In spite of our chronic abuse of human +nature it is, after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in good more than +in evil. The story of Ronald's restitution is considered honorable to +it, and it was much made of in the daily papers. Margaret's friends +flocked round her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" as simply and +honestly as little children, and the dominie did not fail to give them +the lecture on charity that Margaret neglected. + +Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to his son anent these transactions, +or whether the captain read in the papers enough to satisfy him, he +never explained; but one day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's and +asked for Margaret. He had probably good excuses for his conduct to +offer; if not, Margaret was quite ready to invent for him--as she had +done for Ronald--all the noble qualities he lacked. The captain was +tired of military life, and anxious to return to Orkney; and, as his +own and Margaret's property was yearly increasing: in value, he foresaw +profitable employment for his talents. He had plans for introducing many +southern improvements--for building a fine modern house, growing some of +the hardier fruits and for the construction of a grand conservatory for +Margaret's flowers. + +It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald was a very ordinary lord for a +woman like Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and obey;" but few men +would have been worthy of her, and the usual rule which shows us the +noblest women marrying men manifestly their inferiors is doubtless a +wise one. + +A lofty soul can have no higher mission than to help upward one upon a +lower plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, as the dominie said, +"_no that bad_," had the fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret's +stature in Margaret's atmosphere. + +While these things were occurring, Ronald got Margaret's letter. It was +full of love and praise, and had no word of blame or complaint in it. He +noticed, indeed, that she still signed her name "Sinclair," and that she +never alluded to Captain Thorkald, and the supposition that the stain on +his character had caused a rupture did, for a moment, force itself upon +his notice; but he put it instantly away with the reflection that +"Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after all, and quite unworthy of his +sister." + +The very next mail-day he received the dominie's letter. He read it +once, and could hardly take it in; read it again and again, until his +lips blanched, and his whole countenance changed. In that moment he saw +Ronald Sinclair for the first time in his life. Without a word, he left +his business, went to his house and locked himself in his own room. + +_Then Margaret's silent money began to speak._ In low upbraidings it +showed him the lonely girl in that desolate land trying to make her own +bread, deserted of lover and friends, robbed of her property and good +name, silently suffering every extremity, never reproaching him once, +not even thinking it necessary to tell him of her sufferings, or to +count their cost unto him. + +What is this bitterness we call remorse? This agony of the soul in all +its senses? This sudden flood of intolerable light in the dark places of +our hearts? This truth-telling voice which leaves us without a particle +of our self-complacency? For many days Ronald could find no words to +speak but these, "O, wretched man that I am!" + +But at length the Comforter came as swiftly and surely and mysteriously +as the accuser had come, and once more that miracle of grace was +renewed--"that day Jesus was guest in the house of one who was a +sinner." + +Margaret's "silent money" now found a thousand tongues. It spoke in many +a little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair held in his arms until it +was strong enough to stand alone. It spoke in schools and colleges and +hospitals, in many a sorrowful home and to many a lonely, struggling +heart--and at this very day it has echoes that reach from the far West +to the lonely islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, and the +sea-shattering precipices of Duncansbay Head. + +It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip to +the Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso--the old town of +Thor--for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a week +for Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was a +gift from an old friend in California, and is called "The Margaret +Sinclair." + + + + +JUST WHAT HE DESERVED. + + +There is not in its own way a more distinctive and interesting bit of +Scotland than the bleak Lothian country, with its wide views, its brown +ploughed fields, and its dense swaying plantations of fir. The +Lammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and the veils of smoke that lie about +Edinburgh are on its horizon, and within that circle all the large +quietude of open grain fields, wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, and +far-stretching pastures where the red and white cows ruminate. The +patient processes of nature breed patient minds; the gray cold climate +can be read in the faces of the people, and in their hearts the seasons +take root and grow; so that they have a grave character, passive, yet +enduring; strong to feel and strong to act when the time is full ready +for action. + +Of these natural peculiarities Jean Anderson had her share. She was a +Lothian lassie of many generations, usually undemonstrative, but with +large possibilities of storm beneath her placid face and gentle manner. +Her father was the minister of Lambrig and the manse stood in a very +sequestered corner of the big parish, facing the bleak east winds, and +the salt showers of the German ocean. It was sheltered by dark fir woods +on three sides, and in front a little walled-in garden separated it from +the long, dreary, straight line of turnpike road. But Jean had no +knowledge of any fairer land; she had read of flowery pastures and rose +gardens and vineyards, but these places were to her only in books, while +the fields and fells that filled her eyes were her home, and she loved +them. + +She loved them all the more because the man she loved was going to leave +them, and if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful to her, then it was +like to be that she also would go far away from the blue Lammermuirs, +and the wide still spaces of the Lothians. She stood at the open door of +the manse with her lover thinking of these things, but with no real +sense of what pain or deprivation the thought included. She was tall and +finely formed, a blooming girl, with warmly-colored cheeks, a mouth +rather large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. But the best of all +her beauty was the soul in her face; its vitality, its vivacity and +immediate response. + +However, the time of love had come to her, and though her love had grown +as naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could tell what changes it +would make. For Gavin Burns had been educated in the minister's house +and Jean and he had studied and fished and rambled together all through +the years in which Jean had grown from childhood into womanhood. Now +Gavin was going to New York to make his fortune. They stepped through +the garden and into the long dim road, walking slowly in the calm night, +with thoughtful faces and clasped hands. There was at this last hour +little left to say. Every promise known to Love had been given; they had +exchanged Bibles and broken a piece of silver and vowed an eternal +fidelity. So, in the cold sunset they walked silently by the river that +was running in flood like their own hearts. At the little stone bridge +they stopped, and leaning over the parapet watched the drumly water +rushing below; and there Jean reiterated her promise to be Gavin's wife +as soon as he was able to make a home for her. + +"And I am not proud, Gavin," she said; "a little house, if it is filled +with love, will make me happy beyond all." + +They were both too hopeful and trustful and too habitually calm to weep +or make much visible lament over their parting; and yet when Gavin +vanished into the dark of the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy house +door very slowly. She felt as if she was shutting part of herself out of +the old home forever, and she was shocked by this first breaking of the +continuity of life; this sharp cutting of regular events asunder. +Gavin's letters were at first frequent and encouraging, but as the +months went by he wrote more and more seldom. He said "he was kept so +busy; he was making himself indispensable, and could not afford to be +less busy. He was weary to death on the Saturday nights, and he could +not bring his conscience to write anent his own personal and earthly +happiness on the Sabbath day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, +whether he wrote or not; and they were past being bairns, always telling +each other the love they were both so sure of." + +Late in the autumn the minister died of typhoid fever, and Jean, +heartbroken and physically worn out, was compelled to face for her +mother and herself, a complete change of life. It had never seemed to +these two women that anything could happen to the father and head of the +family; in their loving hearts he had been immortal, and though the +disease had run its tedious course before their eyes, his death at the +last was a shock that shook their lives and their home to the very +centre. A new minister was the first inevitable change, and then a +removal from the comfortable manse to a little cottage in the village of +Lambrig. + +While this sad removal was in progress they had felt the sorrow of it, +all that they could bear; and neither had dared to look into the future +or to speculate as to its necessities. Jean in her heart expected Gavin +would at once send for them to come to America. He had a fair salary, +and the sale of their furniture would defray their traveling expenses. + +She was indeed so sure of this journey, that she did not regard the +cottage as more than a temporary shelter during the approaching winter. +In the spring, no doubt, Gavin would have a little home ready, and they +would cross the ocean to it. The mother had the same thought. As they +sat on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, they talked of this +event, and if any doubts lurked unconsciously below their love and trust +they talked them away, while they waited for Gavin's answer to the +sorrowful letter Jean had sent him on the night of her father's burial. + +It was longer in coming than they expected. For a week they saw the +postman pass their door with an indifference that seemed cruel; for a +week Jean made new excuses and tried to hold up her mother's heart, +while her own was sinking lower and lower. Then one morning the +looked-for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart to read it alone; Mrs. +Anderson sat down and waited, with dropped eyes and hands tightly +clasped. She knew, before Jean said a word, that the letter had +disappointed her. She had remained alone too long. If all had been as +they hoped the mother was certain Jean would not have deferred the good +tidings a moment. But a quarter of an hour had passed before Jean came +to her side, and then when she lifted her eyes she saw that her daughter +had been weeping. + +"It is a disappointment, Jean, I see," she said sadly. "Never mind, +dearie." + +"Yes, mother; Gavin has failed us." + +"We have been two foolish women, Jean. Oh, my dear lassie, we should +have lippened to God, and He would not have disappointed us! What does +Gavin Burns say?" + +"It is what he does _not_ say, that hurts me, mother. I may as well tell +you the whole truth. When he heard how ill father was, he wrote to me, +as if he had foreseen what was to happen. He said, 'there will be a new +minister and a break-up of the old home, and you must come at once to +your new home here. I am the one to care for you when your father is +gone away; and what does it matter under what sun or sky if we are but +together?' So, then, mother, when the worst had come to us I wrote with +a free heart to Gavin. I said, 'I will come to you gladly, Gavin, but +you know well that my mother is very dear to me, and where I am there +she also must be.' And he says, in this letter, that it is me he is +wanting, and that you have a brother in Glasgow that is unmarried and +who will be willing, no doubt, to have you keep his house for him. There +is a wale of fine words about it, mother, but they come to just this, +and no more--Gavin is willing to care for me, but not for you and I will +not trust myself with a man that cannot love you for my sake. We will +stay together, mammy darling! Whatever comes or goes we will stay +together. The man isna born that can part us two!" + +"He is your lover, Jean. A girl must stick to her lover." + +"You are my mother. I am bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh and +love of your love. May God forsake me when I forsake you!" + +She had thrown herself at her mother's knees and was clasping and +kissing the sad face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered the last +words. And the mother was profoundly touched by her child's devotion. +She drew her close to her heart, and said firmly: + +"No! No, my dearie! What could we two do for ourselves? And I'm loth to +part you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the sacrifice, you so lovingly +offer me. I will write to my brother David. Gavin isna far wrong there; +David is a very close man, but he willna see his sister suffer, there +is no fear of that." + +"It is Jean that will not see you suffer." + +"But the bite and the sup, Jean? How are we to get them?" + +"I can make my own dresses and cloaks, so then I can make dresses and +cloaks for other people. I shall send out a card to the ladies near-by +and put an advertisement in the Haddington newspaper, and God can make +my needle sharp enough for the battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, +don't cry! We have God and each other, and none can call us desolate." + +"But you will break your heart, Jean. You canna help it. And I canna +take your love and happiness to brighten my old age. It isna right. I'll +not do it. You must go to Gavin. I will go to my brother David." + +"I will not break my heart, mother. I will not shed a tear for the +false, mean lad, that you were so kind to for fourteen years, when there +was no one else to love him. Aye, I know he paid for his board and +schooling, but he never could pay for the mother-love you gave him, just +because he was motherless. And who has more right to have their life +brightened by my love than you have? Beside, it is my happiness to +brighten it, and so, what will you say against it? And I will not go to +Gavin. Not one step. If he wants me now, he will come for me, and for +you, too. This is sure as death! Oh, mammy! Mammy, darling, a false lad +shall not part us! Never! Never! Never!" + +"Jean! Jean! What will I say at all" + +"What would my father say, if he was here this minute? He would say, +'you are right, Jean! And God bless you, Jean! And you may be sure that +it is all for the best, Jean! So take the right road with a glad heart, +Jean!' That is what father would say. And I will never do anything to +prevent me looking him straight in the face when we meet again. Even in +heaven I shall want him to smile into my eyes and say, 'Well done, +Jean!'" + + +CHAPTER II. + +Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insure +them some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed not +uncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to +Lambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and giving +her, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter's +expenses. This order of things went on without change or intermission +for five years, and the little cottage gradually gathered in its clean, +sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson took +entire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from +morning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliations +and annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere with +the cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonely +life. + +She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, in +which neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavin +ceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm was +reached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But such +hours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" in +them much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her nature +ripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than her +twentieth year had promised. + +One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jean +felt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappiness +made her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim her +eyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean did +not know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and she +wondered what she had come to tell her. + +"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean," she said, "and I thought +Gavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days." + +Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, Mary +Burns," she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep to +myself these days." + +"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be the +mistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where I +taught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one may +say, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'm +thinking I shall have a happy time with him in America." + +"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you +'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to do +to-night than I can well manage." + +This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called for +an unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent her +appearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost lover +to think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her mother +and talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening, +went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they spent a more +confidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be a +comfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning she +noticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found her +in her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world. + +It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind. +She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle David +came at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she suffered +no hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. And +oh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swift +return to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a cruel +effacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of the +third day after the funeral he said, kindly: + +"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is far +beyond tears." + +"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come and +never name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smile +for everybody." + + "Death is forgetfulness, Jean; + ... 'one lonely way + We go: and is she gone? + Is all our best friends say.' + +"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother has +been to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bit +sticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a new +life. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth +your keeping you can save in your memory." + +"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. I +can find my own bread if you will just love me a little." + +"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put that +weary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch." + +So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow. +He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what she +expected--certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the least +expensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reached +Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manner +as soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and a +carriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a large +dwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her into +a handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Anderson +her rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herself +surrounded by undreamed of luxury. + +Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learned +to understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of her +life. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere she +discovered that it was largely spent in two directions--scientific +discovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted to +chemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles of +total abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jean +could not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One of +the savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her; +and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, which +had all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till he +found, and so not lose his labor." + +Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicoll +gave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did he +ever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home," he +said to his friends. No words could have better explained the position. +In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summer +they sailed far north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; to +Orkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the light +of the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean was +thirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become a +woman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways, +she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You have +made my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he said to her on the last +solemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honest +love! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you every +bawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left nae +dead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and the +siller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If it +should come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you, +I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weel +spent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But it +is a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that." + +This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away had +opened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to the +school of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a home of +love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, +untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was not +the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her +hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover. + +About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Mary +was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have to +store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it +at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the +right hand and the left," he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargain +that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary." + +"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be +wasted," answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love +of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city." + +"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and +if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley." + +"Jean Anderson?" + +"Ay." + +"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she +is. She is not for the like of you, Gavin--a bit country dressmaker, +poor, and past liking." + +Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following +letter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. If +you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look +at. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days." +That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chance +for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to be +trusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself." + +Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it as +clearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking it +over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her +mother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without even +justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And with +this picture she wrote--"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five years +since, and there has been changes since." + +She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were +unfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, +and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor; +he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not +envy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better looking, and far more +stylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley. + +Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated her +failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at _his_ +failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an +uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed +at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want of +response. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should +she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? The +idea took possession of her, and she carried it out. + +She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and the +morning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair of +gloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and moving +her position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summer +blankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling a +funny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked their +separate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, by +varying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for one +moment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in every +way. He was no longer handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him, +and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulous +authoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at every +point. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothing +careless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his whole +appearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more mean +and plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jean +was taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face, +spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answered +her in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusion +was complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she had +looked at him at all. + +But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, under +her new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintance +in reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a great +fortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrig +that is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented the +castle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looks +of her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye make +fine birds!" + +Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been with +the firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell them +he had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday to +attend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personal +influence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers," he said to Mary. + +"There is Annie Riley," answered Mary. + +"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marry +Jean, and settle myself in Scotland." + +"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. You +have promised to marry her." + +"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, I +would like to know?" + +"I think you will find out." + +In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and he +hastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended no +secret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmen +with admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. There +was a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who did +not remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fear +he had come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast, +he strolled out to make his own investigations. + +There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on a +neighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there a +finely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly for +him to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "It +will be her lawyer or architect," he thought; and he walked rapidly +onward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walking +suit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell into +conversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he was +watching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spaces +of the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happiness +that it angered him. + +"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have business +here." + +"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that is +the professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University." + +"They are married, then?" + +"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married a +month syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking. +I'll drink their health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller." + +Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. His +business in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him; +he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. He +had lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no words +to express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the first +weight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean's +beauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And all +for Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marry +her, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner. + +For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him a +touching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased to +love her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin did +tell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, and +that he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said something +about his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentiment +that he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness. + +Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and +Gavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with +damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love +letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in +the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, +his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But +pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she +really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough +in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, +and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted +to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell +his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He +wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, +and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called +unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go +to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit. + +"I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning +the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I +will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she +has got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marry +Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet +beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!" + +No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he +knew right well their private opinion was that he had received _just +what he deserved_. + + + + +AN ONLY OFFER. + + +"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?" + +"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, +Julia. I am forty-three now, remember." + +"Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?" + +"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer." + +"And you refused it?" + +"No." + +"Then he died, or went away?" + +"No." + +"Or deserted you?" + +"No." + +"Then you deceived him, I suppose?" + +"I did not." + +"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something +dreadful" + +"He was rich and handsome." + +"Suppose you tell me about him." + +"I never talk about him to any one." + +"Did it happen at the old place?" + +"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened +when I was sixteen." + +"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?" + +"He was a fine city gentleman." + +"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about +it; you cannot see to work longer." + +Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and +confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her +hands, and smiling sadly, said: + +"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at +Ryelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two +elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched +them a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into the +house, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped +and spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at the +gate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is +Mr. Wakefield in?' + +"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him,' which I +immediately did. + +"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way with +him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like +talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the +house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight; +then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.' + +"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?' + +"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is in +bad health.' + +"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?' + +"'I know it is young Alfred Compton--that is enough for me.' + +"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father.' + +"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician--a +Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no +more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn. + +"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on +the subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. +'But,' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married +at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.' + +"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several +large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and I +saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, very +fair-man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I saw +also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no +doctor would wait upon him so subserviently. + +"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine +that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed +to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton was +too ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; and +again, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though he +pleaded urgently for them. + +"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed to +be important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, and +requested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. I +suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, +so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a +sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked through +that part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had been +politely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangers +increased Mr. Compton's nervous condition.' I did not believe this, and +I determined to try the experiment. + +"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I +smiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and came +toward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; he +stooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that +it seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walked +up and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's +wagon. + +"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was +concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, that +she not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted it +in many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize its +value. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good +morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally to +accompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood. + +"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We were +soon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way to +make himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knew +of, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid for +me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found him +irresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must have +been thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomer +than any younger man could have done. + +"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in +us, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had much +fewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a little +way up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how I +received the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman was +keeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined to +take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one +evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to +see his relatives. + +"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by +the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared +that they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the only +friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the +secret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him into +paroxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or at +least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in +the rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to a +pitch which father seriously disliked. + +"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; only +the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon a +boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very +much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'Miss +Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr. +Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amuse +him?' + +"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the +messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we +rambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the day +was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I +proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally +a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us. + +"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that +Alfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wild +look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my +efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked +me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'his +wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, and +vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of +going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had +wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. + +"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were +going to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away, +and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But he +became suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with the +greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter. + +"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to lose +all control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearly +sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In +the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of our +workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our +sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it. + +"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are +you, sir? Come here instantly.' + +"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have no +right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and +I shall not permit it any more.' + +"'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!' + +"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzed +with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically +as a dog might follow his master's call. + +"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. Alfred +Compton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am +his--_keeper_.'" + +"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!" + +"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it; +but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and +that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he +became uncontrollable in an asylum." + +"Did you see him again?" + +"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad; +that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come some +day and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa, +whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me very +unkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he +was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and went +west with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little old +maid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep +his fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when he +died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my own +lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear." + +"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?" + +"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose +Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought +it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health." + +"Poor aunt!" + +"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will +believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps +more sincere than many wiser men." + +After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in +speaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the young +maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred +Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more +positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subject +never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her +own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams. + +One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old +subject until both felt it to be exhausted--at least for that night. +Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is +snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, there +is a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he is +coming here." + +"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to +call to-night." + +"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person." + +Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she had +talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a +very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant +announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her +reflections, and went into the reception-room. + +In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere +she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the +room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred +Compton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with +enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the +beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly this one was not handsome. He +was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine +figure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he +was still dressed with scrupulous care. + +The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished +a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine +with an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe +Wakefield, best and loveliest of women." + +Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two +old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long +wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, +driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of +Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly. + +"Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me in +his care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe my +restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and +ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my +ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise." + +Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they +never tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by any +contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never +weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and +womanly than in the days of their first courtship. + +She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use any +other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe--or rather Mrs. +Compton--resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would +imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but those +who have known him as long as I have," she continually avers, "can +possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my +husband." + + + + +TWO FAIR DECEIVERS. + + +What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking +on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it +is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that +either makes money or spends it. + +Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he +has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has +spent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both +stories conclude in the same way. + +"I have not a thousand dollars left, John." + +"Nor I, Cleve." + +"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all +the old gentleman's money already?" + +"I only got $20,000; I owed half of it." + +"Only $20,000! What did he do with it?" + +"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went +away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I +had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000. +That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin." + +"And the widow--where is she?" + +"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the +St. Maurs, of Maryland." + +"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?" + +"Why, I never thought of such a thing." + +"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once; +say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude +to your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call and +pay respects," etc., etc. + +John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the +note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office. + +That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it +with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, +high-bred little lady, with + + "Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, + Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, + Lips like fragrant posy," + +and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the +happiness of others. + +But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She +was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as +his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had +seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid +plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little +widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and +smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter. + +"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want +to consult you, dear, about a visitor." + +Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is +it, Fan?" + +"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have +inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if +it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow." + +"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the +Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place." + +"No; I have a better plan than that--Clementine, do stop reading a few +minutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and +Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in the +place, and I will take none of the servants with me." + +"Well?" + +"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor +friend and companion." + +"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'--an excellent comedy. How I shall +snub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing +you. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?" + +"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I came +back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until +now. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?" + +"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything until +their particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the letter +together. What is the gentleman's name?" + +The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.' Do you +know him, Clementine?" + +"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall +in love with the name--do you? But pray accept the offer for both +gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear." Then Clementine returned +to the consideration of the lace in _coquilles_ for her new evening +dress. + +The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed and +carried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, and one evening at the +end of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clare +had engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charming +ease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, in +her plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively the +idea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in which +to rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order, +and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank. + +Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter in +a rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress of +spotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummate +ease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party. +John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informal +companionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a few +days John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin +John, do this," and "Cousin John, come here," continually; and one night +when Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritable +enough to give his objections the form of speech. + +"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare." + +"I think she is a very lovely woman, John." + +"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I have +no mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills. +The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every way +inferior makes me angry enough, I assure you." + +"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John." + +"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in us +deceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow--why not +marry her? I am quite willing you should." + +"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They have +been favorably received, I think." + +"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shall +hardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clement +and myself." + +"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what on +earth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothing +will not make a decent living." + +"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor to +say 'Yes,' I will make a decent living out of my profession." + +From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to his +supposed cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widow +perceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be bought +with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and the +widow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhaps +she was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Cleve +made a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quite +naturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had first +fixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months. + +It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with their +lovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to be +quite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present, +or the _denouement_ would come prematurely. Circumstances favored her +determination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into her +friend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve has +asked me to marry him." + +"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have." + +"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare." + +"Did you accept him?" + +"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the city +in October. You are going to New York this winter, are you not?" + +"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be his +wife to-night." + +"I told you men think and act in pairs." + +"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin had +ill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself; +absolutely said, Clement, that _you_ were a sufficient excuse for Mr. +Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promised +if I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of your +outrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made a +home for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry John +Selden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us." + +"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs. +However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shall +we do?" + +"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready for +me by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors." + +So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant letters +and future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough; +but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes of +invitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in ---- +street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wished +to make his entrance into his future home as became the prospective +master of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of not +suffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemen +who would probably be there. + +Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, the +true widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hitherto +worn, but magnificent in white crepe lisse and satin, her arms and +throat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Her +companion had assumed now the role of simplicity, and Cleve was +disappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambery gauze +dress. + +John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and the +love-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both her +hands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement." + +Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but +we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before +real life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. +_Cousin John_, I hope you are not disappointed." Then she put her hand +into John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their +explanation. + +Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying +circumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking down +at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the +tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a man +of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did +not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to +do. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could +marry; she had deceived him, too--he had a sudden and severe spasm of +morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport +to play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeply +disappointed and grieved, etc., etc. + +Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and +her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations. +She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes +embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room +and talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so. + +"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of +blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I promised you my final +answer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me that +trouble. Good evening, sir." + +Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon +recovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and +hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. +She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and +John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the +list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John and +his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had +gone in their company. + +"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden's +wife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Some +fellows are always unlucky in love affairs--I always am." + +Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of +unnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to +starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him. + +"Oh, it's that fool Belmar," he muttered; "I shall have to offer him a +ride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back? +Have a ride?" + +"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her this +afternoon." + +"Your wife! When were you married?" + +"Last month, in Paris." + +"And the happy lady was--" + +"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune. +Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child." + +"What?" + +"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3,000,000 in money and +real estate, and a heart beyond all price." + +"How on earth did you meet her?" + +"She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Selden--you know John Selden. She +has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friends +when they were girls together." + +Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a +finable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trust +himself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he made +to himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve +Sullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, and +that he well deserved it. + + + + +THE TWO MR. SMITHS. + + +"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; it +is my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. William +Smith! If it had been Alexander Smith--" + +"Or Hyacinth Smith." + +"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!" + +"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the lady +for the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties! +They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar into +the fire and began to buckle on his spurs. + +"Come with me, Carrol." + +"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better than +myself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so." + +"_I_ don't like Alice's style at all." + +"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settled +income, is skin-deep." + +If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took the +criticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income is +satisfactory; and besides that, she has all kinds of good qualities, +and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, a +suitable name for them!" + +"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her name +also?" + +"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in his +wife's, Carrol." + +"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride." + +So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupation +gave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man, +and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a very +great man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished and +fastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the air +of being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves. + +Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and +he was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of going +to them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To see +her in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great and +beautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charming +aimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofs +of her having been born in the purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenu +could ever hope to imitate them. + +Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of polite +shifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; and +the circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of her +position were to the other a real holiday-making. + +Alice met Mr. Smith with _empressement_, fluttered about the tea-tray +like a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and was +as full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose. + +"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been +trying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Now +you can be my substitute." + +"Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women ought +to have the same rights as men?" + +"Really, Miss Alice, I--I don't know. When women have got what they call +their 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges' +also?" + +"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrub +floors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect the +corner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pick +of everything." + +"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of the +country is in their hands, will they still expect to find time for +five-o'clock teas?" + +"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country, +and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or their +drawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leave +the other undone." + +"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been trying +to do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out of +one day." + +"Of course they will." + +"But how?" + +"Oh, machines and management. It will be done." + +"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice." + +"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with all +their boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementary +proposition, 'It will be, because it will be.'" + +Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to the +conversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossible +it was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed, +before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their +_tete-a-tete_ tea, two or three ladies joined the party, and the hour +was up, and the opportunity lost. + +However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested a +moment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and her +eyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as he +had determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined to +let himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her, +for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must be +confessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case in +which he was personally interested. + +Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return from +a very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began to +consider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr. +Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his +passionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and his +despairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person and +manners had made a great impression on her; she had been very near +loving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch of +electricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved. + +Such proposals seldom or never take women unawares. Eleanor had been +expecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short, +happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lines +which she believed would make him supremely happy. + +Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh, +you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alice +dear; I have a secret to tell you. I am--going--to--marry--Mr.--Smith." + +"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. +Poor Eleanor!" + +"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him--honestly, you +know?" + +"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste in +cravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in any +position out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, +always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the back +or arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith is +handsome; very much so." + +"Oh, you do admit that?" + +"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty." + +"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?" + +"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he is very 'nice,' and very +respectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare say +you will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do, +Eleanor; and--oh dear me!--how I should hate a husband of that kind!" + +"You little hypocrite!--with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman's +supremacy.'" + +"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say +_many-sidedness_--it is a more womanly definition. But if it is really +to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?" + +This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a couple +of hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; and +before matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full of +anticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author of +them, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom. + +"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be a +handsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clothes +will all come from Paris, I dare say." + +"I think we will go to Paris first." Then Eleanor went into a graphic +description of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she had +experienced them during her first bridal tour. "It is the most +fascinating city in the world, Alice." + +"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such an +out-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has to +sail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shall +have to go." + +"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you." + +"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall have +to try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the way +across, of course, but then--" + +"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?" + +"I intend to--for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with the +same set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation would +become!" + +"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down to +breakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call at +five o'clock to-morrow--or rather to-day--and we shall have a +_tete-a-tete_ tea." + +Alice determined that it should be strictly _tete-a-tete._ She went to +spend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thought +the lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange their +wedding. + +There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside the +door, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She was +trying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's new +husband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong. + +"I shall be dreadfully in the way--_his way_, I mean--and he will want +to send me out of the room, and I shall not go--no, not if I fall asleep +on a chair looking at him." + +With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered the +parlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her face +Alice could not understand. + +"Shut the door, dear." + +"Alone?" + +"I have been so all evening." + +"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?" + +"Mr. Smith did not call." + +"Not come!" + +"Nor yet sent any apology." + +The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, both +white and silent. + +"What will you do, Eleanor?" + +"Nothing." + +"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queer +mistakes do happen." + +"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room; +it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubt +but that he received it." + +"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he is +hardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. I +have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed.' Mr. +Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview." + +Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" but +through this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the white +feather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. +Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners toward +him, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when she +had--however innocently--given him the keenest personal slight? + +Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and what +is heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she had +quite decided that her lover would call the following day, and her +thoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for any +anxiety he might have suffered. + +But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many following +ones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last hope that he +would ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said, +"You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Sam +says he is to be away two years." + +"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness. + +"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has been +talking about the trip for six months." + +"Really!--Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery for +Mrs. Hollis to look at?" + +So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused a +diversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were not +named again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is the +use of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor to +Alice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention of +the subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes do +not necessarily possess the finest tempers. + +Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest. +Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend's +singular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He +supposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smith +not to take a pretty, rich woman like her into his calculations. For +his part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt that +he had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl; +they had less nonsense about them," etc. + +That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of course +she suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who parade +their suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all, +endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hysterical +sobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress common +to weak women. + +Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but Eleanor +Bethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest social +impropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the proper +mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, anise +and cummin due to her position. + +Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect--it compelled Alice +to talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, in +discussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all, +it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. And +there is something very assuaging to grief in this occupation. Before +it was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshiny +temper. + +"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to +herself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery. + +At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, and +nowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol's +influence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor--quite a +novel one," she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal trip +in Carrol's yacht!" + +"Whose idea is that?" + +"Carrol's and _mine too_, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliest +life. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issue +your own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easy +conscience" + +"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?" + +"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance of +ticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesome +letters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in +the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid." + +So the marriage took place at the end of the season, and Alice and +Carrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss what +to do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gone +there, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw them +together. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe was +out of the question. + +While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid--a beautiful +girl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I am +going to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. "Papa has +heard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have a +special car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty." + +"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I was +dreading the old routine in the old places; but this will be +delightful." + +Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethune +found herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. It +was a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose like +Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look of +intense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder and +annoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable +thing; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she never +thought of shirking it. + +So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and even +quickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself. +The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. At +first she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it in +such words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmly +settled on the following form: + +"_Messrs. Locke & Lord_: + +"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is of +the greatest importance." + +When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam." +But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, and +she could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The man +stood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay about +the message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertainty +ruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and return +to her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched the +whole proceeding, said: + +"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that you +have lost your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can return +the money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the +'American.'" + +"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother. +I gratefully accept your offer." + +Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalist +who was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; so +that the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterward +inaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. It +was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which, +even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of money +for the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the door +of the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedy +arrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars. + +This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's last +lover--a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome and +gentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor's +prejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery, +pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the very +first day of their acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but one +thought--the winning of Eleanor Bethune. + +When she returned to New York in the autumn she ventured to cast up her +accounts with life, and she was rather amazed at the result. For she was +quite aware that she was in love with this William Smith in a way that +she had never been with the other. The first had been a sentimental +ideal; the second was a genuine case of sincere and passionate +affection. She felt that the desertion of this lover would be a grief +far beyond the power of satin and lace to cure. + +But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and his +love transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed to +find its native air. It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenly +atmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed to +her that no change could make her happier. + +But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thought +marriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking. Eleanor and he +were sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when he +whispered this opinion to her. + +"It is only four months since we met, dear." + +"Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you four +months before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you. On +the 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado to +look after the Silver Cliff Mine. My carriage was ordered, and I was +waiting at my hotel for it. A servant brought me a letter--the dearest, +sweetest little letter--see, here it is!" and this William Smith +absolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the first +William Smith's offer. + +Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled. + +"What did you think, dear?" + +"That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me. It +was directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands. I was +not going to seek up any other W. Smith." + +"But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and you +did not know 'Eleanor Bethune.'" + +"Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it _was intended_ for me. I can +imagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching you +send the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. +Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible. I was +coming back to New York to look for you." + +"And, instead, she went to you in Colorado." + +"Only think of that! Why, love, when that blessed telegraph clerk said, +'Who sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. Eleanor Bethune,' I wanted +to fling my hat to the sky. I did not lose my head as badly when they +found that new lead in the Silver Cliff." + +"Won't you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William? It was +written to the wrong Smith." + +"It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith. +Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do what +you like with the letter." + +Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning letter +made a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss. + + + + +THE STORY OF MARY NEIL. + + +Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saints +and martyrs. There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, and +desolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty--where +with toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are being +prepared for the heavenly temple. + +This is the light that relieves the deep shadow of that awful cloud of +poverty which ever hangs over this rich and prosperous city. I have been +within that cloud, wet with its rain of tears, chilled with its gloomy +darkness, "made free" of its innermost recesses; therefore I speak with +authority when I say that even here a little child may walk and not +stumble, if Jesus lead the way or hold the hand. + +Nay, but children walk where strong men fall down, and young maidens +enter the kingdom while yet their parents are stumbling where no light +from the Golden City and "the Land very far off" reaches them. Last +winter I became very much interested in such a case. I was going to +write "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have been the strangest misnomer. +Happy Mary Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to contradict my pen. + +And yet when I first became acquainted with her condition, she was +"poor" in every bitter sense of the word. + +A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child of misery baptized with tears," +what had her seventeen years been but sad and evil ones? Cold and +hunger, cares and labors far beyond her strength sowed the seeds of +early death. For two years she struggled amid such suffering as dying +lungs entail to help her mother and younger brothers and sisters, but at +last she was compelled to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering which +she could no longer assuage by her helpful hands and gentle words. + +Her religious education had not been quite neglected, and she dimly +comprehended that through the narrow valley which lay between Time and +Eternity she would need a surer and more infallible guide than her own +sadly precocious intellect. Then God sent her just the help she +needed--a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman full of the love of Jesus. + +Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of the Border Land, and very soon +Mary had learned how to walk without fearing any evil. Certain passages +of Scripture burned with a supernatural glory, and made the darkness +light; and there were also a few hymns which struck the finest chords +in her heart, and + + "'Mid days of keenest anguish + And nights devoid of ease, + Filled all her soul with music + Of wondrous melodies." + +As she neared the deeper darkness of death, this was especially +remarkable of that extraordinary hymn called "The Light of Death," by +Dr. Faber. From the first it had fascinated her. "Has he been _here_ +that he knows just how it feels?" she asked, wonderingly, and then +solemnly repeated: + + "Saviour, what means this breadth of death, + This space before me lying; + These deeps where life so lingereth, + This difficulty of dying? + So many turns abrupt and rude, + Such ever-shifting grounds, + Such strangely peopled solitudes, + Such strangely silent sounds?'" + +Her sufferings were very great, and sometimes the physical depression +exerted a definable influence on her spiritual state. Still she never +lost her consciousness of the presence of her Guide and Saviour, and +once, in the exhaustion of a severe paroxysm, she murmured two lines +from the same grand hymn: + + "Deeper! dark, dark, but yet I follow: + Tighten, dear Lord, thy clasp." + +Ah! there was something touching and noble beyond all words, in this +complete reliance and perfect trust; and it never again wavered. + +"Is it _very_ dark, Mary dear?" her friend said one morning, the _last_ +for her on earth. + +"Too dark to see," she whispered, "but I can go on if Christ will hold +my hand." + +After this a great solemnity shaded her face; she lost all consciousness +of this world. The frail, shadowy little body lay gray and passive, +while that greatest of all struggles was going on--the struggle of the +Eternal out of Time; but her lips moved incessantly, and occasionally +some speech of earth told the anxious watchers how hard the conflict +was. For instance, toward sundown she said in a voice strangely solemn +and anxious: + + "Who are we trying to avoid? + From whom, Lord, must we hide? + Oh! can the dying be decoyed, + With the Saviour by his side?" + +"Loose sands and all things sinking!" "Are we near eternity?" "Can I +fall from Thee even now?" and ejaculations of similar kind, showed that +the spiritual struggle was a very palpable one to her; but it ended in a +great calm. For two hours she lay in a peace that passeth understanding, +and you would have said that she was dead but for a vague look of +expectancy in the happy, restful face. Then suddenly there was a +lightening of the whole countenance; she stretched out her arms to meet +the messenger of the King, and entered heaven with this prayer on her +lips: + + "_Both hands_, dear Lord, _both hands_.'" + +Don't doubt but she got them; their mighty strength lifted her over the +dark river almost dry shod. + + "Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon + Lie in her tent--for on the golden street + She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn + With her unsandalled feet." + + + + +THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE. + + +Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace a strange bustle and +excitement had come--the master was returning with a young bride, whom +report spoke of as "bewitchingly beautiful." It was easy to believe +report in this case, for there must have been some strong inducement to +make Frederick Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman barely twenty. +It was not money; Mr. Kurston had plenty of money, and he was neither +ambitious nor avaricious; besides, the woman he had chosen was both poor +and extravagant. + +For once report was correct. Clementina Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, +had been a great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in silks and diamonds, +was a woman dedicated, by Nature for conquest. + +It was Clementina's beauty that had prevailed over the love-hardened +heart of the gay old gallant, who had escaped the dangers of forty +seasons of flirtation. He was entangled in the meshes of her golden +hair, fascinated by the spell of her love-languid eyes, her mouth like a +sad, heavy rose, her faultless form and her superb manners. He was blind +to all her faults; deaf to all his friends--in the glamour of her +enchantments he submitted to her implicitly, even while both his reason +and his sense of other obligations pleaded for recognition. + +Clementina had not won him very easily; the summer was quite over, +nearly all the visitors at the stylish little watering-place had +departed, the mornings and evenings were chilly, every day Mr. Kurston +spoke of his departure, and she herself was watching her maid pack her +trunks, and in no very amiable temper contemplating defeat, when the +reward of her seductive attentions came. + +"Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an interview." + +She gladly accorded it; she robed herself with subtle skill; she made +herself marvelous. + +"Mother," she said, as she left her dressing-room, "you will have a +headache. I shall excuse you. I can manage this business best alone." + +In an hour she came back triumphant. She put her feet on the fender, and +sat down before the cheerful blaze to "talk it over." + +"It is all right, mother. Good-by to our miserable shifts and +shabby-genteel lodgings and turned dresses. He will settle Kurston Chace +and all he has upon me, and we are to be married next month." + +"Impossible, Tina! No _modiste_ in the world could get the things that +are absolutely necessary ready in that time." + +"Everything is possible in New York--if you have money--and Uncle Gray +will be ready enough to buy my marriage clothes. Besides, I am going to +run no risks. If he should die, nothing on earth could console me for +the trouble I have had with him, but the fact of being his widow. There +is no sentiment in the affair, and the sooner one gets to ordering +dinners and running up bills, the better." + +"Poor Philip Lee!" + +"Mother, why did you mention him? Of course he will be angry, and call +me all kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a particle of common +sense he must see that it was impossible for me to marry a poor +lawyer--especially when I had such a much better offer. I suppose he +will be here to-night. You must see him, mother, and explain things as +pleasantly as possible. It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. +Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the ravings and protestations +he is sure to indulge in." + +In this supposition Clementina was mistaken. Philip Lee took the news of +her engagement to his wealthy rival with blank calmness and a civil wish +for her happiness. He made a stay of conventional propriety, and said +all the usual polite platitudes, and then went away without any evidence +of the deep suffering and mortification he felt. + +This was Clementina's first drop of bitterness in her cup of success. +She questioned her mother closely as to how he looked, and what he said. +It did not please her that, instead of bemoaning his own loss, he should +be feeling a contempt for her duplicity--that he should use her to cure +his passion, when she meant to wound him still deeper. She felt at +moments as if she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth and position +she had so hardly won, only she knew him well enough to understand that +henceforward she could not easily deceive him again. + +It was pleasant to return to New York this fall; the news of the +engagement opened everyone's heart and home. Congratulations came from +every quarter; even Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done so well for +herself, and signified his approval by a handsome check. + +The course of this love ran smooth enough, and one fine morning in +October, Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. Henceforward Clementina +Kurston was a woman to be courted instead of patronized, and many a +woman who had spoken lightly of her beauty and qualities, was made to +acknowledge with an envious pang that she had distanced them. + +This was her first reward, and she did not stint herself in extorting +it. To tell the truth, Clementina had many a bitter score of this kind +to pay off; for, as she said in extenuation, it was impossible for her +to allow herself to be in debt to her self-respect. + +Well, the wedding was over. She had abundantly gratified her taste for +splendor; she had smiled on those on whom she willed to smile; she had +treated herself extravagantly to the dangerous pleasure of social +revenge; she was now anxious to go and take possession of her home, +which had the reputation of being one of the oldest and handsomest in +the country. + +Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxicated with love, and not a little +flattered by the brilliant position which his wife had at once claimed. +Now that she was his wife, it amused him to see her order and patronize +and dispense with all that royal prerogative which belongs to beauty, +supported by wealth and position. + +Into his great happiness he had suffered no doubt, no fear of the +future, to come; but, as the day approached for their departure for +Kurston Chace, he grew singularly restless and uneasy. + +For, much as he loved and obeyed the woman whom he called "wife," there +was another woman at Kurston whom he called "daughter," that he loved +quite as dearly, in a different way. In fact, of his daughter, Athel +Kurston, he stood just a little bit in fear, and she had ruled the +household at the Chace for many years as absolute mistress. + +No one knew anything of her mother; he had brought her to her present +home when only five years old, after a long stay on the Continent. A +strange woman, wearing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came with the +child as nurse; but she had never learnt to speak English, and had now +been many years dead. + +Athel knew nothing of her mother, and her early attempts to question her +father concerning her had been so peremptorily rebuffed that she had +long ago ceased to indulge in any curiosity regarding her. +However--though she knew it not--no one regarded her as Mr. Kurston's +heir; indeed, nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned such a +conclusion. True, he loved her dearly, and had spared no pains in her +education; but he never took her with him into the world, and, except in +the neighborhood of the Chace, her very existence was not known of. + +She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, not +likely to obey. He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; he +had said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both facts +could no longer be concealed. + +But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and he +was rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairs +between them without troubling himself to enter into explanations with +either of them. So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assuming +that she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised her +a pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possible +arrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house. + +To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The elegantly dressed young lady who +met her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her a +genuine surprise. Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the idea +of a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed +her. But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground; +she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from the +vantage-ground of her retirement sent Felicite to take observations. + +The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, and +Mrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the drawing-room fully +prepared to defend her rights. + +"Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when we +arrived?" + +This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing manner +she had always found omnipotent. + +"That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina." + +This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on the +defensive generally assume. + +"Miss Kurston? Your sister, Frederick?" + +"No; my daughter, Clementina." + +"But you were never married before?" + +"So people say." + +"Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a person +of--" + +"I see no reason why you should not--that is, if you live in the same +house with me." + +A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and the +infatuated husband was willing to promise anything--everything--that his +charmer demanded--that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston's influence +was really stronger than her step-mother's, and the promises extorted +from his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his nobler +feelings. + +A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief sufferer +here was Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere and +profound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake. + +One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, to +procure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, +assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum; +but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, as +she had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing a +degree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her. + +This letter completely broke the power of Clementina over her husband. +He asserted at once his authority, and insisted on returning immediately +to New York, where he thought it likely Athel had gone, and where, at +any rate, he could find suitable persons to aid him in his search for +her--a search which was henceforth the chief object of his life. + +A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. Kurston at once assumed the +position of a leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to her +satisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in the exclusive circle in which +she moved, and she speedily began the pretty, penitent, dejected role +which she judged would be most effective with him. But, though she would +not see it, Philip Lee was proof against all her blandishments. He was +not the man to be deluded twice by the same false woman; he was a man of +honor, and detested the social ethics which scoffed at humanity's +holiest tie; and he was deeply in love with a woman who was the very +antipodes of the married siren. + +Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston mansion, and became a great +favorite, and finally the friend and confidant of its master. Gradually, +as month after month passed, the business of the Kurston estate came +into his hands, and he could have told, to the fraction of a dollar, the +exact sum for which Clementina Gray sold herself. + +Two years passed away. There was no longer on Clementina's part, any +pretence of affection for her husband; she went her own way, and devoted +herself to her own interests and amusements. He wearied with a hopeless +search and anxiety that found no relief, aged very rapidly, and became +subject to serious attacks of illness, any one of which might deprive +him of life. + +His wife now regretted that she had married so hastily; the settlements +promised had been delayed; she had trusted to her influence to obtain +more as his wife than as his betrothed. She had not known of a +counter-influence, and she had not calculated that the effort of a +life-long deception might be too much for her. Quarrels had arisen in +the very beginning of their life at Kurston, the disappearance of Athel +had never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston became violently angry if +the settlement and disposing of his property was named. + +One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel's +disappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurston +to sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. He +signed the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lock +the door and sit down. + +"I am going," he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I +do not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled that +makes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter--the lawful +heiress of the Kurston lands--whom my wife drove, by subtle and +persistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able to +discover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put in +possession of her rights." + +"But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?" + +"They are all in this box--everything that is necessary. Take it with +you to your office to-night. Her mother--ah, me, how I loved her--was a +Polish lady of good family; but I have neither time nor inclination now +to explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities which +induced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much for +what society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or my +conscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and the +living!" + +Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sank +gradually during the following week, and died--his last word, +"Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dying +injunction, to Philip Lee. + +A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor of +a sentimental woman to her first and--as she chose to consider it--her +only true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, +dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management of +the Kurston property. + +Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possible +nor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. The +world began to freely connect their names, and it was with much +difficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of his +indifference to the rich and beautiful widow. + +He found himself, indeed, becoming gradually entangled in a net of +circumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of. + +The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like a +lawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed his +engagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils the +artful widow was encompassing him with--he must marry some one else. + +But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him; +yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He had +half a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to begin +with. + +So he put on his hat and went to his sister's house. He knew she was out +driving--had seen her pass five minutes before on her way to the park. +Then what did he go there for? Because he judged from experience, that +at this hour lovely Pauline Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, +was at home and alone. + +He was not wrong; she came into the parlor by one door as he entered it +by the other. The coincidence was auspicious, and he warmly pressed his +suit, pouring into Pauline's ears such a confused account of his +feelings and his affairs as only love could disentangle and understand. + +"But, Philip," said Pauline, "do you mean to say that this Mrs. Kurston +makes love to you? Is she not a married woman, and her husband your best +friend and patron?" + +"Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead!" + +"Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my father! my father!" And the poor girl +threw herself, with passionate sobbings, among the cushions of the sofa. + +This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondly +loved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress of +Kurston Chace! + +Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully her +father had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowing +of, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he had +done her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supreme +circle of the Kurstons. + +She had hidden her identity in her mother's maiden name--the only thing +she knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flight +from her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reason +to suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, by +cruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of her +father to protect her. + +It now became Philip's duty to acquaint the second Mrs. Kurston with +her true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate Athel +Kurston in her rights. + +Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions--even his friends +believed him to have been cognizant all the time of the identity of +Pauline Alexes with Athel Kurston--and he was complimented on his +cleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of the +widow, for an incumbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these things +scarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel. + +As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gave +up the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was glad +to get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow and +disappointment," etc. + +But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth's +greatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling in +unrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she had +rejected for his poverty. + +She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of his +country. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to the +woman she hated as their "mother," and knew that they filled with light +and love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificed +her affection and her womanhood. + + + + +"ONLY THIS ONCE." + + +Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night +was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, +thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, +and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills. + +David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him +"temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard +wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him +love her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God. + +The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's +voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and +were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took +their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for +an old man in the late gloaming. + +Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark +furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a +stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out, +"Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye." + +The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage +near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a +day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and +was hungry and worn out. + +David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner +and assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition +among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David +acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten +cake and his embers. + +It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the +hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he +stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they +came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies +David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they +weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say. + +The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben," +with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great +men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean and +cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a +little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten +cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man +reading. + +"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn." + +The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott +rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire. +The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently +in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then +the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions. + +"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught +o' a gentleman." + +David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied: + +"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty +to judge him." + +When Archie spoke again it was of other matters. + +"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the +sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like. +There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't +find it out." + +"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's +worth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say." + +It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's +steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; +but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even +the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest +condition. + +When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David +was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the +morning than he had done at night. + +"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly. + +Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but +strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he +had never tasted porridge before. + +"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent +oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple's +omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased +the old man. + +The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a +fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling +mists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw +something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He +looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said: + +"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?" + +"Sir!" + +There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, +shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed +this movement with great interest. + +"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this +way. Do you know who they are?" + +"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be +policemen--I dinna ken them mysel'." + +"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell +you the whole truth." + +"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me; +yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are." + +There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and +he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by +overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems. + +The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited +until his companion had regained his breath, said: + +"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as +may be; I dinna like fine speeches." + +"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea +dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a +hard man, so I run away." + +"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed +to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the +beginning." + +The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated +ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his +employer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, +and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, +hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passing +ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor +mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed. + +"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's +a awfu' drawback." + +"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I've +been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted +to-day." + +"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart, +when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what I +will do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it's +nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, and +get him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, a +decent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade--bookkeeping. +Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'll +gie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make a +big hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up. + +"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen, +forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. I +dinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, +if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you, +there 'ud be meikle use in it," for Alexander Semple had heard the +proposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to the +good man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer in +order to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" to +denude himself of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on the +sternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully in +David's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave up +the L9 14s. 2d. in his possession. + +"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he said; "the bargain is fair enough +for you." + +"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna hae +keepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends." + +The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The L9 +odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangement +proposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; he +acknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of his +appearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principles +and was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness, +and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriage +of Mr. Semple's trunks cost him. + +Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hill +cottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherd +and his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, though +ignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home, +soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive from him. And once +Archie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was never +weary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a few +weeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister's +affairs. + +Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle of +summer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel was +complicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summer +gloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he +had loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate to +school for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell; +he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidently +without avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katie +looked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolent +manner. + +That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger as +the lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went to +Greenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been in +Greenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that the +couple had married and were to sail for America. They then discovered +that Archie's desk had been opened and L46 in notes and gold taken. +Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archie +was angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seem +averse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that if +he made known his loss, _he also_ must confess that he had knowingly +harbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity of +wronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would give +him credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course of +conduct. + +Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simple +people a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savings +of a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient to +replace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple. +On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrison +and Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailed +for America the next day. After this certainty father and son never +named the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening, +some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave. + +"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did ten +years ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous lives--never! +Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. +If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did." + +"I will, father." + +During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles. +Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, and +said there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently, +and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and +their baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was that +Alexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsome +presents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally, +and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her head +proudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage." + +But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long they +must be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and the +fair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom and +mystery. + +Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father's +death married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit of +siller." Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined his +wife's brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly but +surely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and a +douce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters. + +One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passing +through the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire! +Fire!" arose on every side of him. + +"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy, +narrow wynds around. + +"In Gordon's Wynd." + +He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make his +way up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house was +one of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it was +almost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that not +unfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made a +bridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice. + +By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house were +removed, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women and +children across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountain +training had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him. +Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to go +home, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor, +showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, and +screaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only too +well. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had said +in dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floor +of the opposite house again. + +In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death and +safety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage. +Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, and +carried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized his +preserver. + +"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! The +last of seven!" + +"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie and +your child!" + +Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of the +burning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smoke +had smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardly +time to save his own life. + +"They are dead, Semple!" + +Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of grief, moaned and +cried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserable +creature on earth. + +After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint of +selfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there was +not much now left to work upon--health, honor, self-respect were all +gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and then +make boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of his +wonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, and +everything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune. + +Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for every +decent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spoke +ill of him behind his back. + +However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last very +long. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was called +upon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance toward +him; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of the +grave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged all +its shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had been +extended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wasted +opportunities. + +"Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he said, "and tell your four brave +boys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for +_only this once_. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that +_comes with sin_ will _go with sorrow_. And never to doubt that to every +_evil doer_ will certainly come his _evil day_." + + + + +PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY. + + +I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom I +have no conventional authority to like--people out of "my set," and not +always of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always been +fortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendid +exceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that all +of us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friends +that circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate, +the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractive +to me. + +In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. I +believe I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, at +any rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gone +through the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, and +that within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other at +twenty different points. + +Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proud +satisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. He +looked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing his +ears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did; +human beings don't know everything. + +People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder that +our acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and that +one of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was to +Petralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but not +me. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find out +that the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in the +streets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the best +hotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the other +necessaries of a pleasant existence. + +He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we went +together. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had told +myself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill procession +again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half an +hour's ride, Jack," I felt like going, and I went. + +Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing +happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes +flashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if +he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew +suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was +approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had +no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly +beautiful. + +I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there +was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon +complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still +passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident +suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of +meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, +lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they +entered a stately house together, "Are they married?" + +"Yes." + +"He seems devotedly in love with her." + +"He loved her two years before he saw her." + +"Impossible." + +"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story." + +"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together." + +"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock." + +Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious +in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests +under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of +everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging +chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a +bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, +and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana. + +I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was +Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that +easel so that you can see the picture on it." + +I did so. + +"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the +locality--describe it." + +"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long +streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short +grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful +colors." + +"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what +else do you see?" + +"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl +standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored +flowers." + +"Describe the girl to me." + +I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and +waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has--Petralto, what makes you +ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe _light_; and +the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have +thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her." + +"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood. +When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full of +yellow jasmine. I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my whole +life, and every joy and hope it contained." + +"What were you doing in Texas?" + +"What are you doing in New York? I was born in Texas. My family, an old +Spanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build San +Antonio in 1730. I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do--half my time +in the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side of +nature. I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been an +artist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in my +twentieth year I went to Rome to study. + +"I can pass the next five years. I do not pretend to regret them, +though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity. I +enjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in the +matter. I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind. I +loved nature and I loved art. I warmed both hands at the glowing fire of +life. Time may do his worst. I have been happy, and I can throw those +five careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour. + +"But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got a +letter urging my immediate return home. My father had got himself +involved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health. My younger +brother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranch +needed authoritative overlooking. I was never so fond of art as to be +indifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurrying +West. + +"Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me! The +noble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church; +somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, +company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexican +peons, was sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished, to find how easily +I went back to my old life, and spent whole days in the saddle +investigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch. + +"I had been riding one day for ten hours, and was so fatigued that I +determined to spend the night with one of my herdsmen. He had a little +shelter under some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, and after a cup of +coffee and a meal of dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down the +river bank. Then the cool, dusky shadows of the wood tempted me. I +entered it. It was an enchanted wood, for there stood Jessy Lorimer, +just as I had painted her. + +"I did not move nor speak. I watched her, spell-bound. I had not even +the power, when she had mounted her pony and was coming toward me, to +assume another attitude. She saw that I had been watching her, and a +look, half reproachful and half angry, came for a moment into her face. +But she inclined her head to me as she passed, and then went off at a +rapid gallop before I could collect my senses. + +"Some people, Jack, walk into love with their eyes open, calculating +every step. I tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my senses, +narrowed in one moment the whole world down to one bewitching woman. I +did not know her, of course; but I soon should. I was well aware she +could not live very far away, and that my herd must be able to give me +some information. I was so deeply in love that this poor ignorant +fellow, knowing something about this girl, seemed to me to be a person +to be respected, and even envied. + +"I gave him immediately a plentiful supply of cigars, and sitting down +beside him opened the conversation with horses, but drifted speedily +into the subject of new settlers. + +"'Were there any since I had left?' + +"'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one likely family.' + +"'Much of a family?' + +"'You may bet on that, sir.' + +"'Any pleasant young men?' + +"'Reckon so. Mighty likely young gal.' + +"So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lorimer, my beauty's father, was a +Scotchman, who had bought the ranch which had formerly belonged to the +old Spanish family of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty Inez and +Dolores Yturri, with their black eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy +_embonpoint_; and thought of golden-haired Jessy Lorimer in their dark, +latticed rooms. + +"Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful Jessy! How I loved her in those +happy days that followed. How I humored her grave, stern father and +courted her brothers for her sake! I was a slave to the whole family, +so that I might gain an hour with or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret it +now? Not one moment. Such delicious hours as we had together were worth +any price. I would throw all my future to old Time, Jack, only to live +them over again." + +"That is a great deal to say, Petralto." + +"Perhaps; and yet I will not recall it. In those few months everything +that was good in me prospered and grew. Jessy brought out nothing but +the best part of my character. I was always at my best with her. No +thought of selfish pleasure mingled in my love for her. If it delighted +me to touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against my cheek, to meet +her earnest, subduing gaze, it also made me careful by no word or look +to soil the dainty purity of my white lily. + +"I feared to tell her that I loved her. But I did do it, I scarcely know +how. The softest whisper seemed too loud against her glowing cheek. She +trembled from head to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture when she +first put her little hand in mine, and suffered me to draw her to my +heart. Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think of it. I--I first, I +alone, woke that sweet young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, but +no one else can ever be to her what I have been." + +And here Petralto, giving full sway to his impassioned Southern nature, +covered his face with his hands and wept hot, regretful tears. + +Tears come like blood from men of cold, strong temperaments, but they +were the natural relief of Petralto's. I let him weep. In a few minutes +he leaped up, and began pacing the room rapidly as he went on: + +"Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with a dour, stiff refusal that left +me no hope of any relenting. 'He had reasons, more than one,' he said; +'he was not saying anything against either my Spanish blood or my +religion; but it was no fault in a Scotsman to mate his daughter with +people of her own kith.' + +"There was no quarrel, and no discourtesy; but I saw I could bend an +iron bar with my pleadings just as soon as his determination. Jessy +received orders not to meet me or speak to me alone; and the possibility +of disobeying her father's command never suggested itself to her. Even I +struggled long with my misery before I dared to ask her to practice her +first deceit. + +"She would not meet me alone, but she persuaded her mother to come once +with her to our usual tryst in the wood. Mrs. Lorimer spoke kindly but +hopelessly, and covered her own face to weep while Jessy and I took of +each other a passionate farewell. I promised her then never to marry +anyone else; and she!--I thought her heart would break as I laid her +almost fainting in her mother's arms. + +"Yet I did not know how much Jessy really was to me until I suddenly +found out that her father had sent her back to Scotland, under the +pretence of finishing her education. I had been so honorably considerate +of Jessy's Puritan principles that I felt this hasty, secret movement +exceedingly unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became hateful to me, the +duties of the ranch distracting; and my brother Felix returning about +this time, we made a division of the estate. He remained at the Garcia +mansion, I rented out my possessions, and went, first to New Orleans, +and afterward to New York. + +"In New York I opened a studio, and one day a young gentleman called and +asked me to draw a picture from some crude, imperfect sketch which a +friend had made. During the progress of the picture he frequently called +in. For some reason or other--probably because we were each other's +antipodes in tastes and temperament--he became my enthusiastic admirer, +and interested himself greatly to secure me a lucrative patronage. + +"Yet some subtle instinct, which I cannot pretend to divine or explain, +constantly warned me to beware of this man. But I was ashamed and angry +at myself for linking even imaginary evil with so frank and generous a +nature. I defied destiny, turned a deaf ear to the whisperings of my +good genius, and continued the one-sided friendship--for I never even +pretended to myself that I had any genuine liking for the man. + +"One day, when we had become very familiar, he ran up to see me about +something, I forget what, and not finding me in the outer apartments, +penetrated to my private room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox first +saw the woman you saw with him to-night--the picture which you are now +looking at--and he fell as desperately in love with it, in his way, as I +had done in the Guadalupe woods with the reality. I cannot tell you how +much it cost me to restrain my anger. He, however, never noticed I was +angry. He had but one object now--to gain from me the name and residence +of the original. + +"It was no use to tell him it was a fancy picture, that he was sighing +for an imagination. He never believed it for a moment. I would not sell +it, I would not copy it, I would not say where I had painted it; I kept +it to my most sacred privacy. He was sure that the girl existed, and +that I knew where she lived. He was very rich, without an occupation or +an object, and Jessy's pure, lovely face haunted him day and night, and +supplied him with a purpose. + +"He came to me one day and offering me a large sum of money, asked me +finally to reveal at least the locality of which I had painted the +picture. His free, frank unembarrassed manner compels me to believe that +he had no idea of the intolerable insult he was perpetrating. He had +always been accustomed to consider more or less money an equivalent for +all things under the sun. But you, Jack, will easily understand that the +offer was followed by some very angry words, and that his threat to hunt +the world over to find my beauty was not without fear to me. + +"I heard soon after that Will Lennox had gone to the South. I had +neither hidden nor talked about my former life and I was ignorant of how +much he knew or did not know of it. He could trace me easily to New +Orleans; how much further would depend upon his tact and perseverance. +Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am uncertain, but my heart fell +with a strange presentment of sorrow when I saw his name, a few weeks +afterward, among the European departures. + +"The next thing I knew of Will Lennox was his marriage to some famous +Scotch beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty was +Jessy Lorimer. I feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon." + +"Will you call there?" + +"I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly she +pressed the invitation?" + +"Do not accept it, Petralto." + +He shook his head, and remained silent. The next afternoon I was +astonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. +He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to men +accustomed to have the whole world minister unto them. + +He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, +boastful conversation. He did not notice the ashy face, the blazing +eyes, the set lips, the trembling hands, of the passionate Spanish +nature, until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of unreasonable words and +taunts, and ordered Lennox out of his presence. + +Even then the stupid, good-natured, purse-proud man could not see his +danger. He began to apologize to me for Petralto's rudeness, and excuse +"anything in a fellow whom he had cut out so badly." + +"Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved me first; you can never have her +whole heart. Begone! If I had you on the Guadalupe, where Jessy and I +lived and loved, I would--" + +The sentence was not finished. Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, +and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. I +stayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleased +with him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a +few consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over. + +"Lennox tortured me," he said, passionately. "How could he be so +unfeeling, so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn what chain of +circumstances led him to find out my love and then steal her? Everything +he said tortured me but one fact--Jessy was alone and thoroughly +miserable. Poor little pet! She thought I had forgotten her, and so she +married him--not for love; I won't believe it." + +"But," I said, "Petralto, you have no right to hug such a delusion; and +seeing that you had made no attempt to follow Jessy and marry her, she +had every right to suppose you really had forgotten her. Besides, I +think it very likely that she should love a young, rich, good-looking +fellow like Will Lennox." + +"In not pursuing her I was following Jessy's own request and obeying my +own plighted promise. It was understood between us that I should wait +patiently until Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs would then +have regarded her as her own mistress and acknowledged her right to +marry as she desired; and if I did not write, she has not wanted +constant tokens of my remembrance. I have trusted her," he said, +mournfully, "without a sign from her." + +That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox and the devotion of her husband +were on every tongue. But married is not mated, and the best part of +Jessy Lorimer's beauty had never touched Will Lennox. Her pure, simple, +poetic temperament he had never understood, and he felt in a dim, +uncertain way that the noblest part of his wife escaped him. + +He could not enter into her feelings, and her spiritual superiority +unconsciously irritated him. Jessy had set her love's first music to the +broad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wronging +herself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. This +reserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of those +self-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simply +true to the light within her. But her way was not Will Lennox's way, her +finer fancies and lighter thoughts were mysteries to his grosser nature. + +So the thing happened which always has and always will happen in such +cases; when the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's great personal +beauty had lost their first novelty and power, she gradually became to +her husband--"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his +horse." + +I did not much blame Will Lennox. It is very hard to love what we do not +comprehend. A wife who could have sympathized in his pursuits, talked +over the chances of his "Favorite," or gone to sea with him in his +yacht, would always have found Will an indulgent and attentive husband. +But fast horses did not interest Jessy, and going to sea made her ill; +so gradually these two fell much further apart than they ought to have +done. + +Now, if Petralto had been wicked and Jessy weak, he might have revenged +himself on the man and woman who had wrought him so much suffering. But +he had set his love far too high to sully her white name; and Jessy, in +that serenity which comes of lofty and assured principles, had no idea +of the possibility of her injuring her husband by a wrong thought. Yet +instinctively they both sought to keep apart; and if by chance they met, +the grave courtesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the other left +nothing for evil hopes or thoughts to feed upon. One morning, two years +after Jessy's marriage, I received a note from Petralto, asking me to +call upon him immediately. To my amazement, his rooms were dismantled, +his effects packed up, and he was on the point of leaving New York. + +"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?" + +"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, +society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. +I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men." + +So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him +forgot him--forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him. + +I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German +philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot +Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged +and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divine +philosophy," took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not waste +my time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I +did not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare. + +Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three years +after Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenly +entered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I have +used the word "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutes +that Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of a +bridegroom. + +Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feeling +congratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow came +back so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, +and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride. + +I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wondered +what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I +rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of +eternal fidelity to his first love. + +I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in +fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Will +must be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, +when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly I +shut my book and lit my cigar. + +"'All's well that ends well,' my dear fellow," I said, when we had both +smoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox's +death. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot." + +Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for that +threat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was drowned at sea two +years ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near the +shore, and all on board perished." + +"I did not hear of it at the time." + +"Nor I either. I will tell you how I heard. About a year ago I went, as +was my frequent custom, to the little open glade in the forest where I +had first seen Jessy. As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I saw a +beautiful woman, clothed in black, walk slowly toward the very same +jasmine vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull down a loaded +branch. Can you guess how my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet and +cried out before I knew what I was doing, 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' She +stood quite still, looking toward me. Oh, how beautiful she was! And +when at length we clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I knew +without a word that my love had come to me." + +"She had waited a whole year?" + +"True; I liked her the better for that. After Will's death she went to +Scotland--put both herself and me out of temptation. She owed this much +to the memory of a man who had loved her as well as he was capable of +doing. But I know how happy were the steps that brought her back to the +Guadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon under the jasmine vine paid +for all. I am the happiest man in all the wide world." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTER EVENING TALES*** + + +******* This file should be named 16222.txt or 16222.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/2/2/16222 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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