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diff --git a/41189-8.txt b/41189-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index aae579e..0000000 --- a/41189-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7898 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book o' Nine Tales., by Arlo Bates - -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/license - - -Title: A Book o' Nine Tales. - -Author: Arlo Bates - -Release Date: October 26, 2012 [EBook #41189] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK O' NINE TALES. *** - - - - -Produced by sp1nd, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - A - BOOK O' NINE TALES - - ARLO BATES - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON - ROBERTS BROTHERS - 1891 - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - Tale the First: A STRANGE IDYL 7 - - Interlude First: AN EPISODE IN MASK 55 - - Tale the Second: THE TUBEROSE 67 - - Interlude Second: AN EVENING AT WHIST 89 - - Tale the Third: SAUCY BETTY MORK 101 - - Interlude Third: MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME 131 - - Tale the Fourth: JOHN VANTINE 141 - - Interlude Fourth: THE RADIATOR 155 - - Tale the Fifth: MÈRE MARCHETTE 163 - - Interlude Fifth: "SUCH SWEET SORROW" 189 - - Tale the Sixth: BARUM WEST'S EXTRAVAGANZA 201 - - Interlude Sixth: A BUSINESS MEETING 221 - - Tale the Seventh: A SKETCH IN UMBER 233 - - Interlude Seventh: THIRTEEN 253 - - Tale the Eighth: APRIL'S LADY 263 - - Interlude Eighth: A CUBAN MORNING 285 - - Tale the Ninth: DELIA GRIMWET 301 - - - - -Tale the first. - -A STRANGE IDYL. - - - - -A BOOK O' NINE TALES. - - - - -A STRANGE IDYL. - - -I. - -He lay upon an old-fashioned bedstead whose carved quaintness would once -have pleased him, but to which he was now indifferent. He rested upon -his back, staring at the ceiling, on whose white surface were twinkling -golden dots and lines in a network which even his broken mind knew must -be the sunlight reflected from off the water somewhere. The windows of -the chamber were open, and the sweet summer air came in laden with the -perfume of flowers piquantly mingled with pungent sea odors. Now and -then a bee buzzed by the casement, or a butterfly seemed tempted to -enter the sick-room--apparently thought better of it, and went on its -careless way. - -Of all these things the sick man who lay there was unconscious, and the -sweet young girl sitting by his bed was too deeply buried in her book -to notice them. For some time there was no movement in the chamber, -until, the close of a chapter releasing for an instant the reader's -attention, she looked to discover that the patient's eyes were open. -Seeing him awake, she rose and came a step nearer, thereby making the -second discovery, more startling than the first, that the light of -reason had replaced in those eyes the stare of delirium. - -"Ah," she said, softly, "you are awake!" - -The invalid turned his gaze toward her, far too feeble to make any other -movement; but he made no attempt to speak. - -"No," she continued, with that little purring intonation which betrays -the feminine satisfaction at having a man helpless and unable to resist -coddling; "don't speak. Take your medicine, and go to sleep again." - -She put a firm, round arm beneath his head, and bestowed upon him a -spoonful of a colorless liquid, afterward smoothing his pillows with -deft, swift touches. He submitted with utter passiveness of mind and -body, ignorant who this maiden might be, where he was, or, indeed, who -he was. Painfully he endeavored to think, to remember, to understand; -but with no result save confusing himself and bringing on an ache in -his head. His nurse, at the convenient end of another chapter, observed -a look of pain and trouble upon the thin face, scarcely less white than -the pillow against which it rested. - -"You are worrying," she observed with authority. "Go to sleep. You are -not to think yet." - -And, staying himself upon the resolution and confidence in her tone, he -abandoned himself again to the current of circumstances, and drifted -away into dreams. - -The girl, watching closely now, with mind distracted from her story to -the more tangible mystery involved in the presence of the sick man, gave -a little sigh of relief when his even breathing indicated that he had -fallen asleep. She removed softly to a seat near the window, and looked -out upon the tranquil beauty of the afternoon. Long Island Sound lay -before her, dimpling and twinkling in the sunshine, while nearer a -sloping lawn stretched from the house to the shore. Glancing backward -and forward between the sunny landscape and the bed where her patient -slept, the maiden fell to wondering about him, recalling the little she -knew, and straining her fancy to construct the story of his life. - -Three weeks before a Sound steamer had been wrecked so near this spot -that through the stormy night she had seen the glare of the fire which -broke out before the hull sank, and the next morning's tide had brought -to shore this man, a floating waif, saved by a life-preserver and some -propitious current. A terrible wound upon his head showed where he had -experienced some blow, and left him hesitating with distraught brain -between life and death. In his delirium he had muttered of varied -scenes. He must, the watcher reflected, have travelled extensively. Now -there were words which showed that he was sharing in wild escapades; -cries of defiance or of encouragement to comrades whose shadowy forms -his disordered brain summoned from the mysterious past; strange names, -and words in unknown tongues mingled themselves with incoherent appeals -or bitter reproaches. - -To the girl who had been scarcely less at his bedside than the old -woman who nominally nursed him, these broken fragments of wild talk had -been like bits of jewels from which her mind had fashioned a fantastic -mosaic. The mystery surrounding the stranger would, in any case, have -appealed strongly to her quick fancy, but when to this was added the -brilliancy of his delirious ravings, it is small wonder that her -imagination took fire, and she wove endless romances, in all of which -the unconscious sick man figured as the hero. Scraps of talk in an -unknown tongue, a few sonorous foreign words, a little ignorance -concerning matters in reality commonplace enough, have, in many a case -before, been the sufficient foundations for a gorgeous _fata morgana_ -of fancy. - -The stranger had been thrown ashore only partially dressed, and with -nothing upon him which bore a name. A belt around his waist contained -about fifteen hundred dollars in bills and a small quantity of -gold-dust. From the presence of this latter they had speculated that the -wounded man might be a returning Californian, yet his clothing was of -too fine texture and manufacture for this supposition. Several persons, -seeking for friends lost in the disaster from which he came, had vainly -endeavored to identify him, and his description had been given in the -New York papers; but without result. There seemed, upon the whole, to be -no especial hope of obtaining any satisfactory information regarding the -sick man until he was able to furnish it himself; and to-day for the -first time the watcher found in his eyes the light of returning reason. -She felt as if upon the threshold of a great discovery. She smiled -softly to herself to think how eager she had become over this mystery; -to recognize how large a place the stranger occupied in her thoughts; -yet she could but acknowledge to herself that this was an inevitable -consequence of the existence which surrounded her. - -The life into which the wounded man had been driven by the currents of -the sea and those stronger currents of the universe which we call Fate -was a sufficiently monotonous one. The household into which he had been -received consisted of an old gentleman, broken alike in health and -fortune, so that while the establishment over which presided his only -child was not one of absolute want, it was often straitened by the -necessity of uncomfortable economies. Alone with an old family servant, -the father and daughter lived on in the homestead which the wealth of -their ancestors had improved, but which their present revenues were -inadequate to preserve in proper state. One day with them was so like -every other day that the differences of the calendar seemed purely -empirical, even when assisted by such diversity as old Sarah, the -faithful retainer, was able to compass in the matter of the viands -which, at stated periods in the week, appeared upon their frugal table. - -Old Mr. Dysart would have failed to perceive the justice of the epithet -"selfish" as applied to himself; yet no word so perfectly described him. -He was absorbed in the compilation of a complete genealogy of the entire -Dysart family, with all its ramifications and allied branches. What -became of his daughter while he delved among musty parchments in his -stately old library; how the burdens of the household were borne; and -how a narrow income was made to cover expenses, were plainly matters -upon which he could not be expected to waste his valuable time. The -maiden could scarcely have been more alone upon a desert island, or in -a magic tower. Her days followed each other with slow, monotonous flow, -like the sands in an hour-glass,--each like the one before, and each, -too, like the one to follow. - -Amid such a colorless waste of existence the rich mystery of the wounded -stranger appeared doubly brilliant by contrast; and it is small wonder -that to the watcher the first gleam of returning intelligence in the -sick man's eyes was as the promise of the opening of a door behind which -lay an enchanted palace. - - -II. - -It was yet a day or two before the sick man spoke. He was very weak, and -lay for the most part in a deathlike but health-giving sleep. At length -the day came when he said feebly:-- - -"Where am I?" - -"Here," his nurse answered, with truly feminine irrelevancy. - -"Where?" - -"At Glencarleon." - -He lay silent for some moments, evidently struggling to attach some -meaning to the name, and to collect his strength for further inquiries. - -His eyes expressed his mental confusion. - -"You were hurt in the steamer accident," she explained. "You came ashore -here, and are with friends. Don't try to talk. It is all right." - -He was too feeble to remonstrate,--too feeble even to reason, and he -obeyed her injunction of silence without protest. She retreated to her -favorite seat by the window, and took up her sewing; but her revery -progressed more rapidly than her stitches, and when she was relieved -from her post by old Sarah, she stole softly out of the room to continue -her dreaming in an arbor overlooking the water, where, in pleasant -weather, she was wont to spend her leisure hours. - -The next day, when she gave her patient his morning gruel, he watched -her with questioning eyes, as if endeavoring to identify her, and at -last framed another inquiry. - -"Who are you?" he asked. - -"I am Columbine." - -"Columbine?" - -"Columbine Dysart." - -That he knew little more than before was a consequence of the situation, -and Mistress Columbine was wise enough to spare him the necessity of -saying so. - -"You do not know us," she said; "but we will take good care of you until -you are well enough to hear all about it." - -"But--" he began, the puzzled look upon his wan face not at all -dissipated. - -"No," she returned, "there is no 'but' about it. It is all right." - -"But," he repeated with an insistence that would not be denied, "but--" - -"Well?" queried she, seeing that something troubled him too much to be -evaded. - -"But who am I?" he demanded, so earnestly that the absurdity of such a -question was lost in its pathos. - -"Who are you?" she echoed, in bewilderment. Then, with the instant -reflection that he was still too near delirium and brain-fever to be -allowed to trouble himself with speculations, she added, brightly, and -with the air of one who settles all possible doubts, "Why, you are -yourself, of course." - -She smiled so dazzlingly as she spoke that a complete faith in her -assurances mingled itself with some dimly felt sense of the ludicrous -in the sick man's mind, and although the baffled look did not at once -disappear from his face, yet he said nothing further, and not long -after he fell asleep, leaving Columbine free to seek her arbor again -and ponder on this new phase of her interesting case. She attached no -serious importance then to the fact that her patient seemed so uncertain -concerning his identity; but, as the days went by, and he was as -completely unable to answer his own query as ever, a strange, baffled -feeling stole over her; a teasing sense of being brought helplessly face -to face with a mystery to which she had no key. - -His convalescence was somewhat slow, the hurts he had received having -been of a very serious nature; but when he was able to leave his room, -and even to accompany Columbine to her favorite arbor, he was still -grappling vainly with the problem of who and what he was. - -This first visit to the arbor, it should be noted, was an event in the -quiet life at the old house. Columbine was full of petty excitement over -it, her fair cheeks flushed and her hair disordered with running to and -fro to see that the cushions were in place, the sun shining at the right -angle, and the breeze not too fresh. She insisted upon supporting the -sick man on one side, while faithful old Sarah, her nurse in childhood, -and since promoted to fill at once the place of housekeeper and all the -departed servants, took his arm upon the other to help him along the -smoothly trodden path through the neglected garden. Mr. Dysart was as -usual in his library, and to disturb him there was a venture requiring -more daring than either of the women possessed. They got on very -tolerably without him, however, and the patient was soon installed amid -a pile of wraps and shawls in the summer-house, where he was left in -charge of Miss Dysart, while Sarah returned to her household avocations. - -It was a beautiful day in the beginning of September, warm and golden, -with all the mellowness of autumn in the air, while yet the glow of -summer was not wholly lost. The soft sound of water on the shore was -heard through the chirping of innumerable insects, shrilling out their -delight in the heat; while now and then the notes of a bird mingled -pleasantly in the harmony. The convalescent drew in full breaths of the -sweet air with a sigh of satisfaction, leaning back among his cushions -to look, with the pleasure of returning life, over the fair scene before -him. - -For some time nurse and patient sat silent, but the girl, watching -him intently, was in no wise dissatisfied with the other's evident -appreciation of her favorite spot. Indeed, she had dreamed here of him -so often that some subtle clairvoyancy may have secretly put him in -harmony with the place before he saw it. Columbine liked him for the -pleasure so evident upon his handsome, wasted face, while inly she was -aware how great would have been her disappointment had he been less -alive to the charms of the view. - -"How lovely it is!" he said, at length. "It is, perhaps, because you -live in so lovely a place," he added, after a trifling pause, and with -a faint smile, "that you are so kind to a waif like myself." - -"Perhaps," she answered, returning his smile. "But, really, we only did -what any one would have done in our place." - -"Oh, no; and besides, few could have done it so well. It is so pleasant, -I seem to have lived here always." - -"It may be," Columbine suggested, with deliberation, "that it recalls -some place you have known." - -A shadow came over his face. - -"It is a pity," he said, "that if that unlucky disaster could spare me -nothing of my baggage, it could not at least have left me my few poor -wits. I might make an interesting case for psychologists. They might -discover from me in what part of the brain the faculty of memory is -located, for that wretched wound seems to have let mine all ooze out of -my cranium. I do not feel, Miss Dysart, like an idiot in all respects, -since I certainly know my right hand from my left; and I have found, -by experiment in the night-watches, that I could still make myself -understood in two or three languages." - -"You had much better have slept," interpolated his listener. - -"But as far as my personal history goes," he continued, replying to her -words by a smile, "my mind is an absolute blank. I can give you several -interesting pieces of information concerning ancient history and -chronology; but I haven't the faintest idea what my name is; and you -must acknowledge that it is a little hard for a man to be ignorant of -his own name." - -"Yes," Columbine assented, bending forward and clasping her hands in -front of her knees. "Yes; and it is so strange! Try and remember; you -must surely recollect something." - -"I have tried; I do try; but I can only conjure up a confused mass of -shifting images; things I seem to have been and to have done, all -indistinguishably mixed with what I have only dreamed or hoped to do -and be." - -"How strange!" she said again, fixing her wide-open dark eyes upon him, -and then turning her gaze to the sea beyond; "but it will come to you in -time." - -"Heavens!" he exclaimed, energetically, "I hope so, else I shall regret -that you pulled me out of the water. To-day I do seem to have a glimpse -of something more tangible. Since I sat here I almost thought I -remembered--" - -He broke off suddenly, his bright look fading into an expression of -helpless annoyance. - -"What?" cried Columbine, eagerly. - -"I cannot tell," he groaned. "It is all gone." - -"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed she, springing to her feet in a flush of -sympathy and baffled curiosity. "Oh, how cruel!" - -Then she remembered that she was absolutely disobeying the doctor's -orders, and was allowing her patient to become excited. - -"There, there," she said, "how wrong of me to let you worry! Everything -will come back to you when you are stronger. Now it is time for your -luncheon. It is so warm and bright you may have it here if you will -promise not to bother your head. For I really think," she added, wisely, -giving his wraps a deft touch or two, "that the best way to remember is -not to try." - -"I dare say you are right," he agreed. "At least trying doesn't seem to -accomplish much." - -She flitted away, to return a moment or two later with an old-fashioned -salver, upon which, in dainty china two or three generations old, Sarah -had arranged the invalid's luncheon. She drew the rustic table up to his -side and served him, while he ate with that mixture of eagerness and -disinclination which marks the appetite of one in the early stages of -a convalescence. - -"That pitcher," he observed, carelessly, as she poured out the cream, -"ought to belong to my past. It has a familiar look, as if it could -claim acquaintance if it would only deign." - -"It was my grandmother's," Columbine said. "When we were little, Cousin -Tom used to tease me by saying my cheeks looked like those of that fat -face on the handle. I was more buxom then than now." - -Instead of replying, her companion laid down his spoon and looked at her -in delighted amaze. Then he struck his hands together with sudden vigor. - -"Tom!" he cried. "Tom!" - -"Well?" queried she, looking at him as if he had gone distraught. "It -isn't so strange a name, is it?" - -"But, don't you see?" he exclaimed, joyously,--"I'm Tom! I have found my -name!" - - -III. - -The rest of Tom's name, however, remained as profoundly and as -provokingly concealed in the wounded convolutions of his brain as -ever. Columbine called him Mr. Tom, and it is not unlikely that the -familiarity of the monosyllable, which seemed to place them at once -upon an intimate footing, had a strong influence upon their relations. -The maiden had a crisp way of pronouncing the name, as if she were half -conscious of a spice of impropriety in a term so familiar, and felt it, -too, to be something of a joke, which was so wholly fascinating that the -patient did not have to be very far advanced toward his normal condition -of health and spirits to enjoy it so well as to reflect that the name so -rendered ought to be enough for any man. - -Mr. Tom soon began to gather up a few stray bits from his childhood, his -memory apparently returning to its former state by the same slow road it -had travelled from his birth to reach it. - -"I remember a few beginnings," he had said, hopefully, on the day -following that of his first visit to the arbor. "I had a carved coral of -a most luscious pink color. It is even now vaguely connected in my mind -with the idea of eating; so I infer that I must have cherished a fond -delusion that it was good to eat." - -"It is at least good to remember," Columbine returned, laughing. "It -wouldn't be a bad idea to open an account of things recovered from the -sea of the past. You can begin by putting down: Item, one coral." - -"Yes; and one nurse. I distinctly recall the nurse. She had a large mole -on her chin. Yes; I can certainly swear to the nurse." - -He was in excellent spirits to-day. The dawning of recollection gave -promise of the restoration of complete remembrance; the day was -enchanting; his appetite and his luncheon came to a wonderfully good -agreement, while a prettier serving-maid than Miss Dysart could hardly -be found. - -"It must be very like being a child again," she observed, thoughtfully; -"and that is a thing, you know, for which the poets are always sighing." - -"You will have the advantage of growing up with me," was his gay retort, -"if this process continues. Only you'll have the advantage of superior -age." - -After that he told her each morning what he had been able to recover -from forgetfulness since the previous day. It is difficult to imagine -the strangeness of this relation. It possessed all the piquancy of -fiction to which its ingenious author added new incidents from day to -day; yet it had, too, the strong attractiveness of truth and personal -interest. Columbine listened and commented, deeply engrossed and -fascinated by the novel experience which gave her an acquaintance with -the entire past life of her stranger guest, yet an acquaintance which -was etherealized and marked by a certain charm not to be found in actual -companionship. Had she really shared the childhood thus narrated to her -it would have been in no way remarkable; but now she seemed to live it -herself, with a vitality and interest more vivid each day. Often the -freakish faculty, upon whose vigor depended the continuity of Mr. Tom's -narration, would for days concern itself with the veriest trifles, -advancing the essentials of the story not a whit; or, again, it would -seem to turn perversely backward, although no efforts availed to speed -it forward. - -The main facts of Mr. Tom's story, so far as they were gathered up in -the first week of this odd story-telling, were as follows: He made his -acquaintance with the world doubly orphaned, his father being lost at -sea upon a return voyage from India before the boy's birth, and his -mother dying in childbed. Reflecting upon what he was able to recall, -Tom concluded that his parents were persons of wealth. His surroundings -had at least been luxurious. The truth was, as he came, in time, to -remember, that, being left without near relatives, he had been, by his -guardian, confided to the care of trusty people, who spoiled and adored -him until he was transferred to boarding-school. - -"I have grown to be a dozen years old," Tom remarked to Miss Dysart one -afternoon as they sat in the arbor, she sewing, and he idly pulling to -pieces a purple aster. "I have even conducted myself to boarding-school, -and I cannot conceive why I can't get hold of my family name. I must -have been called by it sometimes. I remember being dubbed Tom, Tommy, -Thomas,--that was when I was stubborn; Tom Titmouse--that was by nurse; -Tom Tattamus--that by the particularly odious small boy next door; but -beyond that I might as well never have had a name at all. My trunks, I -know, were marked with a big W, but all the names beginning with that -letter that I can hit upon seem equally strange to me. I do not see why, -of all things, it is precisely that which I cannot remember." - -"It is because you worry about it," his companion suggested; "probably -that particular spot in your brain where your name is lodged is kept -irritated by your impatience." - -"Heavens!" laughed he. "How psychologic and physiological you are! Well, -if I've no name, I can invent one, I suppose." - -"Or make one. Do you realize what a fascinating position you are in? -Common mortals have only the consolation of speculating about their -future; but you can also amuse yourself with boundless speculations -concerning your past. You are relieved from all responsibility--" - -"Oh, no," he interrupted; "that is the worst of it. I have -responsibilities without knowing what they are. The past holds me like -a giant from behind, and I cannot even see my captor." - -"Oh, you look at it all too seriously!" Columbine returned. "You can -fashion your past, as we all do our futures, just as you like. I think -you are decidedly to be envied." - -"Envied!" - -The bitterness of the exclamation brought to her a sudden realization of -the difference of their points of view, and revealed how deep was the -man's humiliation at his helpless position. A quick flush of pity and -sympathy mantled her cheek. - -"Forgive me," she exclaimed, impulsively. "I had no right to be so -thoughtless. I beg your pardon." - -"There is no occasion. You are right. It is certainly better to laugh -than to cry over the inevitable, especially as things are righting -themselves. But we, or, rather, I, must go into the house. It is growing -cool." - - -IV. - -Life at the old Dysart place went forward in a slow and decorous -fashion, little allied to the bustling manners of the present day. Mr. -Dysart was getting now to be an old man, albeit it is doubtful if in any -abundant sense he can ever have been a young one. In any case he had, by -long burrowing among musty records and genealogical parchments, acquired -a dry and antique appearance, as, to use a somewhat presumptuous yet not -inexact metaphor, certain scholarly worms had taken on a brown hue from -continued dining on the bindings of his venerable folios. He inhabited -a remote and essentially unworldly sphere, from which the existence of -his daughter was wholly separate. He was conscious of her presence in -an unrealizing way; was even aware that just now she had in the house -a guest who had come ashore from a wreck. But that was the affair -of Columbine and old Sarah; he could not of course be expected to -loosen his hold upon the clew which he hoped would lead him to the -exact connection between the Dysarts and the Van Rensselaers of two -generations back, to pay attention to a chance waif from that outer -world with which he had never considered it worth his while to concern -himself. - -As far as Mr. Tom was concerned, Mr. Dysart might as well not have -existed. They did once meet in the passage before the study door when -the invalid in his first days of walking was one rainy morning wandering -restlessly about the halls; but the owner of the house hurried furtively -past, as if he were the interloper and the other lord of the manor; and -even when the convalescent was well enough to join the family at table, -Mr. Dysart was very seldom there, so that the meals were for the most -part taken _tête-à-tête_ by Columbine and her patient. - -The result of such a situation is evident from the beginning. -Exceptional natures might be imagined, perhaps, that would not have -grown dangerously interested in each other under such circumstances; but -at least these two drew every day closer together. Neither had any tie -belonging to the past; or, more exactly, Columbine had none, and he, -for the time being, at least, had no past. His helplessness and the -mystery enshrouding him would have appealed to the heart of any woman, -and Columbine had no distractions to fill her life and crowd out this -ever-deepening interest. Of Mr. Tom, her beauty and freshness, her -simplicity, which was so far removed from insipidity, her innocence, -which never suggested ignorance, won the respect and admiration long -before he was conscious that love, too, was growing in his heart. - -There came a day, however, when he could no longer be ignorant of the -nature of his feelings. - -The two had gone past the arbor and down to the shore. Columbine was -seated upon a rock, while Tom lay at her feet, idly tossing pebbles into -a pool left among the sea-weed by the ebbing tide. The maiden wore that -day a dress of gray flannel, almost the color of the stone upon which -she sat, trimmed with a velvet of orange which no complexion less -brilliant than hers could have endured. She twisted in her fingers a -spray of goldenrod, yellow-coated harbinger of autumn. - -"The summer is gone," Columbine remarked, pensively. "It is getting late -even for goldenrod." - -"Yes," he echoed, "the summer is gone. I lost so much of it I hardly -realize--" - -He broke off suddenly, a new thought seizing him. - -"Why!" he exclaimed, "how long I have been here! I ought to have -taken myself off your hands long ago. How you must think I abuse your -hospitality!" - -"Nonsense!" she returned, brightly; "you of course cannot go until you -are well. It is necessary that you at least conjure from the past the -rest of your name before you start out into the world again. Make -yourself as comfortable as you can, Mr. Tom; you won't be let loose for -a long time to come yet." - -Despite the lightness of her manner her companion fancied he detected a -shade of some hitherto unnoted feeling in her words; but whether dread -of his departure or desire to be rid of him he could not divine. The -latter thought struck him with a sudden chill. The love which had been -fostered in his mind by this close and intimate companionship was -not unmixed at this moment with a fear of being thrown upon his own -resources while ignorant alike of his place and his name. He clung -strongly to Columbine as to one who understood and sympathized with his -strange mental weakness. The color flamed into his pale cheeks with a -sudden throb of intense emotion; then faded, to leave him whiter than -ever. - -"Besides," Columbine continued, after a moment's pause, her glance still -downcast, "why shouldn't you stay? Your being here makes no difference -to papa; he smokes and grubs after the roots of his ancestral tree the -same as ever; and as for me," lifting her eyes with a sudden smile that -showed all her dimples, "you know how much you amuse me. You are as good -as a continued story, and are alive, too, the last being a good deal in -this desert." - -He returned her smile with effort. His moment of intense feeling had so -overpowered him that he felt weak and faint. - -"How white you are!" she exclaimed, noting the wanness of his face; "you -should have had your _bouillon_ long ago. A pretty condition you are in -to go roaming off by yourself!" - -She tripped lightly off towards the house for the forgotten nourishment, -and Mr. Tom was left to his reflections. He raised himself, as her -graceful figure vanished, then sank back upon his rug with something -like a groan. All in an instant the knowledge had come to him that he -loved her. He had gone on from day to day conscious only of thinking of -his own history, which, bit by bit, he was disinterring from the past, -as men bring to light some buried city, and insensibly Columbine had -become dear to him before he was aware. - -He buried his face in his hands in a despair which was in part the -result of his strange mental confusion; in part arose from his physical -weakness. He did not reflect then that his case was not necessarily -hopeless; that nothing in his life which remembrance had recovered need -raise a barrier between himself and Columbine. Afterward this thought -came to him and brought comfort; now he was overwhelmed by a sense of -impotent misery. Helpless in the hand of fate, it seemed to him that -this love, of which he was newly aware, was but a fresh device of -malignant destiny. He did not even consider whether his affection might -be returned; he only felt the impossibility of offering his broken life -to Columbine,--of binding her to a past that was uncertain and a future -that was insecure. - -Tears of weakness, and scorn of that weakness, came into his eyes. Their -traces were still visible when Columbine returned. - -"Come," she said, ignoring the signs of his agitation, "you have told -me nothing on the story to-day. Just down there," indicating by a pretty -sweep of the hand a little pebbly cove lying just below them, "is where -Sarah and I found you." - -"And I would to God," cried poor Tom with sudden fierceness, "that you -had left me there." - -Columbine made, for the moment, no reply to this outburst. She -insisted upon his drinking his _bouillon_, despite his protests of -disinclination, and then brought him back to the tale of his life. - -"There is an air of improbability about my story," he said, after a -little musing. "Indeed, so much so that I myself begin to doubt the -truth of it. In the first place it seems particularly arranged to -baffle inquiry. Whenever I recall a person to whom I might send for -verification or information, I straightway remember that he is dead, or -that my wanderings have carried me beyond his knowledge. I am apparently -as far as ever from knowing who I am or what I am. And, besides, suppose -your beautiful theory, that my memory acts as it does because the -impressions of youth are strongest, is not true? You put me in the same -category with those whose memory is weakened by age; but this may be -all moonshine. Perhaps this history, to which I am painfully adding -every day, is something I have read, and only a fiction after all." - -"But why suppose so many tormenting things?" returned Columbine, -brightly. "The fault of the age, they say,--we know very little of it -here, but cousin Tom sends me a paper occasionally,--is unrest; and -whoever you are, a little tranquillity will scarcely be likely to harm -you. Go on with the life and adventures, and never mind now whether they -are true or not. At least they are interesting. You broke off yesterday -in a most exciting account of a tiger hunt." - -"Ah, yes; I got the rest of it together this morning. Where did I leave -off? Had we reached the second jungle?" - - -V. - -The salt meadows were on fire. The pungent odor of burning peat and -saline grasses floated over the Dysart place and about the arbor one -October morning when Tom sat there meditating. He was thinking of -Columbine, and of his passion for her. His health now seemed firmly -re-establishing itself, and his memory had gone on over the old track -of his life in its singular method of progression until he felt -confident that he should ultimately be in possession of all his past. -He reviewed what he remembered, as he sat this morning inhaling -the aromatic scent of the burning lowlands, and the result was not -unsatisfactory. He had recovered from oblivion his life up to the time, -three years before, when he took passage home from India, and his -financial affairs at that period were in an eminently satisfactory -position. He recalled that he had been regarded on shipboard as a person -of more consequence than the British officer who, with his daughter, -occupied the cabin of the Indiaman with him; and he trusted that no -untoward circumstances of the interval had placed him in a condition -less desirable. - -He had reconciled himself to remaining at the Dysart mansion by turning -over to old Sarah a goodly portion of the money contained in his -travelling-belt, and blessed himself that his wandering life had led -him to form the habit of always going thus provided. He sat now waiting -for Columbine to appear, and fondly picturing to himself the delight -of telling his love when the time came that he dare speak. Each day -increased his attachment, and he believed, as every lover will, that -his love was returned. A smile of brooding contentment, so deep that -even the impatience of his passion could not disturb it, dwelt upon his -face as he inhaled the fragrant odors from the burning marshes, and -listened for the step of the maiden he loved. - -She came at last, moving along the garden paths between the faded -shrubs, a gracious and winning figure. She was dressed that morning in -a gown of russet wool, with a bunch of gold and crimson leaves at her -throat, and never, in Tom's eyes, had she looked so lovely. - -"I shouldn't have been so late in getting here," she said, as she took -her accustomed seat, "but Sarah is greatly concerned about the fire in -the salt marshes. She says it is thirty years since they burnt over, -and she presages all sorts of dire calamities from that fact." - -"That they haven't burnt over for thirty years?" - -"Well," Columbine returned with a pout, "she is not at all clear what -she does mean, so it isn't to be expected that I shall be. We will go -on with the life and adventures, if you please." - -"But suppose I haven't remembered anything more?" - -"Nonsense," retorted pretty Columbine; "you never really remember. I am -convinced that you make it all up as you go along; but you tell it so -seriously that it might as well be true. And in any case it does credit -to your powers of imagination." - -His story now was of his voyage from Calcutta. He told of moonlight -nights in the Indian ocean, of long days of sunny idling on deck, and -all the pleasant details of a prosperous voyage over Southern seas. - -"Miss Grant wasn't very pretty," he observed, lying lazily back and -looking up into the blue October sky, "at least not as I remember her; -but she was very good company, only a little given to sentimentalizing. -She had a guitar, and I will confess I did hate to see that guitar come -out." - -"She would be pleased if she could hear you," laughed Columbine. "What -was there so frightful about her guitar?" - -"Oh, when she had that she always sang moony songs, and after that--" - -"Well?" demanded Miss Dysart, mischievously. - -"Oh, after that," he returned, with an impatient shake of his shoulders, -"she was sure to talk sentiment." - -His companion laughed merrily. The faint, almost unconscious feeling of -jealousy which had risen at the mention of this engaging young lady had -vanished entirely in the indifference with which Mr. Tom spoke of her. -She moved her head with a happy little motion not unlike that with which -a bird plumes itself. Her soft, low laugh did not really end, but lost -itself among the dimples of her cheeks. - -Tom regarded her with shining eyes. - -"Not that I should mind some people's talking sentiment," he said with -a smile. - -She raised her laughing gaze to his, and, as their eyes met, the meaning -of the look in his was too plain to be mistaken. She flushed and paled, -dropping her gaze from his. - -"And did nothing especial happen on the voyage?" she asked, with a -strong effort to regain her careless manner. - -"Not that I recall," he answered, putting his hand beside hers upon the -rustic table so that their fingers almost touched. - -A moment of silence followed, broken only by the chirping of a few -belated crickets, that, despite the advancement of the season, had not -yet discontinued their autumnal concerts. The two, so quiet outwardly, -sat with beating hearts, when suddenly a wandering breeze brought into -the summer-house a puff of smoke from the burning salt meadows. It was -laden with the fetid odor of consuming animal matter, and so powerful -was it that both involuntarily turned away their heads. - -"Bah!" Columbine cried. "How horrible! There must be a dead animal of -some sort there that the fire has reached." - -She stopped speaking and gazed with surprise at Tom, who had buried his -face in his hands with a groan. - -"What is it? Has it made you ill? It is gone now." - -He lifted a face white with emotion. - -"No," he said, "it has not made me ill,--physically, that is; but it has -done worse, it has made me remember." - -"Ah!" she exclaimed. "What is it? is it so terrible?" - -She leaned toward him, and to poor Tom she looked the incarnation of -enticing loveliness. Sympathy and interest--not unmixed, she being a -woman, with curiosity--sparkled in her eyes, yet he nerved himself to -tell her all that had come back to him. - -"That smell of burning hide," he began, "brought it all up in a flash. -The ship got on fire; Miss Grant clung to me; there was just such an -odor leaking out around the hatches from the hold where the flames were -at the cargo; she--I--when everything else was right, when the fire was -out, I was all wrong." - -"I do not understand," Columbine said. - -She drew away from him, her cheeks pale, her very lips wan. She did not -meet his gaze, but sat with downcast eyes. - -"I was engaged to Miss Grant. I did not pretend to love her, but I -thought we were all bound for the bottom, and"-- - -He stopped helplessly; her eyes flashed upon him. - -"And if a lie would soothe her last moments," she said, bitterly, "you-- -No, no; I beg your pardon." - -"I remember more," he went on, wrenching each word out as if by a strong -effort of will. "The shock, and, perhaps, previous seeds of disease, -were too much for her father; he died the day before we landed. She was -alone in the world, she had no protector, and I--I married her at once, -to protect her." - -A sparrow flew up into the lattice outside the arbor without noticing -the pair within, so dead was the stillness which now fell upon them. At -length Columbine rose and stood an instant by the table which had been -between them. She wavered an instant, then stooped and kissed him upon -the forehead. Then without a word she turned from the arbor and fled -swiftly to the house. - - -VI. - -Left alone in the summer-house Tom's first feeling was a great throb of -joy; but it gave place almost instantly to an aching pang of misery. To -be assured of Columbine's love would have been intense happiness an hour -before; now it could only add to his pain. He raged against the toils -in which fate had entangled him, yet defiance to helplessness and every -paroxysm of rage at destiny ended in a new and humiliating consciousness -of his own impotence. He felt like one who walked blindfolded, with -light granted him, not to avoid missteps, but merely to see them after -they were taken. - -One thing at least was clear to Tom,--that he must leave the Dysart -mansion. To go on seeing Columbine day after day, with the knowledge -at once of their love and of the barrier that stood between them, -was a position too painful and too anomalous to be endured. Both for -his own sake and for Miss Dysart's it was necessary that he delay no -longer. Where he was going he was not at all clear; that he left to -circumstances to decide. He quitted the arbor and walked toward the -house, so intent upon his painful thoughts that at a turning of the path -he ran plump against old Sarah, who was hurrying along with a face full -of anxiety. - -"Oh, mercy gracious, Mr. Thomas!" the faithful creature cried; "I'm sure -I beg your pardon! But you look as if you'd seen a ghost!" - -"So I have," he answered. "Where are you going with that spade?" - -"To the salt meadows," she answered. "The fire's sure to come into -the lower garden if we don't ditch it, and if it does, there'll be no -stopping it from the house." - -"What!" exclaimed Tom. "Where are the men?" - -"There ain't no men," old Sarah returned, philosophically. "Why should -there be?" - -"But you are not going down to ditch alone?" - -"'D I be likely to stop in-doors and let the house where I've lived -fifty years burn over my head?" demanded she, grimly. - -"Give me the spade," was his reply. "A little work will do me good." - -Old Sarah remonstrated, but it ended in the strangely matched pair going -together to the meadows below. - -The dry sphagnum was readily cut through with the spade, and it was -not a difficult, although a slow task, to dig a wide, shallow trench -between the stretch of burning moss and the gardens. Once the ditch was -complete, it would be easy to fight the fire on the home side, since -there was nothing swift or fierce about the conflagration, it being -rather a sullen, relentless smouldering of the moss and grass-roots, dry -from the long drought. - -Zealously as the two labored, the fire gained upon them, and as they -worked, they could not but cast despairing glances at the long stretch -of garden which lay still unprotected. - -Meanwhile Columbine from her window had seen the laborers, and, in a -moment realizing the danger, she flew to the library. - -"Father," she cried, "the salt marshes have been burning all day, and -the fire is almost up to the garden." - -"Good heavens, Columbine, how impetuous you are! You have quite driven -out of my head what became of the second son of--" - -"But, father," she interrupted, impatiently, "do you realize that if you -sit here pothering about second sons the house may be burned over our -heads?" - -"Burned!" exclaimed the genealogist, in dismay; "and all my papers -scattered about! Oh, help me, Columbine, to pack up my notes; but don't -take up anything without asking me where it goes. Do you think that -iron-bound trunk will hold them all?" - -Fearing to trust herself to reply, Columbine darted from the library, -leaving her father to the half-frenzied collection of his papers, and -betook herself to the salt meadows, where, grimed with smoke, Tom and -the old serving woman were sturdily laboring. The pungent smoke eddied -about them, and already old Sarah's gown showed marks of having been -on fire in a dozen places. Columbine stood upon the descending path a -moment and regarded them; then, with a step which bespoke determination, -she went on and joined them. - -"Go back!" shouted Tom, hoarsely, as she approached; "don't you see how -the sparks are flying about? You'll be a-fire before you know it." - -And, indeed, the fire was becoming more active as it crept nearer to the -edges of the meadows, where the grass was taller. The word of warning -had hardly left Tom's lips before she found her dress burning, and -while, being of wool, it was easily extinguished, Tom found in it an -excuse for taking her in his arms to smother the flame. - -"Go back to the house," he said, in a voice which was full of feeling, -yet which it would have been impossible to disobey. "We shall save the -place; but I cannot work while you are in danger." - -"And you?" she demanded, clasping her hands upon his arm. - -"Nonsense! there is no danger for me," he returned, smiling tenderly. -"Don't think of me." - -It was not until late in the night that the contest against the fire was -concluded. Tom worked with an energy in which desperation had a large -place, while old Sarah, with the pathetic fidelity of an animal, labored -by his side, indefatigable and unmurmuring. Faint streaks of light had -begun to show in the east when Tom flung down the spade, upon which he -had been leaning, for a last close scrutiny. - -"It is all right now," he said; "there can't possibly be any fire left -on this side of the marshes. It was lucky for us that the tide rose into -the lower part of the trench." - -Undemonstratively, as she had worked, old Sarah gathered herself -together, grimy, stooping, quivering with weariness and hunger, and -crept back to the house they had saved; while Tom, with tired step, -climbed the path and took his way past the summer-house toward the other -side of the mansion. As he passed the arbor something stirred within. - -"Columbine!" he said, in surprise, recognizing by some instinct that it -was she. "Why, Columbine, what are you here for? You will be chilled to -death." - -"You sent me away," returned the girl, with a trace of dogged protest in -her voice. "You wouldn't let me help." - -"I should hope not," laughed Tom, nervously, taking off his hat and -passing his hand through his hair, from which odors of smoke flowed as -he stirred it. "You were hardly made to fight fire." - -"No," she answered, with sudden and significant vehemence, "I was not -made to fight fire." - -He moved uneasily where he stood in the darkness; then he took a stride -forward and sat down beside her. They were silent a moment, his eyes -fixed upon the first far sign of dawn, while hers searched the gloom for -his features. - -"Columbine," he began, at length, in a voice of strange softness, "it -would have been better for us both if I had never come here." - -"No, no," was her eager reply; "I cannot have you say that. You have put -savor into my life that was so vapid before." - -"But a bitter savor," he said. - -"Bitter, yes," Columbine returned in a voice which, though low and -restrained, betrayed the fierceness of her excitement. "Bitter as death; -but sweet too, sweet as--" - -She left the sentence unfinished. Below on the shore the full tide was -lapping the stones with monotonous melody. Save for their iterance, the -stillness was almost as deep as the marvellous silence of a winter night -which no sound of living thing breaks. - -"Whatever comes," Columbine murmured a moment later, her voice changed -and softened so that he had to bend to catch her words, "I am glad of -all that has happened; glad of you; glad, always glad." - -He caught her passionately in his arms and covered her downcast head -with kisses, while she yielded unresistingly to his embrace, although -she sobbed as if her heart would break. In the east the promise of the -dawn shone steadily, increasing slowly but surely. It became at last -so strong that Columbine, opening her swollen lids, was able to -distinguish objects a little. At that moment she became conscious that -the arms of her lover had loosened their hold upon her. She looked into -his face with sudden alarm. Mr. Tom had fallen into a dead faint. - - -VII. - -The afternoon sun was shining into Tom's chamber windows when he awoke. -Ten hours of heavy sleep had had a wonderfully revigorating effect upon -him, and despite some stiffness he awoke with a sense of renewed power. -His repose had, too, a far more remarkable effect than this. Before his -eyes were open he said aloud, as if he were solemnly summoning some -culprit before the bar of an awful tribunal:-- - -"Thomas Wainwright!" - -The sound of his own words acted upon him like an electric shock. He -started up in bed, wide awake, his eyes shining, his whole manner alert, -joyous, and confident. He was nameless no longer. Treacherous memory had -yielded up its tenaciously kept secret, and at last he emerged from the -shadowy company of the nameless to be again a man among men. - -He sprang from his couch and made his toilet with impatient eagerness. -As he dressed he remembered everything in an instant. That baffling -mystery of his family name seemed the key to all the secrets of his -past, and, having yielded up this prime fact, his memory made no further -resistance. His whole life lay before him, no longer laboriously traced -out, bit by bit, but unrolled as a map, visible at a single _coup -d'oeil_. - -Little that he recalled was of a nature to change the conclusions he -had formed of his circumstances, except the single fact that his wife -had not outlived her honeymoon. The shock of her father's death, and, -perhaps, some seeds of malaria contracted in India, had proved too much -for her delicate constitution, and Tom, eagerly reviewing his newly -recovered past, felt a pang of unselfish sorrow for the unloved bride -who had for so short a time borne his name, that name which he now kept -saying over to himself, as if he feared he might again forget it. - -He hurried downstairs, and in the old-fashioned hall, stately with -its wainscoting and antique carved furniture, he met Columbine coming -towards him. Like his, her eyes shone with a new light, her lips were -parted with excitement, and her step was eager. - -"Good-morning, Mr. Wainwright," she fluted in a voice high with -excitement and joyousness. "I heard your step, and could not wait for -you to get to the parlor." - -"Good heavens!" cried he, stopping short in amazement. "How did you -know? Are you a witch?" - -"No," she laughed, pleasure and excitement mingling rather dangerously -in her mood. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you; though one of my -ancestors was tried for witchcraft at Salem. Cousin Tom sent me this -advertisement, and I knew at once that it must be you." - -The advertisement she showed him was cut from a New York paper, and -called, with a detailed description of the personal appearance of -the missing man, for tidings of one Thomas Wainwright, of Baltimore, -supposed to have perished in the wreck of the Sound steamer, and whose -large estate was unsettled. Tom read it over with mingled feelings. - -"Bah!" he said. "When I get home I shall only have to look over a file -of the daily papers to read my obituary. Fortunately I have been back -from India so few years that they cannot say a great deal about me." - -"_De mortuis_," returned Columbine, smiling. "They will only say good of -you. I congratulate you on having found your name." - -"I had it before you told me," he said. - -He took her hands in his and looked at her tenderly. - -"I have all my past, too," he went on. "I am free; I have nothing to -hide; nothing stands between us. Will you be my wife, Columbine?" - -She grew pale as ashes; then flushed celestial red; but her eyes did not -flinch. - -"I trust you utterly," she answered him. "And I love you no less." - - - - -Interlude First - -AN EPISODE IN MASK. - - - - -AN EPISODE IN MASK. - - -[_Scene:--A balcony opening by a wide, curtained window from a ball-room -in which a masquerade is in progress. Two maskers, the lady dressed as a -peasant girl of Britany and her companion as a brigand, come out. The -curtains fall behind them so that they are hidden from those within._] - -_He._ You waltz divinely, mademoiselle. - -_She._ Thank you. So I have been told before, but I find that it depends -entirely upon my partner. - -_He._ You flatter me. Will you sit down? - -_She._ Thank you. How glad one is when a ball is over. It is almost -worth enduring it all, just to experience the relief of getting through -with it. - -_He._ What a world-weary sentiment for one so young and doubtless so -fair. - -_She._ Oh, everybody is young in a mask, and by benefit of the same -doubt, I suppose, everybody is fair as well. - -_He._ It were easy in the present case to settle all doubts by dropping -the mask. - -_She._ No, thank you. The doubt does not trouble me, so why should I -take pains to dispel it? Say I am five hundred; I feel it. - -_He._ What indifference; and in one who waltzes so well, too. Will you -not give me another turn? - -_She._ Pardon me. I am tired. - -_He._ And you can resist music with such a sound of the sea in it? - -_She._ It is not melancholy enough for the sea. - -_He._ Is the sea so solemn to you, then? - -_She._ Inexpressibly. It is just that--solemn. It is too sad for anger, -and too great and grave for repining; it is as awful as fate. - -_He._ I confess it never struck me so. - -_She._ It did not me always. It was while I was in Britany--where I got -this peasant dress; isn't it quaint?--that I learned to know the sea. -It judged me; it reiterated one burden over and over until it seemed -to me that I should go mad; yet at the same time its calmness gave -me self-control. If there had been the slightest trace of anger or -relenting in its accusations, I could have turned away easily enough, -and shaken its influence all off. But it was like an awful tribunal -before which I had to stand silent, and review my past as interpreted by -inexorable justice,--with no palliations, no shams, nothing but honest -truth. But why should I say all this rigmarole to you? You must be -amused,--if you are not too much bored, that is. - -_He._ On the contrary, I thank you very much. - -_She._ For what? - -_He._ First, for your confidence in me; and second, for telling me an -experience so like my own. It was not the sea, but circumstances that -delivered me over to myself,--a long, slow convalescence, in which I, -too, had an interview with the Nemesis of truth, and found a carefully -built structure of shams and self-deception go down as mist before -the sun. The most frightful being in the world to encounter is one's -estranged better self. - -_She._ That is true. No one but myself could have persuaded me that it -was I who was to blame. The more I was argued with, the more I believed -myself a martyr, and my husband-- - -_He._ Your husband? - -_She._ I have betrayed myself. I am not mademoiselle, but madame. - -_He._ But I see no-- - -_She._ No ring? True; I returned that to my husband before I went to -Britany. - -_He._ And in Britany? - -_She._ In Britany I would have given the world to have it back again. - -_He._ But your husband? Did he accept it so easily? - -_She._ What else can a man do when his wife casts him off? - -_He._ Do? Oh, it is considered proper in such cases, I believe, for him -to make a violent pretence of not accepting his freedom. - -_She._ You seem to be sure he considered it freedom! - -_He._ Pardon me. I forgot for the moment that you were his wife. - -_She._ Compliments do not please me. - -_He._ Then you are not a woman. - -_She._ Will you be serious? - -_He._ Why should I be--at a ball? - -_She._ Because I choose. - -_He._ Oh, good and sufficient reason! - -_She._ But tell me soberly,--you are a man,--what could my husband have -done? - -_He._ Do you mean to make my ideas standards by which to try him? - -_She._ Perhaps yes; perhaps no. At least tell me what you think. - -_He._ A man need not accept a dismissal too easily. - -_She._ But what then? - -_He._ He might have followed; he might have argued. It is scarcely -possible that you alone were to blame. Was there nothing in which he -might have acknowledged himself wrong,--nothing with which he should -reproach himself? - -_She._ How can I tell what took place in his heart? I only know my own. -He may have repented somewhat, or he may not. As for following-- You do -not know my husband. He is just, just, just. It was his one fault, I -thought then. It took time for me to appreciate the worth of such a -virtue. - -_He._ But what has that to do with following you? - -_She._ 'She has chosen,' he would reason. 'Let the event punish her; it -is only right that she should suffer for her own act.' - -_He._ But is his justice never tempered by mercy? - -_She._ The highest mercy is to be just. To palliate is merely to -postpone sentence. - -_He._ You are the first woman I ever met who would acknowledge that. - -_She._ Few women, I hope, have been taught by an experience so hard as -mine. But how dolefully we are talking. Do say something amusing; we are -at a ball. - -_He._ I might give you an epigram for the one with which you served me -a moment ago, and retort that to be amusing is to be insincere. - -_She._ Then--for we came to be amused--why are we here? - -_He._ Manifestly because we prize insincerity. - -_She._ You are right. I came to get away from myself. One must do -something, and even the dissipations of charity pall after a time. - -_He._ We seem to be in much the same frame of mind, and perhaps cannot -do better than to stay where we are, consorting darkly, while the others -take pains to amuse themselves. So we get through the evening, that is -the main thing. - -_She._ You have forgotten to be as complimentary as you were half an -hour since. - -_He._ Have I? And yet the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman is -sincerity. - -_She._ If he does not love her, yes. - -_He._ Ah, then you agree with Tom Moore: - - "While he lies, his heart is yours; - But oh! you've wholly lost the youth, - The instant that he tells you truth!" - -_She._ Perhaps; but it is no matter, since we were not talking of love. - -_He._ But if we were? - -_She._ If we were we should undoubtedly say a great many foolish things -and quite as many false ones. - -_He._ You are cynical. - -_She._ Oh, no. Cynicism is like a cravat, very becoming to a man if -properly worn, but always setting ill upon a lady. - -_He._ Did you learn that, also, in Britany? It is a country of -enlightenment. Would that my wife had gone there. - -_She._ Or her husband! - -_He._ You are keen. Her husband learned bitter truths enough by staying -at home. I am evidently your complement; for I had a wedding-ring sent -back to me. - -_She._ And why? - -_He._ Why? Why? Who ever knows a woman's reason! Because I refused, -perhaps, to call black white, to say I was pleased by what made me -angry; because-- No; on the whole, since I am not making love to her, -it is hardly worth while to lie to a peasant from Britany, though it is -of course necessary to sustain the social fictions with people nearer -home. It was because the wedding-ring was a fetter that constrained my -wife, body and soul; because I was as inflexible as steel. My purposes, -my views, my beliefs were the Procrustean bed upon which every act of -hers was measured. _Voila tout!_ - -_She._ I understand, I think. - -_He._ Oh, I have learned well enough where the blame lay in the three -years since she left me. - -_She._ Three years! - -_He._ Why do you start? - -_She._ It is three years, too, since I-- - -_He._ Who are you? - -_She._ It is no matter; my husband is far from here. - -_He._ That is more than I can say of my wife. - -_She._ Where is she, then? - -_He._ Heaven knows; not I. But let that go. Why may we not be useful to -each other? Our cases are similar; we are both lonely. - -_She._ And strangers. - -_He._ Acquaintance is not a matter of time, but of temperament. Should -we have found it possible to be so frank with one another had we been -merely strangers? - -_She._ You are specious. - -_He._ No; only honest. - -_She._ But what-- - -_He._ What? Why, friendship. We have found it possible to be frank in -masks; why not out of them? - -_She._ Then you propose a platonic friendship? - -_He._ I want a woman who will be my friend, to whom I can talk freely. -There are words a man has no power or wish to say to a man, yet which -must be spoken or they fester in his mind. - -_She._ I am, then, to be a safety-valve. - -_He._ Every man must have a woman as a lodestar; you are to be that to -me. - -_She._ And your wife? - -_He._ My wife? She voluntarily abandoned me. I haven't seen her for -three years; and surely she ought to cease to count by this time. - -_She._ You are heartless. - -_He._ Heartless? - -_She._ You should be faithful to your lost-- - -_He._ Lost fiddlestick! - -_She._ You are very rude! - -_He._ I don't see-- - -_She._ And very disagreeable. - -_He._ But-- - -_She._ If you had really loved your wife, you'd always mourn for her, -whatever she did. - -_He._ Good Heavens! That is like a woman. A man is expected to bear -anything, everything, and if at last he does not come weeping to kiss -the hand that smites him, he is heartless, forsooth! Bah! I am not a -whipped puppy, thank you. - -_She._ Your love was, perhaps, never distinguished by meekness? - -_He._ I'm afraid not. - -_She._ It might be none the worst for that. The ideal man for whom I am -looking will not be too lamblike, even in love. - -_He._ You look for an ideal man, then? - -_She._ As closely as did Diogenes. - -_He._ And your husband? - -_She._ Oh, like your wife, he should, perhaps, begin not to count. - -_He._ Good. We are sworn friends, then, until you find your ideal man. - -_She._ If you will. - -_He._ Then unmask. - -_She._ Is that in the bargain? - -_He._ Of course. Else how should we know each other again? - -_She._ But-- - -_He._ Unmask! - -_She._ Very well,--when you do. - -_He._ Now, then. [_They unmask._] - -_She._ Philip! - -_He._ Agnes! - -_She._ You knew all the time! - -_He._ Who told you I was here? - -_She._ I didn't know it. - -_He._ I thought you went to Russia. - -_She._ Well, I didn't. I hope you feel better! Good night. - -_He._ Wait, Agnes. I-- - -[_There is a moment's silence, in which they look at each other -intently. He takes her hand in both his._] - -_He._ Agnes, I am not your ideal man, but-- - -_She._ Nor I your ideal woman, apparently. Your wife does not count, you -say. - -_He._ No more than your husband; so we are quits there. - -_She._ It's very horrid of you to remind me of that. - -_He._ I acknowledge that I was always very horrid in everything. - -_She._ Oh, if you acknowledge that, Phil, it is hardly worth while to -spend any more time in explanations while this divine waltz is running -to waste. - -_He._ But you were tired and out of sorts. - -_She._ You old goose, don't you see that I'm neither! - -_He._ And you do waltz divinely. - -[_They attempt to adjust their masks, but somehow get into each other's -arms. In a few moments more, however, they are seen among the dancers -within._] - - - - -Tale the Second. - -THE TUBEROSE. - - - - -THE TUBEROSE. - - -I. - -"I shall feel honored, Mistress Henshaw, if you will accept this posie -as a token which may perchance serve to keep me in remembrance while I -am over the sea." - -"I am extremely beholden to you," replied the old dame addressed, her -wrinkled face illuminated with a smile of pleasure. "But for keeping you -in remembrance it needs not this posie or other token. I do not hold my -friends so lightly." - -"I thank you for counting me one of your friends," John Friendleton said -frankly. "I have no kindlier memories of Boston than of the home under -your roof." - -He had placed upon the many-legged table a flower-pot containing a -thrifty tuberose, and with a kindly smile upon his handsome and winning -face, he stood regarding the old dame into whose custody he had just -given the plant. The dress of the period,--the days of the end of the -seventeenth century,--plain though it was, accorded well with the -sturdy honesty and kindness of his face and the compact and strong build -of his figure. The wrinkled crone returned his smile with one of frosty -but genuine warmth. - -"This plant is none the less pleasing to me," she said, "though I by no -means need it as a reminder. I shall be very careful in its nourishing." - -"It is by no means an ordinary herb," Friendleton returned lightly. -"There may be magic in it for aught I can tell. My uncle, who sent me -the bulbs from even so far away as Spain, hath a shrewd name as a wise -man; and to say sooth he belike doth know far more than altogether -becometh a good Christian. I give you fair warning that there may be -mischief in the herb; though to be sure," he added laughing, "the earth -in which it grows is consecrated, for I filled the pot from Copp's Hill -graveyard hard by here." - -A momentary gleam shot with a sinister light its fiery sparkle across -the black eyes of Mistress Henshaw. - -"To one who feareth no harm," she answered, "it seldom haps. I trust -the wind may hold fair for your sailing," she added, glancing from the -small-paned window, "and that you may safely return to Boston as you are -minded." - -"Thank you, I have hitherto been much favored by Providence in my -journeyings. Farewell, Mistress Henshaw." - -The old dame received his adieu, and a moment later she watched from the -window his active young figure as he walked briskly away. She regarded -it intently until a corner hid him from sight. Then she turned back to -her room and her occupations. - -"Providence, indeed!" she muttered half aloud, with a world of contempt -in her tone. - -Then she turned to the thrifty, healthy tuberose and caressed its leaves -with her thin old fingers as if it were alive and could understand her -attentions. - -The house in which this conversation took place was still standing a few -years since, the oldest in Boston, at the corner of Moon and Sun Court -streets. It was erected in 1669; its timber, tradition says, being cut -in the neighborhood. The upper story projected over the lower like a -frowning brow, from beneath which the windows shone at night like -the glowing eye-balls of a wild beast. It was a stout and almost -warlike-looking edifice, which preserved even up to the day when, in -1878, it was at length pulled down by the hand of progress, a certain -strongly individual appearance, which if less marked at the time when -John Friendleton bade Mistress Henshaw good-by, and the building was -thirty years old, must always have distinguished the dwelling from those -about it. - -Dwellings, however, take much of their air from dwellers, and Mistress -Henshaw was likely to impart to any house she inhabited a bearing unlike -that of its neighbors. She was a dame to all appearances of some three -score winters, each frosty season having left its snow upon her hair. -Her figure was still erect, while her eyes were piercing and black and -capable of a glance of such strength and directness as almost to seem -supernatural. - -It may have been from the power and fervor of this glance that Mistress -Henshaw acquired the uncanny reputation which she enjoyed in Boston. -As she moved with surprising energy about the house, overseeing and -directing her dumb negro servant Dinah, the eyes of passers-by who saw -her erect figure flit by the windows were half averted as if from some -deadly thing which yet held them with a weird fascination; and at -nightfall the children whom chance belated in the neighborhood went -skurrying past Dame Henshaw's house like frightened hares. - -It is not perhaps to be told why Satan should have been able to -establish his kingdom among a people so devout and pious as the godly -inhabitants of the Massachusetts colony; yet we have it upon the -testimony of no less a man than the sage and reverend Cotton Mather, -whose sepulchre is with us unto this day, and upon the word of many -another scarcely less wise and devout, that the Father of Evil did -establish a peculiar and covenant people of his own in the midst of the -very elect of New England. It may be that it is always as it was in the -days of Job, and that the sons of God never assemble without finding in -their midst the dark form of Lucifer; for certain it is that the devil, -to quote the Rev. Cotton Mather's own words, "broke in upon the country -after as astonishing a manner as was ever heard of." - -"Flashy people," quaintly and solemnly remarks the learned divine, "may -burlesque these things, but when hundreds of the most sober people in a -country where they have as much _mother-wit_ certainly as the rest of -mankind, know them to be _true_, nothing but the absurd and forward -spirit of _Sadducism_ can question them." From all of which, and from -much more which might be cited, it is evident that there was plenty of -witchcraft abroad in those days, whether Mistress Henshaw was concerned -therein or not. - -It is sufficient to note that certain gossips scrupled not to declare -that Dame Henshaw was one of the accursed who bore the mark of the beast -and kept tryst at the orgies of the witches' sabbath, and the report -once started the facts in the case made little difference. Some of her -neighbors went so far as to declare that if the dame's residence were -forcibly changed from Sun Court street to Prison lane, the community -would be the better off. - -Governor Belamont, however, in this last year of the century, was far -more exercised about pirates than concerning witches; and better pleased -at the capture of Captain Kidd, who had just fallen into his hands, than -if he had discovered all the wise women in the colonies. Public feeling, -moreover, was still in a reactionary state from the horrors of the Salem -delusion of 1692; and thus it came about that Mistress Henshaw was left -unmolested. - -The second person in the dialogue given above, John Friendleton, was -an Englishman, and, if tradition be true, the son of an old lover of -Mistress Henshaw. He had taken up his abode with that lady upon his -arrival in the New World, whither he had been led, like many another -stout young blade of his day, by the hope of finding fair fortunes in -the growing colonies, and from the first he had been a favorite with -the old lady. It was whispered over certain of those tea-cups which -we now tenderly cherish from a respect for the memory of very great -grandmothers and an æsthetic enjoyment of the beauties of old china, -that it was by the aid of unhallowed power exercised in his behalf that -the young man was always so fortunate in his undertakings. There were -sinister tales of singular coincidences which had worked for his good, -and behind which the gossips believed to lie the instigating will of his -powerful landlady. Whether he himself was aware of this supernatural -aid, opinion was divided, but he was so frank and handsome withal that -the weight of opinion leaned toward acquitting him. The habit of New -England thought, moreover, was so opposed to imagining a witch as -exercising her power for anything but evil, that these rumors after all -gained no great or general credence. - -The friendship between the dame and her lodger was perhaps based upon -mutual need. The young man gave her that full confidence which a -pure-minded youth enjoys bestowing upon an elderly female friend; while -in turn the childless old lady, alone and otherwise friendless, regarded -him with tender affection. She cherished any chance token from him, and -especially did she seem touched by this gift of a tuberose which he had -given her at parting. She knew how carefully he had tended and cherished -the plant, more rare then than now, and long after the sails of the -ship which conveyed him to England, whither he had been summoned by the -serious illness of a relative, had dipped under the horizon, the old -witch--if witch she were--sat regarding the flower with eyes in which -the tears glistened. - - -II. - -It was early springtime when John Friendleton once more caught sight of -the beacon upon Trimountain, and the walls of the fort standing upon a -hill which has itself been removed by the enterprise of Boston. The few -months of the young man's absence, and the progress of time from one -century to another--for it was now 1700--had brought no great changes -to the town; but to him it seemed far from being the same he had left. - -The first tidings he had received from Boston, after landing in England, -had been a letter telling of the death of Mistress Henshaw. She had set -out from Boston, so the letter informed him, to visit a sister living -somewhere in the wilds toward far Pemaquid, and had never returned. The -letter was written by one Rose Dalton, who claimed to be a niece of the -deceased, and who had come into possession of the small property of -Mistress Henshaw by virtue of a will made before the adventurous and -fatal journey. The writer added to her letter the information that she -should live on with dumb Dinah, holding as nearly as possible to the -fashion of her aunt's housekeeping. - -When John stood once more upon the well-remembered threshold, he felt -half disposed to turn away and enter no more a place in which every -familiar sight could but call up sad memories. Then, endeavoring to -shake off his melancholy, he knocked. - -A light, brisk step approached from within, and the door opened quickly. - -John stood in amazement, unable to utter a word, so bewildered was he -by the beauty of the maiden who stood before him; a beauty which now, -after nearly two centuries, is still a tradition of marvel. Something -unreal and almost supernatural there might seem in the wonderful -loveliness of this exquisite creature, were it not that she seemed so to -overflow with life and vitality. Her soft and dove like eyes were full -of gleams of human energy, of joy, of passion; she had all the beauty -of a perfect dream without its unreality; and then and there the young -Englishman's heart fell down and worshipped her, never after to swerve -from its allegiance. - -"You must be Mr. Friendleton," the maiden said, courtesying -bewitchingly. "I knew your ship was in." - -"I--I have been minding my luggage," he stammered, rather irrelevantly, -his eyes fastened upon her face. - -"Be pleased to enter," said she, smiling a little at the boldness and -unconsciousness of his stare. "Your room has been preserved as you left -it at your departure. My aunt, good Mistress Henshaw, as I wrote you, -straitly enjoined in her will that everything should be kept for you as -you had left it. Her affections were marvellously set upon you." - -That he should be allowed to enter under the same roof with this -beautiful creature seemed to John Friendleton the height of bliss, and -he had no words to express his delight when he learned that Mistress -Rose expected him to take up his abode there as in former times. Her -aunt had wished it; had especially spoken of it in her will, and so it -was to be. - -It would be impossible to pretend that Friendleton struggled much -against this proposition, when inclination so strongly pleaded for the -carrying out of the wishes of his dead friend; and in this way he became -the lodger of young Mistress Rose. - - -III. - -It did not long escape the eye of the young man that his new landlady -wore always at her throat a cluster of the white, waxy blossoms of -the tuberose. The circumstance was in itself sufficiently curious and -unusual to excite his attention, and it recalled to his mind the plant -he had given to Mistress Henshaw. He wondered what had been the fate of -his gift, and one day he ventured to ask Mistress Rose about it. For -reply she led him to the room formerly occupied by her aunt, and showed -him the tuberose in a quaint pot. It had grown tall and thrifty, and -half a dozen slim stalks upon it stood up stoutly, covered with buds, -which showed here and there touches of dull red evolved in their -transformation from green to white. - -"I marvel how it hath increased," John said. - -"It hath thriven marvellously," she replied. "Never before hath it been -known that the plant would bloom throughout all the year, but this sends -out buds continually. I daily wear a blossom, as you may see, and I find -its odor wonderfully cheering, although for most it is too powerfully -sweet." - -"It is an ornament which becometh you exceedingly well," he responded, -flushing. - -"My neighbors," returned she smiling, "regard it as exceeding -frivolous." - -The fragrance of the flower which Mistress Rose wore at her throat -floated about John wherever his daily occupations led him, and doubly -did the delicious perfume steal through his dreams. He never thought of -the maiden without feeling in the air that divinely sweet odor; and a -thousand times he secretly compared her to the flower she wore. Nor was -the comparison inapt; since her beauty was rendered somewhat unearthly -by the strange pallor of her face, while the intense and passionate -intoxication it produced might, without great straining of the simile, -be directly compared to the exaltation which the delicious and powerful -fragrance produces in sensuous and sensitive natures. - -The intimacy between the young people was at first hindered by the -shyness of Friendleton, who was only too conscious of the fervor and -depth of his passion; but as Rose had many of the well-remembered ways -of her aunt, and, stranger yet, appeared well versed in his own past -history, he soon became more at his ease. In defiance of the proverb -which condemns all true lovers to uneven ways and obstructed paths, the -wooing of lovely Mistress Rose by John Friendleton ran smoothly and -happily on, seeming to have begun with the young man's first meeting -with his lovely landlady. The gossips of Boston town, strangely enough, -left the relations of the lovers untouched by any but friendly comment; -and in a fashion as natural as the ripening of the year, their love -ripened into completeness. - -It was early autumn when Rose became Mistress Friendleton. The wedding -was quietly celebrated in the old North Church, and never in its -century of existence before its timbers went to feed the campfires of -British soldiers, did that house shelter a more lovely bride or a more -manly and blissful groom. A faint flush softened the pallor of the -maiden, the one charm which could add to her beauty. Her only ornament -was her usual cluster of tuberoses, and more than one spectator noted -how like the flower was the lady. The circumstance was recalled -afterward when the slab was placed above her grave in Copp's Hill -burial-ground. There still lingers among certain old gossips of -tenacious memory the tradition of a stone which had on it "some sort -of a flower." It was the slab upon which John Friendleton, imaginative -at sorest need, had caused to be carved simply a bunch of tuberoses. - -If John had been happy in anticipation, he was, if such a thing be -possible, no less so in reality. It is as trite to attempt as it is -impossible to effect the portraying of the life of two young people who -are profoundly happy in each other. Joy may be named, but not painted. -Even were it easy to picture their existence, their self-absorption -would prevent their being interesting. As I have sometimes passed the -old house on Moon Street, standing worn and stained with the storms of -two centuries, a picture has risen before me of the young bride and -groom sitting together and inhaling the fragrance of a quaint pot of -tuberoses, blooming so wonderfully that the whole house was filled with -their odor; and the memory brings always the tears to my eyes. - - -IV. - -November was at its last day. A severe storm, half rain, half snow, was -sweeping over Boston. The beacon upon Trimount trembled in the blast, -and on the shores of the peninsula the waves roared sullenly. Few people -were abroad, and there was never a watchman in the city who did not for -that day at least regret having chosen a calling which kept him out of -doors in such weather. - -The house on Sun Court Street was too stoutly built to tremble, yet -those within heard the wind howling over the hill as if scourged by all -the furies. It was one of those nights when a man sits before his fire -and realizes the value of all his blessings. - -John and Rose sat together before the blazing hearth while the husband -told stories of his boyhood in England. The wife nestled close to him, -absorbed in the narration, yet not forgetting to fondle his hand with -her smooth, soft fingers. - -Suddenly into the room burst black, dumb Dinah, wringing her hands and -moving her speechless lips with frightful earnestness. In her hands she -carried the fragments of the pot which had held the tuberose. - -Rose sprang up with a cry of anguish. - -"Dinah! Dinah! My tuberose!" - -The negress gesticulated wildly, but her mistress rushed past her; and, -followed by her husband, hastened to see for herself the extent of the -mischief. - -The pot had been overturned by the wind, which had burst in one of the -tiny greenish window panes, and the plant was completely crushed in the -downfall. Not a single flower had escaped, and mingled with fragments -of pottery and with the black church-yard mould in which the flower -had--perhaps ill-fatedly--been planted, were the leaves and petals, torn -and stained and mangled. - -In the first sorrow of the discovery of the accident, Rose threw herself -into her husband's arms and burst into tears; but she soon controlled -herself, and became perfectly calm. She directed Dinah to remove the -débris, and returned to listen to her husband's stories; and, although -she was more quiet than before, she seemed no less interested. - -It was late when they prepared to retire. - -"John," Rose said, hesitatingly, as they lingered a moment side by side -before the wide hearth, "it is just a year to-night since Mistress -Henshaw died. If you are willing, I wish to pass the night alone in her -room." - -"I am always willing you should do whatever pleaseth you best," he -answered, smiling upon her; "but why do you mean to shut me out from -your sorrow? I, too, loved her." - -"I know," Rose returned, bending to kiss the hand he had laid upon hers, -"and I fear you can never be shut out from my sorrows, however much I -could wish to spare you. Still, I wish it to be so for to-night." - -"Then let it be so. The storm does not fright you?" - -"The storm does not fright me." - -She took from her throat the tuberoses she had worn that day, and gazed -at them sadly. - -"I can never wear another," she said. "These are faded like our happy -days." - -"You speak but sadly," returned her husband, with a look of such -fondness that the tears started into her eyes despite all her efforts -to restrain them. "You would have spoken so had you been bidding me -farewell. The destruction of the flower makes you downcast. Mayhap there -is still life in the root, and it may be made once more to grow and -bloom." - -"John," his wife said abruptly, "John, I have loved you from the first -moment I saw you; I love you now, and I shall love you to all eternity. -Whatever happens, remember that and believe it." - -"I have never doubted that you love me," he answered, gathering her into -his arms; "how else could it be that you could have made me so utterly -happy?" - -She clung to him passionately a moment. Then with an evident effort at -self-control, she kissed his lips fervently, disengaged herself from his -embrace, and turned away. - -"Good-night, dear," she said. - -Then upon the threshold of Mistress Henshaw's chamber she paused and -looked back, tears shining in her beautiful dark eyes. - -"Good-night," she repeated; "good-night." - - -V. - -It was somewhat past his usual hour of rising when John Friendleton -next morning came downstairs. The storm was over, but everywhere had it -left its traces in broken boughs, overturned fences, and dilapidated -chimneys, so that as he looked from the window, John could see on all -sides the evidences of its violence. - -The house was strangely quiet, and he looked about him with the -impatience of a lover for his wife, that she might chase away the -unaccustomed sombreness which seemed to have descended upon the place. - -"Dinah," he asked, "has not your mistress risen?" - -The mute regarded him with a strange appearance of wildness and terror, -but she replied by a shake of the head,--instantly hurrying out of the -room as if in fear. - -John looked after her an instant in bewilderment, not understanding her -odd manner; and then approaching the door of the room occupied by his -wife, he tapped softly. - -There was no response. - -He tapped again somewhat more loudly. Still there was no reply. A third -time he rapped, now with a heavy hand. All within was as silent as the -grave. - -Startled by he knew not what fear, with a sudden impulse he set his -strong shoulder to the door, and strained until with a crash it flew -open. - -The heavy curtains were undrawn, and a grey gloom filled the chamber. -A fearful silence followed the crash of the breaking lock, and met him -like a palpable terror. He saw Rose lying on the bed, her face buried -in the pillows; and by some fantastic jugglery, the light from the open -door, as it fell upon her hair,--those abundant tresses whose rich, dark -glory he so loved,--seemed to silver them to the whiteness of hoary age. - -"Rose!" he cried, starting forward to seize her hand which lay upon the -coverlid. - -The hand was cold with a chill which smote him to the very heart. - -"Rose! Sweetheart!" he cried in a piercing voice, bending over and -tenderly turning her dear face up to the light. - -What horrible mockery confronted him? He started back like one stung by -a serpent! - -Along the pillow lay a crushed and withered tuberose, and he looked upon -the face, ghastly in death, and old and haggard and wrinkled--of -Mistress Henshaw. - - - - -Interlude Second. - -AN EVENING AT WHIST. - - - - -AN EVENING AT WHIST. - - -[_The scene is the parlor of a modern house, much adorned, and furnished -with a wealth of bric-a-brac, which renders getting about a most -difficult and delicate operation, unless one is wholly regardless of -the consequences to the innumerable ornaments. Mrs. Greeleigh Vaughn, -a corpulent and well-preserved widow, who passes for forty, and is not -less, has just seated herself at the whist-table, with her daughter and -two guests. One of these, Mr. Amptill Talbot, is one of those young men -whose wits seem to be in some mysterious fashion closely connected with -the parting of their hair exactly in the middle; the other is a handsome -and keen-eyed gentleman of middle age, who answers to the name Colonel -Graham._] - -_Mrs. Vaughn._ I am so glad you could and would come, Colonel Graham. -Now we shall have a delightful evening at whist. You are such a superb -player that I am sure I shall learn more about the game by playing with -you a single evening than I should by studying the books for a year. - -_Colonel Graham._ You are too good. I make not the slightest pretence -of-- - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, of course not. You are too modest; but everybody says that -you are a wonderful player. I only hope you won't be too hard on me if -I make a mistake. - -_Miss Vaughn._ Oh, I am so glad mamma is your partner, Colonel Graham. I -should be frightened to death if I had to play with you. Mr. Talbot will -be a good deal more merciful, I am sure. - -_Mr. Talbot._ Anything you do is sure to be right, Miss Vaughn. If you -can put up with me, I am sure I can afford to overlook any mistakes you -make. I play whist so seldom that I am all out of practice. - -_Miss V._ (_dealing_). Oh, I just never play, only when I have to make -up the table. I have so many things on hand. Why weren't you at the -Wentworths' last night, Mr. Talbot? - -_Mr. T._ I was out of town. I think you gave yourself two cards that -time. - -_Miss V._ Oh, dear! Have I made a misdeal? I wish you'd count your -cards. - -_Colonel G._ You are right. The next card is mine. - -_Miss V._ Thank you. - -_Mrs. V._ That came out all right. - -_Colonel G._ But the trump is not turned. - -_Miss V._ Oh, which was the last card? I am sure I don't know; I've got -them all mixed up now. - -_Mrs. V._ Well, never mind. Let me draw one. That will do just as well. - -_Mr. T._ Diamonds? Can't you draw again? I haven't-- - -_Miss V._ I don't think it was diamonds. I am almost sure it was spades. - -_Mrs. V._ No, diamonds suits me, and of course you can't change it now; -can she, Colonel Graham? - -_Colonel G._ It isn't customary, I believe, unless we are to play -Auction Pitch, and bid for the trump. - -_Miss V._ Oh, now you are going to be sarcastic! I don't think that's -fair. - -_Mrs. V._ Do you put your trumps at one end of your hand, Colonel -Graham? - -_Colonel G._ No, I do not, but some people find it a convenience. - -_Mr. T._ Is it my lead? - -_Colonel G._ No, it is my partner's. - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, is it my lead? I'm sure I don't know what to play. You -always lead from your long suit, don't you? There, I hope that queen -will be good. - -_Mr. T._ No, it won't, for I have the ace. - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, you mean man! Partner, can't you trump that? - -_Colonel G._ I have suit. - -_Miss V._ There, I have got to put the king on, and I think it is mean. - -_Mr. T._ I am awfully sorry. If I'd only known-- - -_Miss V._ I shook my head at you, but you wouldn't look up. - -_Mrs. V._ That wasn't fair, and you deserve to be beaten. Now my jack is -good, any way. - -_Mr. T._ It isn't your lead. I took the trick. - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, I beg pardon. - -_Miss V._ I would have trumped it, any way. - -_Mr. T._ I wish I knew what you have. - -_Miss V._ I wish I could tell you. Don't make it too dark. - -_Mr. T._ Then I'll lead diamonds. - -_Miss V._ That's just right. - -_Mrs. V._ Diamonds are trumps. - -_Miss V._ Oh, are they? Oh, that's too bad. I didn't want trumps led. - -_Mr. T._ But you said-- Why, can't you go over Colonel Graham's -nine-spot? - -_Miss V._ I made a mistake. I meant to play the ten. - -_Mrs. V._ Shall I put on a small one or a high one, Colonel Graham? - -_Colonel G._ The trick is ours as it lies. - -_Mrs. V._ Then if I put on a high one it will get it out of the way, so -you'll know what to do next time. - -_Mr. T._ Why, you've thrown away the king of trumps! - -_Mrs. V._ Wasn't that right? - -_Miss V._ Why, of course not, mamma. You ought to have put on either the -ace or a low one. - -_Colonel G._ It is your lead, Mrs. Vaughn. - -_Mrs. V._ She says she'll trump hearts, and I can't play my knave. I'll -try spades. I hope you'll take it. - -_Mr. T._ And he did. How nice to have a partner do just what you tell -him to. - -_Miss V._ That means that I don't. - -_Mr. T._ You are always satisfactory, whatever you do. - -_Miss V._ What was led? Clubs? Are clubs trumps? - -_Colonel G._ No; diamonds. - -_Miss V._ Second hand low. I know that, at any rate, so there's a -two-spot. - -_Mr. T._ Your mother has taken it with the seven. - -_Miss V._ Oh, and I had the ace, king, and queen. Ought I to have played -one of those? - -_Colonel G._ If you tell us your hand you must expect us to play to it. - -_Miss V._ I didn't mean to tell. - -_Mrs. V._ (_leading spades_). That was your suit, wasn't it? - -_Mr. T._ But I hold the ace. - -_Miss V._ It was your own lead, mamma. Any way, I'll trump it. - -_Mr. T._ Why, you've trumped my ace. - -_Miss V._ Oh, did I? I didn't mean to. Can't I take it back? - -_Colonel G._ It is a little late, but still-- - -_Miss V._ Oh, well, never mind. Let it go. I have the king, any way -(_leading it_). - -_Colonel G._ But you just trumped a spade. - -_Mrs. V._ A revoke! That gives us three points. - -_Miss V._ Oh, it doesn't either! I didn't see that king at all when I -trumped, and that was the only spade I had. I'll change it on the last -trick, and then it will be all right. - -_Mrs. V._ You can't do that; can she, Colonel Graham? - -_Colonel G._ It isn't customary. - -_Mr. T._ Oh, who wants to play the stiff club rules? I don't; there -isn't any fun in whist if you are going to be so particular. - -_Miss V._ Whose lead is it now? - -_Colonel G._ If it isn't yours it must be Mr. Talbot's, as you decide -about that trick. - -_Mr. T._ Then I'll lead a spade, and you can trump it. - -_Miss V._ There, that's better than having that trump wasted on your -ace. - -_Mrs. V._ Did you ever play Stop? We played it last summer at Bar -Harbor. It's a Western game, and you have chips, just like poker; and -then you stop it if you have the stop cards; and sometimes you'll have -the meanest little cards left in your hands, and if it is the ace of -diamonds you have to pay five chips for it, or the king, or the queen, -or the knave, or the ten; not so much, of course, but it all counts up -awfully fast. - -_Mr. T._ Why, that is ever so much like Sixty-six. Do you remember the -time we tried to play Sixty-six on the Bar Harbor boat, Miss Vaughn? - -_Miss V._ Oh, yes; and Ethel Mott _was_ such fun. She just would cheat, -and there was no stopping her. - -_Colonel G._ It is your lead, Miss Vaughn. - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, just wait a moment. I want to know if fourth best has -anything to do with playing fourth hand? - -_Colonel G._ Nothing whatever. - -_Mr. T._ Oh, fourth best is one of those things they've put in to make -whist scientific. For my part, I don't think there's any fun-- - -_Miss V._ That's just what I say. When I play whist I want to have a -good time, and not feel as if I were going through an examination at a -scientific school. Oh, did you know we are going to have a whist figure -at Janet Graham's german, Mr. Talbot? Won't that be fun? - -_Mr. T._ I am sure then that you'll be trump. - -_Miss V._ Thank you. - -_Mrs. V._ How pretty! - -_Colonel G._ It is your lead, Miss Vaughn. - -_Miss V._ Why, did I take the last trick? What shall I--oh, I know,--the -ace of clubs. - -_Mrs. V._ The two-spot of diamonds ought to be good for that. - -_Miss V._ How horrid! Now the rest of my clubs aren't any good. Well, -any way, I can throw them away. - -_Mrs. V._ Have hearts been led? - -_Mr. T._ I'm sure I can't remember. - -_Miss V._ (_examining tricks_). Yes, here's one heart trick. - -_Mrs. V._ Well, I must lead it, and I'm sure I don't remember about it -at all. I'll lead a small one. Was that right, Colonel Graham? - -_Colonel G._ You might have led your knave. - -_Mrs. V._ Why, how did you know I had the knave. I declare, it's like -witchcraft, the way you keep run of the cards. I suppose you know where -every card is. Who took that? - -_Colonel G._ I did. - -_Mr. T._ I ought to have trumped that, but I do hate to trump second -hand. - -_Colonel G._ But you played suit. - -_Mr. T._ So I did. I forgot that. - -_Colonel G._ (_showing hand_). The rest of the tricks are mine. - -_Miss V._ Why, I have the king and queen of clubs, and you haven't a -club in your hand. - -_Colonel G._ That is why the tricks are mine. I can keep the lead to the -end. I am very sorry, Mrs. Vaughn; but I am suddenly attacked with a -nervous headache, so that I cannot possibly go on playing. I shall have -to ask to be excused. - -_Mrs. V._ Oh, don't break up the game when we are getting along so well. - -_Colonel G._ I am very sorry; but I must go. I have enjoyed the game -extremely. - -_Mr. T._ Are you out? - -_Colonel G._ Yes. - -_Mrs. V._ I'm sure it was all owing to you. - -_Colonel G._ It was all owing to the fall of the cards. I haven't done -anything. - -_Miss V._ I'm sure we didn't have anything on our side at all. I hate -whist anyway; you have to be so quiet, and study on it so. - -_Mr. T._ Yes, I think it's awfully hard work. - -_Colonel G._ Oh, you'll have better luck next time. Good-by; don't rise. - -[_And the Colonel goes to the club to relieve his mind by a quantity of -vigorous expletives, and then to settle down to an evening of what he -calls real whist._] - - - - -Tale the Third. - -SAUCY BETTY MORK. - - - - -SAUCY BETTY MORK. - - -I. - -"But, Miss Bessie--" - -"I have told you a dozen times, Mr. Granton, that my name is not Bessie. -I abhor that final _ie_; and more than that, I was christened -Betty,--plain Betty,--and Betty I will be." - -"Miss Betty, then, if that suits you; though why you should be so -particular about that old-fashioned name, I'm sure I can't conceive." - -"In the first place, it is my name," Betty replied, bending upon him -a glance at once bewitching and tantalizing; "that ought to count for -something; and in the second place, my family name isn't one that lends -itself to soft prefixes. Besides all which, there has been a Betty Mork -from time immemorial; and I shall never be one to spoil the line by -changing my name." - -"What?" Mr. Granton demanded mischievously. "Never change it? Are you -vowed to eternal single blessedness, then, or shall you imitate the -women's-rights women, who--" - -"It is really none of your affair what I intend to do," returned she, -bridling; "only, to go back to what we started on, I do intend to play -in the tournament with Frank Bradford. I am not in the habit of breaking -my promises." - -The pair walked along the shady country road without speaking for a -moment or two, the young man inclined to be sulky, his companion saucy -and good-natured. The dropping sunshine, falling through the gently -waving elm-boughs, struck golden lights out of Miss Mork's abundant -chestnut hair,--her one beauty, it amused her to call it, although -the smile which brought out her dimples and the lustre of her eyes -contradicted the words even while they were being spoken. Young Granton -was fully alive to the attractiveness of the lithe figure beside him; -indeed, for his own peace of mind, far too keenly. He was aware, too, -of the difficulty of managing the wilful beauty, whose independence was -sufficiently understood by all the summer idlers at Maugus. - -"But you certainly knew I expected you to play in the tournament with -me," he began again, returning to the attack. - -"It isn't modest for a girl ever to know what a man expects of her -until she's told," Betty replied demurely, "even in tennis. And besides, -it was presumptuous for you to be so royally certain of my acquiescence -in whatever you deigned to plan." - -"I'll serve a cut so that you'll never be able to return it," threatened -he. - -"I can serve a cut myself," she retorted, with an accent which seemed to -indicate a double significance in the words. - -"Confound it!" he said, incisively, with sudden and inconsistent change -of base, "it is perfect folly letting ladies into a tournament anyway. -Who wants them? They always make trouble." - -"I understood that you wanted one," Betty answered, unmoved, observing -the fringe of her parasol with great apparent interest; "but of course -I knew your invitation was not to be taken too seriously." - -"Oh, bother!" the young man cried, slashing viciously at the head of a -late-blooming daisy. "Why do you always insist on quarrelling with me?" - -"Are we really quarrelling?" she laughed back with her most exasperating -lightness of manner. "How delightful! If there is one thing that I enjoy -more than I do tennis, it is a good quarrel." - -"Tennis!" Granton retorted, the last shreds of his patience giving way. -"It must be allowed that you can quarrel better than you can play. No -girl," he went on, with increasing acerbity, "can ever really play -tennis: she only plays at playing it; and it spoils any man's game to -play with her. For my part, I cannot see why they are to be admitted to -the tournament at all." - -"_Merci!_" exclaimed Mistress Betty, stopping in the sun-dappled way to -make him a profound courtesy. "Now I know what your true sentiments are, -and how much your invitation was worth. Thank you for nothing, Mr. Nat -Granton. I wish you luck of your partner,--when you get one. It is a -cruel shame that by the rules of the tournament it must be a girl!" - -And before Granton was able to reply or knew what she intended, pretty -Miss Mork, with her tripping gait, her bright eyes, ugly name, and all, -had whisked through a turnstile and was half-way across the lawn of the -cottage where her particular bosom-friend Miss Dora Mosely was spending -the summer. - - -II. - -While Granton continued his perturbed way down the lovely village street -to the Elm House, which for the time being was the home of a pleasant -colony of summer idlers seeking rest and diversion in Maugus, Miss Betty -flitted lightly over the lawn and joined her friend, whom she found -reposing in a hammock swung under the cool veranda. - -"Oh, Dolly," was her breathless salutation, "I've got the awfullest -thing to do! But I'll do it, or perish in the attempt!" - -"Halloo, Betty!" was Miss Mosely's response and greeting; "how like a -whirlwind you are! What is the matter? What have you got to do?" - -"Beat Mr. Granton at tennis in the tournament." - -"You and Mr. Bradford, you mean?" - -"No; I mean all by myself,--in a single. I sha'n't play in the double at -all, if I can get out of it without sneaking." - -"What in the world has happened to bring you to this desperate frame of -mind?" - -"Well, Dolly, the fact is, Mr. Granton has been making himself -particularly odious because I wouldn't throw over Frank Bradford to -play with him, and--" - -"I told you," her friend interrupted judicially, examining the toe of -her slipper with much interest and satisfaction, "that you'd be sorry -you agreed to play with Frank." - -"But I'm not sorry," protested the other, with spirit. "Do you think I'm -so bound up in Nat Granton that I can't get on without him? If he wanted -me to play with him why didn't he ask me, instead of taking it for -granted, in that insufferably conceited way of his, that I'd stand about -and wait on his lordship's leisure? Oh, I'll pay him off! I shall go -over to grandmother's every blessed day from now until the tournament -and practise, so as to take down his top-loftical airs." - -At which exhibition of spite and determination Miss Mosely fell to -laughing, and said Betty's manner suggested pickled limes, which in turn -reminded her of the chocolate-creams they had at boarding-school, and -that brought to mind some particularly delicious marshmallows which had -been saved until Betty should come over; and she added that it would be -a very good plan to go into the house and devour them. - -Over the flabby and inane confection with which the two friends regaled -themselves, it was arranged that Dora should devote herself with -Machiavelian shrewdness to bringing about a reconciliation between Frank -Bradford and his betrothed, Flora Sturtevant, whose quarrel had led to -the invitation which had involved Betty in her present difficulties. In -the meantime, Mistress Mork was to give herself with great assiduity to -the practice of cutting, volleying, and such devices of skill or cunning -as would make possible the realization of her bold plan of conquering -Mr. Granton in the tennis tournament, over which all the young people -were just then much excited. - -These conclusions were not reached without much digression, -circumlocution, and irrelevant discourse upon various matters, with a -good deal of consideration of the dress which would be both convenient -and becoming for the important games. - -"I have almost a mind to try a divided skirt," Betty said thoughtfully. -"George saw one at a tournament in England, and it could be fixed so as -not-- Oh, Dora, if George were only here! He knows all the new English -rules and cuts, and all sorts of quirks. Oh, why did you have to quarrel -with him just now? Now I shall lose my tennis just because you drove -him away from Maugus." - -"Why, Betty Mork! You said yourself you wouldn't stand his lordly ways; -you know you did." - -"Of course," returned her friend illogically; "but we both agreed that -you'd have to make up with him some time; and I didn't know then that I -should want him." - -"But what could I do?" demanded Dora, divided between a sense of being -deserted by her friend and a desire to have difficulties smoothed over. -"Any girl with decent pride would have _had_ to send George away. You -know how I hated to do it." - -"But you might send for him now." - -"Oh, I couldn't. That would be too awfully humiliating. I wonder you can -propose it." - -"Men are so dreadful," sighed Betty. - -The two forlorn victims of masculine perversity pensively ate -marshmallows in silence for a moment, revolving, no doubt, the most -profound reflections upon the vanity of human affairs. - -"I'll tell you what I will do," Betty said at length, reflectively. -"I'll write to George and make him visit grandmother. He hasn't been -there for a year, to stay; and, as grandmother says, she 'admires to -have him.' I'll tell him if he'll stay there, out of sight, I think I -can fix things with you." - -"Oh, you delicious, darling hypocrite!" exclaimed her friend, embracing -her rapturously. "You are a perfect treasure, Bet! I'll do anything to -help you,--anything. I've been perfectly wretched ever since George went -away; but of course I couldn't say so, if I'd died." - - -III. - -"So you are not going to play with Bradford, after all?" Nat Granton -said, flinging himself on the turf at Miss Mork's feet as she sat -watching the tennis-players practising for the tournament. - -"No," she answered. "He and Flora have recovered from their temporary -alienation, and I was generous and took myself out of the way." - -"Will you play with me?" - -"Thank you; no. I shall not go into any team; and in any case, I know -too well your sentiments on the subject of girls' playing to trespass -on your good nature." - -"Then I shall not play," he said, rather crossly. - -"And pray what do I care if you don't?" - -"It would be polite to pretend to, at any rate." - - "'The slightest approach to a false pretence - Was never among my crimes;'" - -she quoted, twirling her gay parasol swiftly on its handle. "Do see Tom -Carruth serve. That cut is my despair." - -"It is simple enough to return," Granton answered, "if you know when it -is coming: you've only to run up." - -"Yes, but how is one to know when it is coming?" - -"One always can tell when I give it," he replied, laughing, "for I -always fling my head back." - -There came a wicked sparkle of intelligence into Betty's eyes as she -made a mental note of this confession for future use. Then the long -lashes fell demurely over her cheeks as she gathered together her -belongings and rose. - -"I must go over to grandmother's," she said. "Never spend the summer -near your grandmother's, Mr. Granton: she may be ill and absorb all your -spare time." - -And away sped the deceitful damsel, on nefarious schemes intent, to play -tennis with her cousin George, who had responded with celerity to her -summons. She was really improving with a good deal of rapidity. She had -been a sad romp in her day, and every prank of her tomboy girlhood stood -her in good stead now. Every fence and tree she had climbed, to the -unspeakable horror and scandal of elderly spinster aunts, every game of -ball for which she had been lectured by an eminently proper governess, -every stolen fishing-expedition and hoydenish race whose improprieties -my lady buried with overwhelming scorn in the oblivion of the past, had -been a preparation for the struggle into which she now threw herself -with the whole force of mind and body. - -Her cousin George Snow, who was sufficiently fond of his mischievous -cousin, and duly grateful for her supposed good offices in arranging the -difficulties between himself and Dora, was an invaluable ally. He was -taken into full confidence, and embraced the project most heartily. -Granton was a right nice fellow, he admitted, but it certainly would not -hurt him to be taken down a peg. Snow had just returned from England, -where he had seen some of the finest tennis-players perform. - -"You play too near the net," he said. "All American players do. Play -well back, and above everything, put all your force into the return." - -"But I shall send the ball out of the court," Betty protested. - -"You mustn't. Drive it down as hard as ever you can. Strength--or rather -swiftness--tells; if your service is swift enough it is worth all -the fancy cuts in the world. The Renshaws make half their points by -volleying from the service-line, and the rest by swift service." - -"Swiftness is the word," Betty returned gayly. "Anything more?" - -"Get used to striking back-handed; don't try to turn your thumb down; -make a business of an out-and-out back-handed, wrong-side-of-the-racquet -stroke." - -How sound all this advice was, tennis players may determine for -themselves; but it certainly served its purpose well. Betty was a -promising pupil. Morning, noon, and night she played, working with an -assiduity which nearly fagged her cousin out. - -"You are plucky, Betty," he declared one day. "I'm afraid for my own -laurels. And by the way, am I to be allowed to be present at this great -tournament in which you are to cover yourself and your sex with glory?" - -"Oh, yes; you are to challenge Mr. Granton if he beats me,--though he -sha'n't! Anybody can challenge the winner, you know. That's a provision -I had put in myself to cover my own case." - -"Poor Granton!" George laughed. "Little does he dream of the awful -humiliation in store for him." - -Betty set her lips together and nodded her head in a determined way. - -"George," she declared, with tragic earnestness, "if I get beaten I -shall go straight home and die of--" - -"Baffled stubbornness," interpolated her cousin. - -"Thwarted vengeance," suggested Dora. - -"No, of righteous indignation. Come, one set more before we drive back -to Maugus. Only two days left, you know." - - -IV. - -The morning of the second day of the tournament dawned clear, and what -was quite as much to the purpose, unusually cool. A little breeze from -the northwest crept over the hills,--just enough to fan the heated -players without disturbing the flight of the balls; while to make the -weather perfect for tennis, by ten o'clock a light veil of clouds had -comfortably covered the sun, cutting off all troublesome rays. - -"It is a perfect day," Betty remarked to Dora, as they took their places -among the spectators. "I've put my things ready so I can dress in two -minutes. Here comes George." - -The affair was an event in quiet Maugus. It had been talked about as the -most important event could not have been discussed anywhere but in the -idle hours of summer leisure, and had come to be regarded as quite the -event of the season. The tennis-court was laid out near the Elm House, -and was surrounded by superb old trees that in all the slow years of -their growth had never over-arched a prettier sight than that afternoon -showed, with its groups of nice old ladies, and charming young damsels -in all the picturesque bravery of their nineteenth-century costume. -The contest of the first day of the tournament had disposed of all the -four-handed games but the final match, and the afternoon of the second -day was left free for the single games. Granton had entered for the -latter, and was looked upon as the probable victor. He won easily his -first rubber, and came over to where Betty sat to wait his turn again. - -"It is lucky for me, Mr. Snow," he said to George, who in the happiness -of full reconciliation sat by Dora's side, "that you are not playing, -or I shouldn't have the ghost of a chance." - -"I'm resting on the laurels I won last year," was the light response. -"It's far easier than to risk one's reputation and defend it." - -"Are you so sure of winning, as it is, Mr. Granton?" asked Betty coolly. - -"Sure? Of course not; but I have hopes now, which I shouldn't indulge -if Mr. Snow, with the glory of his victories at Newport last year, were -counted in." - -"I wish you success," she said, with a certain trace of satire in her -tone. "Isn't Mr. Howard playing remarkably well to-day? What a splendid -volley? That gives him the game." - -"Sets: two, love," called the scorer, and Mr. Howard's victory was -saluted with applause, which Mistress Betty took great satisfaction in -leading. - -"You seem to be greatly pleased at Howard's good luck," Granton -observed, remembering that when his success had been clapped, just -before, Miss Mork had refrained from lending a hand. - -"Why shouldn't I be?" she returned. "I've bet him a pair of gloves he -wins." - -"What will you bet me I lose?" demanded he, not especially pleased at -any sort of understanding between the young lady before him and Howard. - -"Anything you like." - -"I should like nothing so much as--" - -"As what?" - -"No; upon reflection I don't think I dare mention it," Granton said -coolly, looking at her with an expression in his big brown eyes which -made her flush in spite of herself. - -"Don't be impudent," she replied. "That is my province." - -"Time!" called the umpire, a little later. "Howard and Granton, -concluding set." - -"Wish me luck," Granton murmured, bending toward Betty as he rose. - -"I'm sure I do, for my own sake," she responded, with an ambiguity he -afterward had reason to understand. - -"What shall I do if Mr. Howard beats him?" Betty said to George and -Dora, as the set began. "There'd be no fun playing him instead of Mr. -Granton." - -"Oh, Howard hasn't the ghost of a chance," George responded -reassuringly. "You are all right, Bet, if you don't get nervous." - -But Betty did get nervous. The color came and went in her cheeks almost -as swiftly as the flying balls were thrown, whose skilful service and -returns soon proved Snow to be right in asserting that Howard had no -chance against his antagonist. - -"Oh, George," she whispered, in an agony of apprehension, "can I do it? -Won't he beat me? It would be too horrible to challenge him and then -fail!" - -"Do it?" retorted her cousin; "of course you can do it! See that short -serve. That's what's breaking Howard up: it's easy for you to return if -you'll run up to it. His swift service doesn't begin to be as good as -yours." - -"Love set," called the scorer; and as Betty looked at the supple, -muscular figure of Nat Granton while the players exchanged courts, her -fears almost overcame her resolve. - -"My heart is thumping against my very boot-heels, Dolly," she confided -to her friend. "It's no sort of use." - -"Are you going to give up?" demanded Dora curiously, and perhaps a -little tauntingly. - -"Give up!" cried Mistress Mork stoutly. "Do I ever give up? I'll die -first! But I do wish he wouldn't get so many love games! It's dreadfully -discouraging." - -Granton was, in truth, having everything his own way. Howard, although a -good player, had somehow lost his coolness, and was soon demoralized by -a peculiar short, cutting service, of which his opponent had complete -mastery, and which he was unable to return. His play became wild and -uneven, and the contest was quickly decided against him. - -The master of ceremonies came forward with the announcement that the -prize racquet belonged to Mr. Nathaniel Granton, but that, according -to the provisions of the tournament, any person had now a right to -challenge the winner to play for the prize, by the best two games in -three. - -There was a rustle, and then a pause, as many eyes were turned toward -George Snow, who had won in the Newport games the summer before. But -that gentleman sat quiet in his place, a smile of amusement stealing -over his comely features as Dora said, in the most tragic of whispers,-- - -"Oh, Betty, how can you?" - -But Betty, her head thrown a trifle back, and the color flaming hotly -into her face, rose with a charming mixture of dignity and shyness, and -walked, before them all, straight up to the judges. - -"I challenge the winner to a match," she said, steadily enough, although -she confided to Dora afterward that she felt as if every word had to be -dragged out by main force. "I should like five minutes to change my -dress." - -Granton uttered a low, sharp whistle, and doffed his cap. - -"All right," the master of ceremonies returned. "Be as quick as you -can." - -"I'll not keep you waiting long," she assured him, and turned to beckon -Dora to her. - -As the two girls disappeared into the hotel, the bustle and chatter -began again with renewed vigor, and swelled and buzzed in the liveliest -fashion. Here was a genuine sensation for Maugus. Betty was too lovely -and too great a favorite with the men wholly to escape the censure of -the young ladies, who now had a string of pretty things to say of her -boldness and presumption. But the gentlemen rallied to a man in her -support, and, by the time she reappeared, public opinion, as represented -by the spectators of the tournament, if not wholly in her favor, was so -in outward expression. - -She was dressed in a dark-blue jersey of silk, which fitted her in -that perfect combination only possible with a faultless figure and an -irreproachable jersey; and below that a skirt of navy-blue flannel -fell in straight plaits to her ankles, where one caught, as she moved, -occasional glimpses of a crimson stocking, the exact shade of her flat -sash and of the close wing-tip in her trig little blue silk cap. There -was nothing of the nature of tags and ends about her costume. Her hair -was closely coiled, and even her ear-rings had been removed. The crimson -handkerchief about her white throat was fastened into its place so -securely as scarcely to be less smooth when the playing was over than -when the first game began. - -She was very sober,--so grave, indeed, that George went over to her just -as she took her place, to say some absurd thing to make her laugh. - -"Don't be nervous," he added, having succeeded in his object so far as -to call a fleeting smile to her face. "And don't look as if assisting at -your own obsequies. You are all right, if you'll only think so." - -"Will she do it?" Dora asked anxiously, as he took his seat again. - -"I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "I've told her she will, and I -hope so; but it isn't going to be so easy." - -They talked of that tennis tournament for many a long day in Maugus. -Opinion was divided at first as to the probable result. There was a -quiet concentration in Betty's manner which soon began to awake -confidence in her ultimate success, although at first she lost. Even the -most envious of the girls soon found themselves applauding every lucky -hit she made; and Betty, whose senses were keenly alive that day, felt -the stimulating consciousness that the general sympathy was with her. -She threw her whole soul into her playing, every point she lost arousing -her to new exertions. - -"By Jove! Dora," George said, "Granton's bound to get a lesson. Betty's -blood is getting up. I'm convinced now that she'll win, and I'll bet you -the gloves that she beats him a love set before she's done." - -Dora was too excited to answer him. She hoped he might be right, but -just now Betty was losing. She had been beaten three games out of five, -and the present one, on Granton's service, was going hard against her. -Granton was harassing her with his short cut, which fell before her -racquet reached it nearly every time. - -"What's got into her?" George muttered uneasily. "Ah, that was better. -Good return." - -And he led the hand-clapping which greeted the difficult stroke by -which Betty brought the score up to deuce. The game went against her, -however, and soon after, the set. - -"I'll do it, George," Betty said under her breath, as she passed him in -changing courts. "Don't be discouraged. The Mork blood is up." - -"It's all on his cuts, Bet. Run up to them. Watch his service, and you -can tell when they are coming. Nat could never serve a decent swift -ball." - -Betty nodded and went on to her place. - -"Play!" called Granton. - -Watching him, his opponent noticed him throw his head back, and -remembered his telling her that he always betrayed his cutting. She ran -toward the net as the ball came down, and returned it like a cannonball. - -"She's got it!" cried Snow, with great glee, in his excitement calling -so loudly that both the players heard him. "She's all right now. Oh, -that's beautiful!" - -Granton tried a couple of swift balls and faulted them both. - -"Love; thirty," called the scorer. - -Another cut; again cleverly intercepted; then a fault and an easy, -round-hand service. - -"Love; game." - -The applause was really quite tremendous. - -"They are all against me," Granton observed to Betty, handing her the -balls over the net and laughing rather ruefully. "Public opinion would -be positively outraged if you should fail." - -"I've no intention of failing, thank you," she returned, with spirit; -and away she swept to her position. "Play!" - -Granton was himself on his mettle, yet he did not play his best. -He could not fully recover from his surprise at the style of his -adversary's play. The swiftness of her service and returns was so -different from what was expected of a girl that he was scarcely on -his guard against it up to the very end. He felt the sympathy of the -spectators, too, to be against him, and this was not without its -influence. He lost the set, and with it, by an unfortunate chance, his -good nature. - -"Sets, one all," the scorer announced; and something in the saucy toss -of Betty's lovely head, as, flushed and panting, she stood talking with -George and Dora, jarred upon her lover's nerves with sudden irritation. -An unreasonable madness took possession of him. How much was wounded -vanity, it might not be easy to say; but under the circumstances, with -all his mates grinning at his failure, it was not at all strange that -his feelings were not wholly placid. His play in the third and decisive -set became rash and excited. He lost his head a little, and before he -fairly knew how it happened the score was called on Betty's service:-- - -"Games; five, love" - -"Good!" was George Snow's comment. "I told you she'd beat a love set -before she was done.--Oh, keep your head, Bet!" - -Betty delivered a ball swift as a bullet and just clearing the net. - -"Fifteen; love." - -A fault, and then another swift ball, which skimmed like a swallow over -the net and struck the ground only to cling to it in a swift roll. - -"Thirty; love." - -The next ball was beaten back and forth until Granton dashed it to the -ground at Betty's very feet. - -"Thirty; fifteen." - -The excitement was at its height. Even those who did not appreciate the -finer points of the play caught the interest and somehow understood -pretty accurately how matters stood, and were as earnest as the rest. -Small-talk was forgotten, heads were craned forward, and all eyes were -fixed upon the players. Betty grasped her racquet by the extreme end of -its handle, and held the ball as high above her head as she could reach. - -"Play!" - -She struck it with all her force. - -"Forty; fifteen," was the scorer's call; and Nat Granton understood that -only one stroke lay between him and defeat by a love set. - -George Snow deliberately turned away his face. - -"I never supposed I could be such a consummate fool," he said afterward, -"but I positively could not look at your last service, Bet. I felt as if -the whole universe were at stake." - -As for the player, she was fairly pale with excitement; but her head was -clear and her hand steady. She paused an instant, poising her racquet. -She observed that Granton stood near the middle of his court. With a -quick step she moved to the very outer corner of her own and sent a -swift ball sharply under her opponent's left hand. - -"Game; love set," called the scorer. "Sets two to one in favor of Miss -Mork." - -And, amid what for Maugus was a really astonishing round of applause, -Betty, flushed but triumphant, walked to the net to shake hands with her -vanquished lover. - - -V. - -It was astonishing how humble and forgiving her victory made Mistress -Betty. She was troubled with the fear that she had been unmaidenly, that -she had hurt Granton's feelings and alienated his friendship forever, -with a dozen more scruples quite as absurd and irrational. - -She escaped as quickly as possible from her friends and their -congratulations, and hurried to her room on the pretext of dressing for -supper. There she cooled her hot cheeks, burning with exercise and -excitement, and looking ruefully at her image in the mirror, shook her -head reproachfully at the counterfeit presentment as at one who had -beguiled her into misdoing. - -After supper she was sitting rather gloomily in a retired corner of the -piazza, when the defeated Granton approached. The reaction from the -afternoon's excitement had rendered the young lady's spirit rather -subdued, but she rallied at sight of the new-comer. - -"Good-evening," he said. "Were you enjoying the sweets of victory?" - -"I was enjoying the sweets of solitude," she returned, a little -pointedly. - -Granton laughed. - -"I suppose," he remarked, taking a vacant chair near her, "that I need -not apologize for my ill-judged remarks some time since about girls -and tennis. My afternoon's punishment ought to pass as a sufficient -expiation." - -"Expiation is always a matter of feeling." - -"Oh, as to that, I felt I had enough, I assure you," he laughed. "It may -not be gallant to say so, but it was really horrible to be beaten out of -my boots by a lady in broad daylight, in face of all Maugus assembled." - -Betty was silent. The remorseful feeling rose again in her breast. -Granton spoke lightly enough, but she wondered if she had not humiliated -him terribly. She played nervously with her fan, hardly knowing how to -phrase it, yet longing to offer something in the way of apology. - -"I hope," she began, "I hope--" - -Nat regarded her closely in the fading light as she hesitated, and by -some happy inspiration divined her softened mood. He noted the downcast -eyes and troubled face. Without fully comprehending her mental state, he -yet found courage to move a trifle nearer. - -"Yes?" he queried, laying his fingers upon the arm of her chair. - -Betty looked at the hand which had approached so near, and a sudden -trepidation thrilled her. She opened and closed her fan nervously, but -made no attempt to finish her broken sentence. - -"Betty," her lover said, leaning forward, "now I am in the dust at your -feet, you must at least let me speak. You've kept out of my way so for -the last two or three weeks that I was afraid you disliked me; but now -I understand where you have been. You know how much I care for you." - -Still she did not raise her eyes. - -"Don't you care for me?" he pleaded. "I've been in love with you all -summer. You must have known it." - -He paused again, yet she did not answer, though a great tide of joy -thrilled her whole being. Her lover seized both her hands and bent down -until his cheek almost touched hers. - -"Will you marry me, Betty?" - -All her wilfulness and sauciness flashed in her eyes as she lifted her -glance at last to his and answered. - -"I wouldn't if I hadn't beaten this afternoon." - -With which implied consent he seemed perfectly satisfied. - - - - -Interlude Third. - -MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. - - - - -MRS. FRUFFLES IS AT HOME. - - -In answer to the announcement that Mrs. Stephen Morgan Fruffles will, -on the afternoon of January 27, be at home from four to seven, all the -world--with the exception of her husband, who keeps significantly out of -the house, and at his club finds such solace as is possible under the -circumstances--has assembled to celebrate that rare and exciting event. - -The parlors are thronged almost to suffocation; the air is warm, -and laden with a hundred odors, which combine to make it well-nigh -unbreathable; the constant babble of conversation goes on with the -steady click-clack of a mill-wheel, and several hundred people -persistently talk without saying anything whatever. - -Mrs. Chumley Jones is there, in a most effective, costume of garnet -plush, adorned with some sort of long-haired black fur. She is conscious -of being perfectly well dressed, of being the best-known woman in the -parlors, and most of all is she now, as always, conscious of being the -one and only Mrs. Chumley Jones. Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering -trust in all these good things, she moves slowly through the rooms, or -stands at some convenient coign of vantage, dropping a word to this one -and to that, with just the right differences of manner fitted to the -degrees of the people whom she addresses. - -"My dear Mrs. Fruffles," she remarks to the hostess, "you do always have -such enchanting receptions!" - -"Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Jones," responds the other, fully aware what -is expected of her; "I wish I could begin to have anything so charming -as your Fridays." - -"Oh, so kind of you to say so," murmurs Mrs. Jones, with the expressive -shake of the head proper to the sentiment and the occasion. - -Then she passes on to her duty elsewhere. - -"How do you do, Mrs. Jones?" the voice of Ferdinand Maunder says at her -side. "Isn't it a lovely day? It is really like a Roman winter; don't -you think so?" - -"Yes, it really is, Mr. Maunder." - -"Yes, that's what I've been saying to myself all day." - -"It is so much nicer of you to say it to me." - -"Oh, Mrs. Jones, you are always so clever at turning things." - -They smile at each other with perfect and well-bred inanity for a -second, and then Fred Lasceet slips in between them. - -"How do you do, Mrs. Jones?" - -"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Lasceet? It is ever so long since I have seen -you." - -"So good of you to think it long. I am sure it seems an age to me." - -Mr. Maunder having meanwhile glided through the crowd with an eel-like -elusiveness, Mrs. Chumley Jones is left with a remark upon which to form -her conversation for the afternoon. - -"We have had such a strange winter; don't you think so, Mr. Lasceet? It -is really like a Roman winter." - -"It really is; though I shouldn't have thought of it. You are always so -clever in thinking of things, Mrs. Jones." - -"You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Lasceet." - -Mr. Lasceet endeavors to look very sly and cunning, and while he gives -his mind to this endeavor another slips into his place. - -"How do you do, Mrs. Jones?" says Percival Drummond. - -"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drummond? I haven't seen you for ever so long." - -Mr. Lasceet melts into the swaying background, and is seen no more. - -"It really is not nice of you to say so, Mrs. Jones," is Mr. Drummond's -response, "when I took you in to dinner at Mrs. Tiger's night before -last." - -"Oh, dear me; how stupid of me! I really fear I am losing my mind. It is -the weather, I think. It is so like a Roman winter, don't you think?" - -"Yes, it is a little." - -"Oh, ever so much. How do you do, dear Mrs. Gray? I am delighted to see -you. I was just saying to Mr. Drummond that it seems to me that our -winter this year is so much like a Roman winter. Did you ever think of -it?" - -"Oh, my dear, I have thought of nothing else all winter. Why, it is just -such a day as it was one afternoon two years ago when I was in Rome." - -"Were you in Rome year before last?" Mr. Drummond inquires, with the -air of one to whom the answer of the question is of the most vital -importance, although he asks only for the sake of being silent no -longer. - -"Yes, we went in October and stayed until March. You remember, Mrs. -Jones, that we dined with you the very day before we sailed." - -"Why, yes, so you did. I had forgotten all about it. Are you going?" - -"Yes, I really must go. I have three places more to call before I go -home, and we are going out to dinner." - -"I shall see you if you dine at the Muchmen's." - -"Oh, are you to be there? How lovely." - -"I hope to take one of you in," Mr. Drummond says, with a smile of the -most brilliant vacuity. - -"Are you to be there, too? Why, it will be quite a reunion. _Au -revoir._" - -The crowd swallows Mrs. Gray, and at the same moment Mr. Drummond is -seized upon by a sharp-looking elderly female, who drags him off as if -she were conveying him into some sly corner where she may devour him -undisturbed. Mrs. Jones turns to move toward the other parlor. - -At that moment she is accosted by a lady of an appearance so airy, both -as regards dress and manner, as to suggest that she is a mislaid member -of some ballet troupe. - -"Why, how do you do?" she cried, with a vivacity quite in keeping with -her appearance. "My dear Mrs. Jones, I haven't seen you since I got back -from Europe." - -"Why, Susie Throgmorton, is it really you? I didn't know you were home." - -"That shows what an unimportant person I am." - -"Oh, I knew you came home from Europe, but I thought you were still in -New York." - -"Oh, I only went on to see Aunt Dinah for a couple of days. I got caught -in the most awful storm you ever saw." - -"But the winter," Mrs. Chumley Jones observes, with an air of freshness -and conviction which is something beautiful to see, "has been as mild as -a Roman winter most of the time." - -"Yes, it has been like a Roman winter." - -The crowd separates them and they go their several ways, each repeating -that it is like a Roman winter; but meanwhile the same observation is -being scattered broadcast by Mr. Maunder, Mr. Lasceet, and Mr. Drummond, -so that, although there are a good many people in the room, they are in -a fair way of being all informed that the winter strongly resembles that -of Rome; a statement which, if true, may be regarded as of the highest -importance. - -It is not until, entering the tea room, Mrs. Chumley Jones encounters -Mrs. Quagget, who talks more rapidly than any other known woman, that -she has anybody take the words out of her mouth; but before she can tell -Mrs. Quagget that it is like a Roman winter, Mrs. Quagget has imparted -that interesting information to her. It is all one, however, since -something has been said by one of them; and Mrs. Chumley Jones is not in -the least disconcerted. She still clings to the convenient remark, as -she did not take the trouble to bring one with her, and this one suits -her purpose admirably. - -"My dear Miss Tarrart," she exclaims, as she comes upon a wintry young -lady of advanced stages of maturity, "how do you do? I haven't seen you -for an age." - -"Why, how do you do, Mrs. Jones?" is the response, delivered in a manner -so emphatic as to convey the impression that the reason why Miss Tarrart -is so odd-looking is because she has put so much energy into her -greetings of her friends. "I am enchanted to see you. When do you go -abroad? I am sure one might almost think they were abroad in this -weather. It is so--" - -"Yes," Mrs. Jones interposes, taking the words out of her mouth; "I -was just saying to Mrs. Quagget that this is really quite like a Roman -winter; don't you think so?" - -"Yes, it is," Miss Tarrart answers, with the air of one who has been -beaten by unfair means. "It is like a Roman winter." - -"Why don't you come and see me, Miss Tarrart? It really is not kind of -you to stay away so long." - -"I am coming very soon; and you must come and see me." - -"Oh, yes; I am coming. Do you know which way Mrs. Fruffles is? I really -must go." - -"She is in the other room." - -"Well, good-bye, dear." - -"Good-bye." - -The two separate, each thinking how fast the other is growing old. Mrs. -Chumley Jones, feeling that she has now done her whole duty, does not -even take the trouble any more to tell people that the winter is like a -Roman one. She merely makes her way to the hostess. - -"Good-bye," she says. "One always has such lovely times at your house, -Mrs. Fruffles." - -"Oh, it is so kind of you to say so, when your Fridays are so much -pleasanter." - -"It is so kind of you to say so, my dear Mrs. Fruffles; but I am sorry -to say that I cannot agree with you." - -"It is the weather partly," the hostess observes; "so many people have -said to me this afternoon that it seems like a Roman winter." - -"Yes, I was just thinking of that very thing. Well, good-bye, my dear. -Be sure and come in on Friday." - -"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for anything." - -"Good-bye." - -"Good-bye." - -And as far as Mrs. Chumley Jones is concerned, Mrs. Stephen Morgan -Fruffles ceases to be "At Home." - - - - -Tale the Fourth. - -JOHN VANTINE. - - - - -JOHN VANTINE. - - -The relation of so improbable a story as the following is to be -justified only by its truth. The hero is a New York lawyer, sufficiently -well known to render the mention of his name, were it allowable to -give it, an ample guarantee for the entire trustworthiness of any -statement he might make; and it is perhaps to be regretted that his -invincible--albeit natural--dislike of publicity prevents the production -of evidence which would at least establish the fact that his own belief -in the appearances by which he was visited is complete and sincere. - -Mr. Vantine, although a handsome and intellectual-looking man, is by -no means a person whose appearance would in any way single him out as -likely to be the hero of marvellous adventures. He is neither especially -imaginative nor credulous. He is simply a clear-headed and shrewd -business man, such as are nourished in the atmosphere of New York, -of all places in the wide world, perhaps, the one least likely to -nourish fancy or belief in the unseen. To see him going steadily -about his affairs down town, it is hardly probable that any observer, -however keen, would look on him as the probable object of remarkable -hallucinations, or of experiences so far from the ordinary course of -human life, as sure to be classed as such by ninety-nine men out of a -hundred. - -Yet John Vantine, of whom most of his acquaintances would have said that -he was a commonplace man of business, lived for years a double life, -into which he did not venture to initiate even his wife, with whom he -lived on terms of the warmest sympathy and closest confidence. - -It was on the morning of his wedding-day that certain impressions, which -in a vague shape had for years haunted him, first took form so definite -that he could not but think of them as something having a tangibility -of their own, different though it was from that of the ordinary things -which surround common human life. He was married at the home of his -bride, a pretty village in western Massachusetts. There being no hotel -of even decent comfort in the place, Vantine had passed the night at the -inn of a town half a dozen miles away, whence he drove over in the dewy -June morning to the scene of his marriage. - -As he passed along between the fields starred with daisies, reflecting -in blissful mood upon the beauty of the day and the happiness it brought -to him, his horse came suddenly and without warning to a standstill. -John instinctively gathered up the reins to start the animal, when to -his unspeakable amazement he perceived a man in an Eastern dress of -great splendor standing beside the open carriage. His robes were of the -richest stuffs, while jewels sparkled from every part of his attire. He -was standing apparently upon a small rug, a circumstance which at the -moment impressed Vantine more than his mysterious presence. The stranger -saluted the young man with the most profound obeisances, and it was only -after repeated genuflections that he spoke. When he did address Vantine, -it was in a language of which the latter did not even know the name, -although in some astonishing way he still comprehended what was said. - -"Great Master," the stranger greeted him, "will you receive an embassy -to congratulate you on your nuptials?" - -Of course I cannot pretend here or elsewhere to give the exact words -in which my friend was addressed. It was some years before he confided -the story to me, and although I have endeavored to set the words down -exactly as he gave them, it must be borne in mind that he made no -attempt at literal verbal accuracy. - -That a young man who had been nourished amid the hard commonplaces of -New York life should be astounded by an address of this sort was only -natural. That Vantine did not lose his head altogether was probably due -to certain vague and premonitory experiences which he never defined very -clearly, alluding to them as "passing fancies," "nebulous impressions," -and by other phrases too general to convey exact meaning to my mind. On -the present occasion, however, beyond a rather prolonged silence before -he answered his interlocutor, he seems to have behaved much as might a -man stopped on the street by an ordinary acquaintance. When he spoke, he -simply and laconically answered "Yes;" and, as he did so, he swept with -his eye the wide horizon which the nature of the country laid open to -him, perceiving nowhere sign of anything unusual. - -Scarcely, however, had the monosyllable left his lips when he saw -upon the woodside an enormous oriental rug cover the greensward, and -instantly upon it stood a numerous company, dressed in the most -splendid robes, saluting, and uttering stately but most enthusiastic -congratulations. In this, as in all other instances in which my friend -has seen figures, the lower portions have appeared first. - -John sat in dignified and very probably half-stupefied silence during -this extraordinary scene, and suddenly, without warning, the whole -pageant vanished into the limbo from which it had come. He was once more -alone upon a country road, in the bright sunshine of a June forenoon. It -was his wedding morning, and, the vision or whatever it might properly -be called having vanished, there was obviously nothing to do but to -drive on and be married,--a course of action which he carried out to -the letter. - -I have fancied, although it is a point upon which I am doubtful, that -John made some beginning of a confidence to his bride during the -honeymoon of this extraordinary occurrence, and that the levity with -which she received his first suggestions prevented his going further in -his disclosures. The reason is, however, of no great consequence, but -at least the fact is that he did not tell her. He gave a good deal of -thought to the matter, corresponded with the Psychical Society, of -London, not relating his own experience, but endeavoring to learn of a -parallel case. He had, too, some communication with the Theosophical -Society, of London, and even with the parent society, of Madras; and -he at one time contemplated making a confidant of Madame Blavatsky, -concerning whom, at that time, the European papers were full of -marvellous tales. - -He does not seem, so far as I am able to gather from what he has told -me, to have hit upon any theory which afforded him a clue to the mystery -of his own case; and just as he had made up his mind that the whole was -a mere optical delusion, he had a second visitation. - -He was in a Fifth Avenue car on the elevated road, returning home at -night. The car was compactly filled, but before him, as he sat facing -the middle of the car, was an open space, two or three feet square. -Looking up, as the train started after stopping at the Twenty-third -street station, John saw standing before him the same oriental figure -which had greeted him on his wedding day. The stranger's face beamed -with joy, and he scarcely waited to finish his profound salutation -before exclaiming, "It is a propitious hour, Great Master. The young -prince is a pearl beyond price." - -Vantine's first instinct was to look at his neighbors, to see whether -they too beheld the apparition, if apparition it were. The man on his -right was looking up from his newspaper with the air of one who had -heard the strange words and wished to discover whence they came. The -man on the left was gazing at Vantine with an expression of bewildered -curiosity. John turned his eyes again to the spot where his strange -visitor had been. - -The place was vacant. - -My friend, in relating this, blamed himself severely that he had allowed -a natural diffidence to prevent his asking his neighbors whether they -had seen the "Great Mogul," as he began facetiously to dub the phantom -in his thoughts. "But," he added, "nobody likes to be taken for a raving -idiot, even by a stranger. They certainly looked as if they had seen the -figure, but I couldn't make up my mind to ask." - -Reaching home, John found that his wife had been prematurely but safely -delivered of a lusty son. The messenger sent to his office had missed -him, and at the time of the appearance in the car, he declares that he -was not consciously even thinking of his wife's condition at all. - -When he had time to collect his thoughts after this second visitation, -Vantine came firmly to the resolution that if he were ever favored -with a third sight of the "Great Mogul," he would at least endeavor to -discover whether the phantom were appreciable by the sense of touch. He -read much about "astral appearances," and a good many more things of -the sort, of which my own knowledge is too limited to permit my writing -at all. He formed a hundred theories, and he began to get somewhat -confused, to use his own expression, in regard to his identity. He was -half convinced that by some mis-working of the law of re-incarnation, -the spirit of some Eastern potentate had been put into his body. - -"Or," said he, with a whimsicality which was evidently deeply tinctured -with a serious feeling, "that I had got into somebody's else body. If I -had known any possible way of stopping the thing, it wouldn't have been -so bad; but to have the 'Great Mogul' pop up like a jack-in-a-box, -without any warning, was taking me at a disadvantage that I think -decidedly unfair." - -Not to lengthen unnecessarily a simple story, the speculations and -investigations of Vantine may be passed over, and the narrative confined -to the bare facts. - -It was when John's boy was about two months old that the embassy which -had greeted John upon his wedding morning, or one closely resembling it, -put in an appearance in honor of the child's birth. The child and its -mother were taking their first drive, and Vantine came home to luncheon -rather earlier than usual, to find them out. He went into the library, -but had scarcely closed the door behind him, when the whole gorgeous -company of his wedding morning were before him, and so real did they -seem to him that John entirely forgot his intention of grasping the -"Great Mogul" by the arm, to convince himself of the reality of that -personage. The company overflowed with congratulations, rather florid to -my friend's occidentally trained taste, but doubtless poetical in the -extreme from an oriental point of view. Vantine was afterward amused and -a little surprised to remember how much as a matter of course he took -the adulation offered him, and the ease with which he played the rôle of -"Great Master." - -But suddenly he became so thoroughly amazed that all power of speech -or motion seemed to forsake him. In the arms of the "Great Mogul" he -perceived his baby boy, or an image that seemed to be the child, and to -the babe the brilliant company were kneeling and swearing fealty. The -whole ceremony occupied about half an hour, at the end of which time -Vantine found himself once more alone, and upon going downstairs he met -his wife and the nurse with the baby returning from their drive. - -"He's slept like a dormouse," Mrs. Vantine said, in answer to her -husband's inquiry. "I tried to rouse him once, but he wouldn't wake. I -was half frightened, but he seems all right now." - -As they entered the parlor the maid came to inquire if Mr. Vantine had -brought company to luncheon, as she had heard voices in the library,--a -circumstance which proved that the sound of the voices of his ghostly -visitors was audible to other ears than his own. - -John vainly wished that the baby, healthy, awake and cooing now, could -tell whether dreams or strange experiences had troubled its sleep while -its father had seen its image; but that is a point upon which he has -never received enlightenment. - -It was one winter night when the baby was six months old that the "Great -Mogul" presented himself again. My friend had been taking a bath, and -was dressing for bed when the figure of his visions appeared, and with -every mark of terror and consternation prostrated itself at his feet. - -"Great Master," it gasped in the usual formula, "pardon your slave's -intrusion. The enemy are upon us. They--" - -With this sentence still unfinished, the vision faded away in an -instant, as if some unforeseen catastrophe in whatever region it came -from had suddenly recalled the eidolon, or projected presence, or -whatever the thing might be. - -More confounded and disturbed than ever, my friend retired to bed, -but he was too much excited to sleep. He had much the feeling that -one fancies a prince to have over whose heritage distant armies are -contending, while he in forced inaction awaits the result. No clue had -been given which enabled him to reach a solution of the mystery that -involved him, and nothing further transpired during the night to render -matters any plainer. - -On the following afternoon he was obliged to start for Boston on -business. As he was elbowing his way through the crowd in the Grand -Central station, he heard at his ear the well known voice of the -"Great Mogul," speaking as usual in the unknown tongue which Vantine -understood, yet the identity of which he had never established. There -was no visible appearance this time, and the voice, although distinctly -audible, seemed to come from a great distance. - -"Great Master," the voice said, "they are beheading me. All is lost." - - * * * * * - -"It would be some comfort," John Vantine said, rather irritably, when he -confided this strange story to me, "to know what was lost. It would have -been uncommonly civil of the 'Great Mogul' to be a little more definite -in his information. If the poor fellow lost his head in my service I -am profoundly grateful, of course; but precious little good does it -do me. Do you think the Psychical Society would undertake the job of -discovering in what part of the universe I am rightfully dubbed the -Great Master and that young rascal in the nursery is a prince! Unless -they can do something, I'm afraid I shall be a half-starved New York -lawyer to the end of the chapter." - -To which I had nothing satisfactory to answer. - - - - -Interlude Fourth. - -THE RADIATOR. - - - - -THE RADIATOR. - -A STUDY IN THE MODERN STYLE OF COLLOQUIAL FICTION. - - -[_Scene, the chamber of Mr. and Mrs. Ellston, in an apartment hotel. -Time, three A. M. The silence of the night is unbroken, save by the -regular breathing of the sleepers, until suddenly, from the steam -radiator, bursts a sound like the discharge of a battery of forty-pound -guns._] - -_Mrs. E._ (_springing up in bed_) Oh! eh? what is that? - -[_Her husband moves uneasily in his sleep, but does not reply. The noise -of the sledge-hammer score of the "Anvil Chorus" rings out from the -radiator._] - -_Mrs. E._ George! George! Something is going to happen! Do wake up, or -we shall be murdered in our sleep! - -_Mr. E._ (_with mingled ferocity and amusement_) There is small danger -of anybody's being murdered in his sleep, my dear, where you are. It's -only that confounded radiator; it's always making some sort of an -infernal tumult. It can't do any harm. - -_Mrs. E._ But it will wake baby. - -_Mr. E._ Well, if it does, the nurse can get him to sleep again, I -suppose. - -[_From the room adjoining is heard a clattering din, as if all the -kettles and pans in the house were being thrown violently across the -floor._] - -_Mrs. E._ There! The nursery radiator has begun. I must go and get baby. - -_Mr. E._ Let baby alone. If the youngster will sleep, for heaven's sake -let him. The steam-pipes make noise enough for this time of night, one -would think, without your taking the trouble to wake baby. - -_Mrs. E._ (_with volumes of reproach in her tone_) Your own little baby! -You never loved him as his mother does. - -[_The disturbances now assume the likeness to a thoroughly inebriated -drum corps practising upon sheet-iron air-tight stoves._] - -_Mr. E._ Of all unendurable rackets-- - -[_A sudden and sharp boom interrupts him. Mrs. Ellston screams, while -her husband indulges in language which, although somewhat inexcusably -forcible, is yet to be regarded as not unnatural under the -circumstances._] - -_Mrs. E._ Oh, George, don't swear. It always seems so much worse to -swear in danger; like tempting Providence; and I know there's going to -be an explosion! - -_Mr. E._ (_severely_) Don't talk nonsense! The engineer has gone to -sleep and left the drafts open, that's all. Don't be so absurd. - -[_There is another fusillade from the radiator, reinforced by the -reverberations from the nursery, where a regiment of artillery seem to -have begun target practice._] - -_Mrs. E._ I _will_ go and get my baby! I know-- Oh, George, just hear it -crash! Do get up and put the screen in front of it; that may turn off -the pieces so they won't come this way. - -_Mr. E._ (_scornfully_) Pieces of what? Noise? - -_Mrs. E._ How can you make fun? If the engineer has gone to sleep, he's -sure to blow up the whole hotel. I'm going to get up and dress myself, -and take baby over to mother's! - -_Mr. E._ (_with calm but cutting irony_) At three o'clock in the -morning? Shall you walk, or call a carriage? - -_Mrs. E._ (_beginning to sob in a dry and perfunctory fashion_) Oh, you -are too cruel! You are perfectly heartless. I wonder you don't take that -dear little innocent baby and hold him between you and the radiator for -a shield. - -_Mr. E._ That might be a good scheme, my dear, only the little beggar -would probably howl so that I haven't really the moral courage to wake -him. - -[_The indignant reply of Mrs. Ellston is lost in the confused sound of -the brays of a drove of brazen donkeys, which appear to be disporting -themselves in the radiator. The noise of mighty rushing waters, -the clanking of chains, the din of a political convention, the -characteristic disturbances of a hundred factories and machine-shops, -with the deafening whirr of all the elevated railways in the universe -follow in turn._] - -_Mrs. E._ I _will_ go and get my baby, and I will _go_ to mother's; -and, what is more, we will never, never come back! - -_Mr. E._ Oh, just as you please about going, my dear; only you know that -if you desert my bed and board, the law gives the boy to me. - -_Mrs. E._ I don't _believe_ it's any such thing; and if it is, it is -because men made the law. Women wouldn't take a baby away from its -mother. - -_Mr. E._ Have what theories you choose, my dear; only please let me get -a few crumbs of sleep, now the radiator has had the mercy to subside. - -_Mrs. E._ You are a brute, and I won't ever speak to you again! - -[_She firmly assumes a stony silence, and the radiator, after a few -concluding ejaculations and metallic objurgations, also relapses into -comparative stillness. Mr. Ellston's breathing begins to give strong -indications that slumber has re-descended upon his weary frame._] - -_Mrs. E._ (_starting up with the inspiration of an entirely new and -startling idea_) George! George! George! - -_Mr. E._ (_with less good humor than might be desired_) Eh? - -_Mrs. E._ Wasn't it wonderful for baby to sleep through it all? - -_Mr. E._ (_drowsily_) Yes; droll little beggar. His mother wasn't in the -nursery to wake him, though. - -_Mrs. E._ You don't suppose there is anything the matter with him? -George! George, I say! you don't suppose the reason he sleeps so soundly -is because he's sick? - -[_To this conundrum Mr. Ellston offers no solution, and equally passes -in silence queries in regard to the probability of the nurse's being -awake, alive, well-disposed, and able to take care of baby in case of -emergency. Mrs. Ellston sighs with the desperation of long-suffering -anguish, and once more stillness reigns in the chamber. The lady again -arouses herself, however, from an apparently sound nap to ask, in -penetrating tones,--_] - -"George, _do_ you think it will begin all over again?" - -(_To which her brutal worser half grumbles out the reply_) "No! and -that's where it is more endurable than a woman." - -[_At which the radiator gives a chuckle so apt as to suggest the -possession of a sinister consciousness on the part of that noisy -instrument of torture. Mrs. Ellston groans, with the discouraged -conviction that she is but one against two, and upon this theory at -length consents to resume her interrupted slumbers._] - - - - -Tale the Fifth. - -MÈRE MARCHETTE. - - - - -MÈRE MARCHETTE. - - -I. - -It was half-past eleven of a hot July day in Paris. The sunlight lay -over the whole city and shone nowhere more strongly than upon the great -hospital of the Salpêtrière. The hush of noon brooded over all the -place. Nobody was stirring unless forced to activity by some pressing -duty. In the long white wards the patients were asleep or lying quiet in -exhaustion under the burning fervor of the summer heat. - -Down one of the corridors, where it seemed refreshingly cool after the -warmth of the outer air from which he had come, a young man was passing. -His step, though rapid, had the noiseless quality which bespeaks -familiarity with the sick-room and the hospital. His figure was compact -and nervous, his glance clear and keen. Dr. Jean Lommel was one of -the house physicians of the Salpêtrière, although that he was not now -making his regular rounds was evident from the fact that entering a -certain ward he passed quickly to a bed near the middle of it without -stopping at any of the others. - -On the bed lay an old woman. Her face was one which showed great -strength of character. It was of a marked peasant type, and for all its -innumerable wrinkles, its sunken temples, the coarse texture of its -skin, and the shrunken lips which showed the lack of teeth behind them, -it was full of a nobility and kindliness which no ravages of time or -disease could wholly hide. The hair that straggled in thin locks from -beneath the white cap was hardly less snowy than the lawn which covered -it; and when the patient opened her sunken eyes, as the doctor stopped -beside the bed, they were bright and shining with a lustre which was not -all either fever or anxiety. Her glance was one of intense and pitiful -inquiry. The young man touched her white hair with the tips of his long, -fine fingers in a pitying caress before he took hold of the withered -wrist, shrunken and marked with blue veins, that lay outside the -coverlid. - -"In an hour, Mère Marchette," he said, answering her look--"in an hour -he will be here; keep up a good heart. You do not suffer?" - -The old woman feebly shook her head. The ghost of a smile, faint but -full of happiness, shone on her face. She did not speak, but she thanked -him with a look before she closed her eyes and lay motionless as before -he had come. - -The young man looked at her a moment, an expression of pity in his brown -eyes; then with a sigh he turned away and moved softly down the ward -again. By the door he encountered one of the nurses, who had risen and -come forward to speak with him. - -"Will she live, M. Lommel?" - -"Yes," the doctor answered. "She has given all her energies for days to -keeping alive till her grandson gets here. It is very singular," he went -on, in a voice of low distinctness that could have been acquired only in -sick-rooms, "how her instinct has taught her to save her strength. She -neither moves nor speaks; she simply lives." - -"She has been that way," the nurse returned, "ever since we told her -that Pierre was coming. Will he be here by twelve?" - -"Not till half-past twelve," Dr. Lommel replied. "I will return before -then." - -And he went out into the hot sunshine. - - -II. - -Everybody connected with the ward of the Salpêtrière wherein she was had -a kindly feeling for poor old Mère Marchette. The doctors and the nurses -could not have been more kind or more tender had she been of their -own blood. She was one of those who always win affection. She was so -patient, so simple, so kindly. She was a peasant woman from Normandy, -who had in her old age drifted to Paris with her grandson Pierre, a lad -of sixteen years. All the rest of the family were dead. Pierre's father -had been a soldier, and it was with the hope of securing a pension for -the son that Mère Marchette had left her home and the life in Normandy -she loved, to throw herself into Paris as into the sea. The dead -soldier, however, had been mustered out before the malarial fever, -contracted in the swamps of the Landes, had developed itself, and the -pension could not be obtained. The disappointment was a bitter one, made -worse by the fact that Mère Marchette had been told by one and another -that the claim would have been granted had the case been properly -managed. The poor old creature could not escape a feeling of self-blame -in thinking that it was her want of keenness which had deprived Pierre -of his pension. Her grandson for her represented the world, and to -him she devoted all her energies. She toiled for him, and watched and -suffered with that unselfish egotism possible only to the old and -lonely. - -Fortunately Pierre was a good lad, who returned his grandmother's love -with a devotion hardly less complete than her own. They lived together -in two attic rooms, where they passed the evenings sitting in the dark -and talking of their Normandy home. They recalled the past and built -endless air castles of the time when they should be able to return. They -had grand plans of repurchasing the old cot where both of them had been -born, and which had been lost by the foreclosure of a mortgage after -the long illness of Pierre's father had ended. They were never tired of -talking of what they would do then, and of devising little ways in which -the worn-out old farm might be made more profitable. They remained as -truly children of the soil as if they had been still in Normandy instead -of in their attic in the midst of Paris. - -In the daytime Mère Marchette went out to do work as charwoman, while -Pierre had been fortunate enough to obtain a place as assistant in a -little grocery in Rue M. le Prince. It was in connection with this that -Pierre gave his grandmother the only real grief he ever caused her while -they were together. Suddenly the boy began to stay away in the evening, -and when Mère Marchette sought to know the reason he put her questions -aside. One evening as she was making her way home she saw her grandson -chatting with a girl at the door of a milliner's dingy shop. The heart -of poor old Mère Marchette sunk within her. The castles in the air, from -whose glittering towers had shone delusive lights to strengthen and -encourage her, fell in ruins before her eyes. In a moment the burden of -her age, her poverty, her weariness, seemed increased tenfold. Feebly -she climbed the long stairs and sat down to wait, heartbroken. She had -all the peasant's instinctive distrust of Paris: she had not been able -to live in the Latin Quarter without comprehending something of the evil -about her, although, happily for her, the worst features of Parisian -life would have been so unintelligible that she might have seen them -unmoved. She thought no evil now of Pierre, but she was seized with a -terrible fear lest he might fall a victim to one of the sirens of the -Latin Quarter, who, to Mère Marchette's thinking, destroyed soul and -body alike. - -Mère Marchette did not tell Pierre of the discovery she had made. -She was only more gentle with him, while in secret she prayed more -fervently. For some days longer the lad's mysterious absence continued, -the sad hours of the evening stretching like long deserts of agony, -over which the soul of Mère Marchette walked painfully with bleeding -feet. And then one night Pierre came home with eyes aglow, and all was -explained. He put into his grandmother's hand a little pile of francs, a -sum pitiful enough in itself but large to them, and told how a milliner -in the street beyond had employed him in moving boxes and clearing out -the attics of her house, which were to be remodelled into lodgings. This -had been his secret, and in his thought of the joyful surprise he was -to give his grandmother he had forgotten the pain she might endure by -misunderstanding his absence. - -It was such trifles as this that were the great events in the life of -Mère Marchette and Pierre. There was a tenderness, an unselfishness, an -idyllic devotion in their love which no amount of wealth, or culture, -or rank could have heightened; but in the lad's veins was the blood of a -soldier, that stirred hot with the currents of a vigorous youth. Of the -army he had dreamed from his cradle, and strong as was his love for Mère -Marchette the force of destiny was stronger. It was the old tragedy -of youth and age, of the absorption of maternal love and the restless -impulses of the boy's heart. Pierre justified his desire to himself -with the excuse that he could earn more money in the ranks; but his -grandmother knew, only too well, the force of the instinct he had -inherited. She had seen the same struggle in the life of his father. - -When Pierre was eighteen he shouldered his musket and marched away, -leaving poor old Mère Marchette as much a stranger in Paris as when she -had come to it two years before to weep and pray alone. It would hardly -be within the power of words to paint the anguish which lay between -Pierre's departure and that hot July noon when Mère Marchette lay dying -at the Salpêtrière. Always in Paris she had been like a wild thing, -caged and bewildered, confused by the life that swirled about her in the -great city, even when she had been sustained by the presence of Pierre. -When he was gone the gentle old soul began to die of homesickness and -heartbreak. For two years she fought death stolidly but persistently, -refusing to acknowledge to herself that she was breaking down under the -stress of loneliness and sorrow. She came of a race that died hard, and -although she was past eighty she looked forward hopefully to the time -when Pierre should leave the army and come back to live with her again. - -But the struggle for existence in Paris was hard, even when the joy -of working for Pierre sustained her; when he was gone it became -intolerable. At the end of two years the strength and courage even of -the sturdy Norman peasant woman were exhausted; and then a dreadful -disease, which had before shown itself in her family, seemed to take -advantage of her weakness to spring upon her. She had been a charwoman -in the family of Jean Lommel's mother, and so it came about that -through the influence of the young doctor she had been admitted to the -Salpêtrière when she was already dying from cancer in the stomach. - -There was no patient in the ward who was not of better birth than Mère -Marchette. She was of all most deficient in education, in knowledge of -the world, in the graces of life; and yet of them all it was only the -poor old peasant woman who awakened in the minds of the attendants a -glow of genuine affection. There are some people who are born to be -loved, and when these rare beings remain worthy of it, neither age, nor -poverty, nor sickness can destroy their power of awaking affection. -The hired nurses touched their lips to her forehead in kisses given -furtively, as if they were surprised, and prepared to be ashamed of the -emotion which called from them this unwonted display. The doctors spoke -to her in tones unprofessionally soft, while Dr. Lommel, who had charge -of the ward, treated her with an affectionate courtesy scarcely less -warm than that he would have shown to his own grandmother. They all knew -that Mère Marchette must die, and from counting the time in weeks they -had dropped to days, and then to hours. Indeed it seemed only the old -woman's will which kept her alive now until Pierre should come. She had -borne all her sufferings without a murmur, but she had not been able -wholly to repress the cry of her heart. The young soldier's regiment was -in Algiers, and there had been difficulties about his furlough. Had it -been any other death-bed in the hospital to which he had been summoned -these difficulties would hardly have been surmounted; but in behalf of -Mère Marchette the physicians had worked so zealously that all obstacles -were removed and Pierre's leave of absence granted. From the moment she -had been told that her grandson was on his way she had been perfectly -quiet, and, as the doctor said, had devoted her whole being to keeping -alive until Pierre should come. - -And on this hot July noon the train which was bringing Pierre was -drawing nearer to Paris, and Mère Marchette lay so still that she seemed -scarcely to breathe,--so still that one might fancy she would not even -think, lest in so doing she exhaust some precious grain of strength and -so should die without the blessing of that last embrace. - - -III. - -Whoever keeps himself informed of the course of modern scientific -investigations is likely to be aware that during the last decade -especial attention has been given at the Salpêtrière to that strange -physical or psychical force known as hypnotism. M. Charcot, chief of -the school of the Salpêtrière, has particularly distinguished himself by -his researches. Attacked at first by his professional brethren, it has -been his good fortune to live to see the scientific value of hypnotism -acknowledged, and to be triumphantly readmitted to the Academy of -Sciences, which had at first stigmatized his investigations as mere -charlatanism. Charles Féré, an assistant physician at the Salpêtrière, -with Richer, Bourneville, and nearly a score other distinguished men, -have pursued their investigations with great zeal and thoroughness, and -have produced a valuable literature devoted to this intricate subject. - -It will be easily understood that all the physicians at the Salpêtrière, -and especially the younger men, could not fail to be deeply interested -in this new and fascinating branch of science. The facts upon which had -been founded the theories of mesmerism, animal magnetism, and other -shadowy systems were reduced to order and scientifically tested. M. -Charcot and his associates worked with much care and thoroughness, and, -without being able to solve the mystery of the force with which they -dealt, they proved its value as a therapeutic agent. In the cure -of nervous diseases, and in dealing with hysterical patients, they -obtained remarkable and satisfactory results. They were even able to -alleviate suffering by simply assuring the patient, while in a hypnotic -sleep, that he would be free from pain on waking. - -To the outside observer no feature of this strange power is more -remarkable than the influence the hypnotist may exert over his subject -after the trance is broken. A hypnotized person may be told to perform -any act on awaking, and, when seemingly restored to his normal -condition, bears the impress of that command so strongly that he is -urged to obey it by an irresistible impulse. It is quite as easy, -moreover, to foist upon the patients the most extraordinary delusions. -The subject is told that upon awaking a bottle will seem to be a lamp, a -blank card a picture, or any other deception which comes into the mind -of the hypnotist; and so perfect is the working of this mysterious and -terrible law that the delusion is accomplished to its minutest details. - -Dr. Lommel, like all his young confrères, had become intensely -interested in all these researches, so like a scientific realization of -the fairy tales of the Orient. He had even tried some experiments on his -own account; and when the sufferings of Mère Marchette became pitifully -intense he had ventured to attempt the substitution of hypnotism for -opiates in relieving her distress. The old woman had not easily yielded -to this influence. Susceptibility to hypnotism is more apt to be found -in hysterical or nervously sensitive subjects than in such sturdy -characters. By degrees, however, Dr. Lommel established control over -her. In the end, to throw her into a hypnotic sleep he had only to hold -his forefinger an inch or two from her forehead, so that her eyes in -looking at it turned upward and inward a little. He did not experiment -with Mère Marchette; he felt too tenderly toward the old woman to make -her the subject of scientific investigation outside of the direct line -of treatment. He simply said, "When you awaken you will be free from -pain, Mère Marchette;" then he would breathe lightly on her forehead and -the sick woman would awaken, to lie as peaceful and painless as if no -terrible disease was gnawing like a tiger at her vitals. - -The case had attracted a good deal of attention at the Salpêtrière, and -although Mère Marchette was utterly ignorant of it, her sick-bed was a -point of interest toward which were turned the thoughts of physicians -over half of Europe. The unlearned peasant, to whom the simplest terms -of science would have been unintelligible, was furnishing data for -future scientific treatises; and people of whose very existence she -was unaware read the daily bulletins of her condition with closest -eagerness. - - -IV. - -It was a few minutes after twelve o'clock when Dr. Lommel reentered the -ward. Mère Marchette lay apparently sleeping, but as he approached her -bedside the old eyes opened with a piercing and eager question. The -young man shook his head, smiling tenderly. - -"Not quite yet, Mère Marchette," he said; "there are still some minutes -to wait." - -He sat down beside the bed and laid his fingers on her wrist. The pulse -was so faint that he could scarcely feel it, but it was steady. For some -minutes he remained quiet, with his eyes fixed on the poor old face -before him. There came into his mind the thought of what this woman's -life had been: her childhood and youth in the hut of a Norman peasant; -of what her own home might have been when she became a wife and mother; -of the desolation which had come upon her in the death of all her family -save only Pierre; of the strange fate that had brought her to Paris; of -the terrible wrench which her old heart must have felt when her grandson -was taken from her; and of the pathetic patience with which she had -borne privation, loneliness, and suffering. - -He knew only the outlines of her history, since Mère Marchette had -spoken little of herself. What her feelings might have been he could -only imagine: the old woman could not have told her mental experiences; -she had never even analyzed them. Unless he had been a peasant and a -mother himself, Lommel could not have divined Mère Marchette's emotions; -he could only reflect what he should have felt in her place. He said to -himself at last that, after all, the circumstances which made Mère -Marchette's lot so pathetic must also have deadened her sensibilities -and so have softened her suffering. - -He sighed and looked at his watch. His assistant had gone to the railway -station to meet Pierre, and the time he had fixed for their return was -already past by five minutes. He felt again of his patient's pulse, with -a terrible dread lest after all the young soldier should arrive too -late. The artery throbbed more feebly, but still steadily; and at his -touch the sick woman opened her eyes with the old questioning look. - -"Patience, Mère Marchette," he said, nodding encouragingly; "all goes -well." - -She did not speak, but she gave him a look so eloquent with gratitude -that words were not needed. Then she lay quiet again and the silent -watch went on. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen; the young doctor -became extremely uneasy. At last in the distance he heard a clock strike -one. At the sound Mère Marchette opened her eyes with a quick, startled -glance. - -"Pierre!" she cried, in a voice of intense love and terror. - -"Victor has gone to the station to meet him; patience yet a little." - -The old woman regarded him with a look of terrible pathos. - -"God could not let me die without seeing Pierre," she murmured. - -At that moment, through the still afternoon, was heard the sound of -a carriage. Mère Marchette's eyes shone with a wild and fevered -expression. - -"You must be calm," Lommel said. "I will bring him to you." - -He administered the little stimulant she could take, and passed quickly -out into the corridor. - - -V. - -Dr. Lommel closed the door of the ward behind him and started down the -corridor, but at the first step he stopped suddenly with a terrible -sinking of the heart. Victor was coming toward him, but alone, and with -a white face. - -"Victor," Jean cried, in a voice intense but low, "what has happened? -Where is Pierre?" - -"There has been an accident," Victor returned. "A bridge broke under his -train." - -"But you do not know--" began Lommel. - -"Yes," the other interrupted; "M. de Brue, who was on the train and -escaped with a broken arm, was in the same compartment with Pierre. He -rode through on the engine that came in for help. Pierre had told him I -was to meet him, and so when M. de Brue saw me he stopped to say that -the soldier was struck on the chest and killed instantly." - -Dr. Lommel stood regarding his companion with terror and compassion in -his look. - -"_O mon Dieu!_" he said; "poor Mère Marchette!" - -"It will kill her," Victor responded. - -"That is nothing," was the doctor's reply. "It is not death, but the -agony she will suffer." - -At that moment the nurse came out of the ward and hurried down the -corridor to join them. - -"M. le Docteur," she said, "I beg your pardon, but the excitement of -Mère Marchette is so great that I venture to suggest that her grandson -hurry." - -She glanced around as she spoke, and saw that he was not there. An -exclamation rose to her lips; the doctor checked her by a glance. - -"Go back to Mère Marchette," said he, "and say that I am cautioning -Pierre-- Stay, I will go myself. Wait here, Victor." - -He went back into the ward and passed down between the cots, from which -eyes that the indifference of illness scarcely left human, watched him -with faint curiosity. Mère Marchette was sitting up in bed, trembling -with eagerness and excitement. All the reserve which she had maintained -for weeks had been swept aside. The moment for which she had kept -herself alive had come at last, and there was no longer any need to save -her energy. Her eyes shone, a feverish glow was on her cheek, even her -withered lips had taken on for the moment a wan and ghostly red. It -seemed to the doctor, as he looked at her, as if all the vitality which -remained in her feeble frame was being expended in a last quick fire. - -"Ah," he said, "I have been warning Pierre to be calm, when it is you to -whom I should speak. Come, it will take only a moment, but I must give -you treatment before I can let you see him." - -As he spoke he put his forefinger up to her forehead with a gesture he -always used in hypnotizing her. Mère Marchette struggled a moment as if -she could not yield to anything which delayed her reunion with Pierre; -then she sank into a hypnotic sleep. The doctor leaned forward and spoke -with an emphasis which he had never before used with his patient. - -"When you awake," he said, "you will see Pierre; the person I shall -bring to you is your grandson. Remember," he repeated, "it is Pierre who -will come in with me." - -He breathed on her eyelids in the usual method of awaking her. - -"Now," he said, "I will bring him, Mère Marchette." - -He went back to where Victor and the nurse were awaiting him. - -"Victor," he said quickly, "you know the experiment M. Charcot tried -yesterday when he made a hypnotized patient believe one person was -another; I have told Mère Marchette that you are Pierre. You must take -his place; come quickly." - -The young man drew back. - -"I cannot," he protested. - -"You must," Lommel returned, almost fiercely. "Come." - - -VI. - -It was with terrible inward misgiving that Jean and Victor entered the -ward; but as soon as the eyes of Mère Marchette fell upon the latter -they knew that the experiment was a success. Such a look of yearning -love illumined the withered old features, such an unspeakable joy shone -in the sunken eyes, such quivering eagerness was expressed by the -outstretched hands, that the young men found their way to the bedside -blinded by tears. An inarticulate cry, that was half moan and half sob, -burst from the lips of Mère Marchette as Victor fell on his knees by the -bedside. Carried out of himself by genuine feeling, the young man had no -need to simulate the emotions necessary for the part he was playing. -Seizing the wrinkled hand which lay before him on the bed he covered it -with tears and kisses; then, with a cry of piercing sweetness, Mère -Marchette flung herself forward into his arms. - -"O Pierre, Pierre!" she sobbed. "Oh, the good God, the good God!" - -She clasped her arms about his neck, she strained him to her breast, the -feebleness of her dying embrace transformed to strength by the divine -fervor of maternal love. She mingled her kisses with a soft and hardly -articulate babble of endearing words; the terms which she had used over -his cradle she mingled with the pet names of his childhood and the -loving speech which belonged to maturer years. She held him away from -her that she might look at him, and her eyes were holden so that she saw -in his face the changes that her fancy had pictured in thinking of the -real Pierre. - -"Ah," she said, "how brown thou hast grown; and thou art such a man now! -Ah, thou rogue," she went on, laughing softly, "I knew thou hadst grown -a beard--and not a word of it in thy letters. But I knew." - -She put her thin fingers under his chin and with a sudden gravity lifted -his face. - -"Look in my eyes," she said; "why dost thou turn away? Hast thou not -been a good boy; hast thou not loved the good God?" - -Poor Victor, overwhelmed with the dreadful consciousness of deceit, -found it almost impossible, in face of this touching and pious -affection, to meet the old woman's glance. He struggled to force himself -to look into her eyes unwaveringly. Dr. Lommel laid his hand upon his -companion's shoulder. - -"Yes, Mère Marchette," said he, "Pierre is a good lad; that I will -answer for." - -The old woman raised her eyes toward heaven, and her lips moved. She was -evidently praying. She had received extreme unction just before noon, -but this moment in which she commended her grandson to God was to her no -less solemn than that of her own last communion. Then she put out her -hand to Dr. Lommel with her smile of wonderful sweetness and an air of -noble simplicity. - -"You have been so kind to old Mère Marchette," were her words; "the good -God will reward you." - -He looked at the old dying peasant woman and tried to speak, but his -sobs choked him. He bent and kissed her hand and laid it back gently in -that of Victor. Her little strength was evidently failing fast. With a -last effort she made a movement to drag herself nearer to Victor. He -understood her wish and supported her in his arms. - -"Promise me," she murmured, her voice wasted almost to a whisper, "that -thou wilt be good." - -"I promise," he answered. - -And the words were no less sincere because she mistook the speaker. A -smile of heavenly rapture came over her face; she tried to speak and -failed. But Victor understood her wish and kissed her. As their lips -parted she sighed quiveringly. - -"She is dead," said Dr. Lommel. - - -VII. - -Victor laid the body gently back upon the bed and rose to his feet. He -seized his friend by the shoulders; the tears were streaming down his -cheeks. - -"O _mon Dieu_, Jean!" he cried, "to deceive such trust. I feel as if I -had been violating a sacrament." - -"I know," the other answered; "but ah, how happy she was!" - - - - -Interlude Fifth. - -"SUCH SWEET SORROW." - - - - -"SUCH SWEET SORROW." - - Parting is such sweet sorrow. - _Romeo and Juliet_, ii. 2. - - -[_A drawing-room. Fanny Motley, who has been making a long call upon her -bosom friend, Alice Langley, has at last risen to go._] - -_Alice._ Oh, don't go yet. I haven't told you half the things I wanted -to. - -_Fanny._ Oh, I must go. I've got to go home to dress for Mrs. Fresco's -dinner. _Do_ you suppose Jack will be there? - -_A._ He told me he was going. - -_F._ Oh, I do _hope_ he won't fail. I do _so_ want to joke him about his -sleigh-ride with Ella. Do you suppose she wore her hat with the orange -plumes? It's awfully unbecoming to her. It makes her look just salmon -color. - -_A._ She always had perfectly hideous taste. Do you remember that dowdy -gown of green plush and mauve tulle she wore to Kate West's german? It -was a perfect dream of horror. - -_F._ Yes; didn't she look _per_-fectly hideous? Well (_moving toward the -door_), come and see me just as soon as you can. - -_A._ I'll come in to-morrow before sewing-circle, if I can, to hear -about the dinner. Don't be too hard on Jack. You know he's _aw_-fully -thin-skinned. - -_F._ Oh, I won't be hard on him. - -_A._ (_pausing as they reach the door_) Is that the boa you had -Christmas? - -_F._ Yes; isn't it lovely? But I told mamma I knew she got it because -she knew I'd got to have one, and she'd got to give me something. - -_A._ How mean of you! - -_F._ Oh, she didn't mind. She's used to it. Be sure and come in -to-morrow. - -_A._ Yes, I will. Oh, did I tell you that Tom Jones has invited Sophia -Weston to go to the opera Saturday night? - -_F._ You don't mean it. Has he, really? - -_A._ Yes; Ethel Mott told me this morning. - -_F._ _Do_ you suppose he is in earnest, after all? - -_A._ Oh, there's no telling about him. Frank says they bet about it at -the club. - -_F._ About him and Sophia? - -_A._ Yes; whether he'll propose before Lent. - -_F._ How _per_-fectly horrid! Men are the _worst_ creatures. I declare, -I think those dreadful clubs ought to be suppressed. - -_A._ So do I. They do say the most outrageous things. I don't see how -they can sit and listen to them. - -_F._ I don't, either. - -_A._ And they talk over all the scandals. - -_F._ Yes, it is simply diabolical. How perfectly sweet it is to have a -brother who will tell you all about it. - -_A._ Isn't it? It is almost as good as going myself. - -_F._ Will never tells me a single thing (_moving on into the hall_). -Well, be sure you come, and come as early as you can. Good-bye. (_Kisses -her._) - -_A._ Good-bye. That boa is just as becoming as it can be. - -_F._ Do you think so? Clara Martin's makes her look as if she hadn't any -neck at all. - -_A._ Oh, you can wear anything. - -_F._ Thank you, dear. But then you can afford to say so, because you can -wear anything yourself. Would you ask Jack about the orange feathers? - -_A._ Oh, he wouldn't know. Men never know what girls have on,--except -Clarence Key, and he's a perfect man-milliner. Did I tell you what he -said to Kate West at the Westons' tea? I'd have scratched his eyes out. - -_F._ No; what in the world did he say? - -_A._ You won't repeat it? Because I told Kate I wouldn't tell. She was -so furious she had to tell somebody. - -_F._ I'll never tell. What was it? - -_A._ You know that tailor-made gown she wears? The one made of gray -corduroy? Well, Clarence Key asked her if she got it so her husband -could have it made into riding trousers, after she was done with it. -Did you ever _hear_ such impertinence? - -_F._ He didn't really! - -_A._ He really did! - -_F._ Why, Alice! I should think she'd have killed him. I would. - -_A._ So would I. - -_F._ (_putting her hand on the handle of the door_) Well, good-bye. Give -my love to Blanche when you write. - -_A._ Yes, I will. - -_F._ I shall see you to-morrow? - -_A._ Yes. Good-bye. - -[_Fanny opens the door, and a blast of cold wind rushes in._] - -_F._ Ugh! How awfully cold it is. I wish I had taken the carriage. - -_A._ I went over to Ethel Mott's this morning, and I thought I should -freeze to _death_. - -_F._ I hope I sha'n't get pneumonia or anything. I want to go to the -Claytons' ball. - -_A._ Oh, do tell me; what are you going to wear? - -_F._ (_returning and closing the door_) There, that is one thing I -wanted to ask you about. I want you to go in white, and I'll wear that -black lace I had made in New York last winter. I've never worn it here -at all, and that's the most stylish gown I ever had in my whole life. - -_A._ Wouldn't that be striking? We could go in together. I'll have a new -white tulle, and wear my pearls. I'll make Aunt Alicia lend me hers, -too. - -_F._ That will be _too_ lovely. - -_A._ And you'll wear diamonds? - -_F._ Oh, no. I wore jet in New York. Not a single thing but black about -me; not even my fan-sticks. - -_A._ How _per_-fectly enchanting! - -_F._ Will you do it? - -_A._ Of course I will. I'll buy the stuff to-morrow. - -_F._ We'll talk about it when you come to-morrow. (_Opening the door._) -I must go this very moment, or I shall _never_ get to Mrs. Fresco's. - -_A._ What are you going to wear to-night? - -_F._ That cardinal I showed you the other day. - -_A._ Isn't that rather gorgeous? - -_F._ Oh, it's going to be a big dinner, you know; and there's lots of -black lace on it. - -_A._ It must be awfully becoming. - -_F._ It is. If Jack knows anything, he ought to see a difference between -that and orange plumes. - -_A._ Ethel Mott told me-- Oh, do come in a moment. I'm simply freezing -to death, and I must tell you this. - -_F._ (_once more coming in and closing the door_) Well, do be quick. I -ought to have been home long ago. - -_A._ Oh, you've lots of time. - -_F._ But it takes so long to do my hair. - -_A._ How are you going to wear it? - -_F._ The same old way. I wish somebody'd invent some new -style,--something real nice and becoming. I asked Uncle Calvin the other -night if he hadn't seen some pretty styles in China, and I wish you -could have _seen_ the pictures he brought out! - -_A._ What were they like? - -_F._ Like? They weren't like anything. Why, I just _gasped_ over them! -Ships, and butterflies, and all sorts of things; all made out of hair, -right on your own head. - -_A._ Not really? - -_F._ Yes, just as I tell you. I never _saw_ anything so frightful. - -_A._ It must have been perfectly ghastly! - -_F._ Well, good-bye. Come early. Oh! what were you going to tell me? - -_A._ To tell you? - -_F._ Yes,--that Ethel Mott said. - -_A._ Oh, she said that Kate West has been corresponding all winter with -that West Point cadet she met at Newport last summer. - -_F._ No! - -_A._ Yes! - -_F._ Why, Alice Langley, do you mean it? - -_A._ Ethel said she knew it. - -_F._ I don't believe it. - -_A._ That's what I said. - -_F._ But she's as good as engaged to George Maynard. - -_A._ I know it. - -_F._ I think it's perfectly awful. - -_A._ So do I. - -_F._ Do you suppose he knows it? - -_A._ Oh, no. He's so gone on Kate, he thinks she'd never look at anybody -but him. - -_F._ I never heard anything so perfectly amazing in my life. - -_A._ And sometimes, Ethel says, they write each other two letters a -week. - -_F._ Two letters? - -_A._ Two letters. - -_F._ In one week? - -_A._ That's what Ethel says. - -_F._ I wonder she doesn't expect the ground to open and swallow her. I -never heard of such deceit. Why, she's going to lead the german with -George at the Wentworths' next week. - -_A._ I know it. - -_F._ Well, I've always said Kate West couldn't be trusted out of your -sight. (_She turns, and opens the door._) I do believe that every time I -open that door it is colder. I know I shall die before I get home,--or -freeze my ears. - -_A._ Think how dreadful it would be to freeze your ears. I knew a girl -at boarding-school that froze her ears skating one vacation, and they -hung down like rags. We used to tell her they were like a spaniel's, -and call her Fido. She'd get _perfectly_ furious. - -_F._ I don't wonder. - -_A._ It was awfully good fun to see how she tried to pretend she didn't -care; and then, when she couldn't stand it another minute, she'd catch -up the very first thing she could lay her hands on, and throw it. - -_F._ (_descending the steps_) I would if I'd been she. Could she wear -ear-rings? - -_A._ Oh, not for the longest time,--as much as a year, any way. When we -wanted to be especially pleasant, we told her that frozen ears always -came off after a time. - -_F._ How horrid! - -_A._ But it was such fun! - -_F._ Good-bye. Be sure and come to-morrow. - -_A._ Yes. - -_F._ And come early. - -_A._ Yes; I'll come right after luncheon. - -_F._ Don't you think your gown ought to be made just like my black one? - -_A._ Yes; that would be more effective. - -_F._ And then we can wear our hair just alike. - -_A._ It's a pity you couldn't have some black flowers. - -_F._ Yes. I don't see why the florists don't get up some. Phew! It's as -cold as Greenland. Do go in. You'll get your death cold. - -_A._ Good-bye. Don't tell what I told you. - -_F._ No; not to a soul. How did Ethel Mott find out about the letters? - -_A._ She wouldn't tell. - -_F._ Do you suppose she really knew, or only guessed? - -_A._ She said she really and truly knew. - -_F._ Isn't it amazing? - -_A._ It is _per_-fectly incomprehensible. - -E. Well, good-bye. I hope you'll have good luck at the Whist Club -to-night. - -_A._ Oh, do come back till I tell you what Mr. Fremont said about the -Whist Club. - -[_Fanny returns to the foot of the steps, and Alice goes half way down -to meet her._] - -_A._ He said he wasn't going to the Whist Club any more, and I asked him -why not, and he said he was tired of taking girls down to feed, when -they'd been talking so all the evening that he couldn't play. - -_F._ Why, I never heard anything so insulting! - -_A._ I told Mr. Van Bruch, and he said the trouble was that Mr. Fremont -wanted all the time to feed himself. - -_F._ Good. Do you know Colonel Graham says that he went to the Vaughns' -to play whist, and they held a conversazione instead. Wasn't that -clever? - -_A._ Yes; awfully. - -_F._ Good-bye. I'll tell Jane to lay out my black dress, so it will be -all ready when you come. - -_A._ I'll try and get time to go down town in the morning, to see what I -can get to make my gown of. It's an awful shame you had to hurry away -so; I had lots of things to say. - -_F._ Well, I really had to go, you know. You can't keep a dinner party -waiting, of course. - -_A._ Oh, of course not. Good-bye. I'm awfully glad you came. - -_F._ Good-bye. I've had a lovely time. - -[_She at last really goes, and Alice, after lingering a second to regret -the things she has not said, retires and closes the door of the now -pretty well aired house._] - - - - -Tale the Sixth. - -BARUM WEST'S EXTRAVAGANZA. - - - - -BARUM WEST'S EXTRAVAGANZA. - - -Barum West threw down his pen, and looked about his attic with a gloomy -face. The light from his one window, a dormer facing the east, was too -faint to permit his writing any longer, even had he been in the mood; -and how far he was from desiring to go on with his work was shown by his -seizing the sheets which were the result of his afternoon's labor, and -angrily tearing them into bits. - -The room was not unlike the traditional abode of that melancholy -thing, a poor-devil author. The roof sloped from the middle of the -ceiling almost to the floor, the niche of the dormer-window where his -writing-table stood being the only part of the eastern side of the -chamber where one could stand upright. In the corner on the opposite -side stood an old-fashioned, high-posted bedstead; a bureau, over which -hung a tarnished mirror of antique frame, was placed opposite the tall -stove, in which was carefully cherished a frugal coal fire; a black -trunk was pushed under the eaves, while some pine shelves held the young -man's unimposing library. Both carpet and wall-paper were dingy and -faded, and in the darkening winter twilight the attic was gloomy enough -to depress the spirits of one in a frame of mind far more cheerful than -that in which West found himself. - -Most authors are too unhappily familiar with the fact that a financial -crisis is apt to be so desperately unproductive of marketable ideas that -even the excitement of a definite order is likely, at such a time, to -beget in the brain rather a confused sense of impotence than a creative -inspiration. One must be well seasoned in the vicissitudes of a literary -career to be able to do his best under the combined pressure of sore -need and the necessity of seizing at once an unusual opportunity. West -was still young in his profession, as well as in years, and the wild -exhilaration of receiving a conditional commission had given place to an -awful feeling of despairing helplessness. A friend who had considerable -confidence in him, and, what was more to the purpose, some acquaintance -and influence in theatrical circles, had persuaded a manager to promise -to consider an extravaganza from the pen of the would-be playwright, and -Barum felt as if his whole future depended upon his success. - -He had started upon his task with the utmost hope and confidence. He -had for a couple of years been studying stage work, writing plays that -nobody would touch, and serving that dreary apprenticeship which comes -before literary success, but which is, unhappily, not always followed by -it. He had pinned above his writing-table a sentence from "Earl's Dene," -which had afforded him a sombre support often enough: "The only road to -the skies, Mademoiselle, is up the garret stairs. Mozart climbed them, -Moretti climbed them, ... everybody who has ever done anything has had -to climb them; and you, Mademoiselle, are one whose duty for the present -is to starve." It may have been because he secretly felt that he had -starved long enough, or from the buoyant hope pathetically natural to -youth, that West was convinced that his time had come; but at least of -that fact he had no doubt. - -When, however, he sat down to write, he found his brain teeming, in -place of valuable ideas, with the single notion that this time he must -succeed; instead of a plot, his mind spun visions of coming greatness; -and in place of elaborating witticisms, his thoughts turned alternately -to dismal memories and to yet more gloomy forebodings. To-day ended a -week of futile endeavor, and the unlucky writer was forced to confess to -himself that, so far from being further on in his work than he was seven -days earlier, he had stuck where he set out, and acquired the fatal -hindrance of a self-distrust which benumbed all his powers. - -It grew quickly darker as he brooded, the brief February twilight -shutting down rapidly. It was so dark when at last he got heavily upon -his feet that he was obliged to fumble about for his shabby hat and coat -in the shallow closet which held his scant wardrobe. He muttered to -himself as he did so a quotation from Octave Feuillet. He could hardly -have been an aspirant for literary honors, and not be crammed to the -throat with quotations. - -"'_Ce n'est donc pas un vain mot, la faim!_'" he said aloud, with so -much bitterness that a hearer, had there been one, might have forgiven -his sentimentality. "'_Il y a donc vraiment une maladie de ce nom-là._'" - -He went down the three flights of stairs which lay between his chamber -and the sordid street, taking his way to a cheap restaurant, which his -soul loathed, but to which the narrowness of his purse constrained him. -The waiter-girls, gossiping together, knew his shabby figure too well to -hasten to serve him with any alacrity born of expectation of tips; but -one of them came to stand, leaning by one hand upon the table, while he -studied the bill of fare in a vain attempt to discover some dish which -would be alike satisfactory to his appetite and his finances. There were -stains of coffee and of soup upon the card, which gave him a feeling -of disgust, as if his food had been served in an unwashed dish; but he -repressed his feelings and made out his meagre order. The damsel filled -him the usual glass of ice-water, tossed an evening paper before him, -and betook herself to cry the supper he had called for into the mouth of -a rubber tube, which hung flabbily out of the wall. West could hear -the voice of somebody under ground repeating the order, like a surly -subterranean echo, and he was peevishly half inclined to fling a plate -at the head of a man at the next table, on the supposition that that -individual might have been listening to this double disclosure of the -straitness of diet to which his poverty constrained him. - -He tried to interest himself in the paper which had been given him. He -picked out the smallest paragraphs with a feeling of being so much at -variance with the world in general that nothing could possibly interest -him which was not held to be of no especial moment to the majority. -Suddenly he felt that little thrill with which a man always comes upon -his name in print. Among a lot of brief jottings was the statement that -a man in Chicago had left two hundred thousand dollars to Barum West. -For a moment his heart seemed to stand still, but instantly his common -sense reasserted itself, and he smiled with the bitter but fleeting -cynicism of youth at the impossibility that a fortune should come to -him by any lucky throw of Fortune's dice. The name was sufficiently -uncommon, however, to make the coincidence striking, and what artistic -youth, so placed that his wits were more or less disconcerted by the -unevenness of life, could fail to make the paragraph the starting-point -for a thousand dreams. - -All that night, when he should have been sleeping, and when he really -was half under the influence of slumber, Barum West's thoughts, which -should have been devising stage situations, droll dialogue, and popular -allusions, occupied themselves with that illusive fortune. He considered -what he would do did he really have it; how he would enjoy it; what -delights he would purchase, and what miseries escape. In dreams his -fancy wove a gorgeous tissue of enchantment, at which he smiled when he -waked, although in reality it was little more extravagant than the airy -fabric of his waking fancies. When once an imaginative youth gives -rein to his fancy, especially if hope and need prick the tricksy steed -forward, there is no telling to what lengths the race it runs may not -stretch. West certainly did not believe that the legacy of which he had -seen mention was really intended for his pocket, and yet the coincidence -of the name seemed to him so good proof that it went far toward -persuading him that he was, in truth, the legatee. For the rest, he, -perhaps not unconsciously, humored a little a dream which at least -amused for the time being a life all too little lightened by frivolity -of any sort. - -It was not until the following evening that it occurred to West that, -having a fortune in hand, it would be necessary for him to invest it. -He was once more at the eating-house, which to-night he regarded with -less bitterness than hitherto, so strong was the effect of his dream in -putting him in better temper toward life and the world. As he scanned -the paper, in the hope that he might come upon some further information -in regard to Barum West's fortune, his eye lighted on the stock -reports, and, with a sudden sense of importance he reflected that with -two hundred thousand dollars to take care of it behooved him to furbish -up whatever knowledge he possessed of stocks. The unintelligibility of -the stock reports was sufficient proof that he had little knowledge -to furbish, but this only aroused his combativeness, and made him -determined to learn. - -When he left the restaurant he bought a paper of his own, and taking it -to his room, he passed the evening in studying finance as represented -in the columns of the daily journal. There was something amusing, or -pathetic, as one might look at it, about the absorption with which he -gave himself to the occupation of deciding what he should do with -$200,000 if he had it. He reflected shrewdly that it were wise not to -invest his whole capital in a single stock, and he tried to recall -whatever he had heard of the relative safety of different classes of -security. He guessed at the amount of commission he would be obliged -to pay a broker, his guide being a confused remembrance that in a play -he had heard a certain rate mentioned. He carefully tabulated his -investments, and retired at length, the possessor of an income of -something over $11,000, all commissions having been paid. - -It was perhaps not strange that Barum was in absolute ignorance of -the fact, since a knowledge of the vagaries of the stock market was -decidedly outside of his world, but the truth was that he had begun to -manage his fancied fortunes on a falling market when the bears were -raging in Wall Street. While he slept that night a combination was being -completed which was the next day to run down twenty-five per cent the -conservative railroad stock in which West had felt it safe to put half -his fairy gold. When Barum took up the paper at the restaurant on the -third evening he had lost about $40,000,--a fact which could hardly have -caused him more chagrin had he really possessed the money to lose. - -The game he was playing interested him like a new novel. His quick -imagination had taken fire, and this defeat spurred him to a fresh -endeavor. He felt himself in honor bound to regain what he had lost; and -this evening went like the last, in complicated and decidedly amateurish -efforts to bring his imaginary finances into a satisfactory condition. -The writing of the play of which he was to read the skeleton to the -manager in a fortnight advanced not at all. He took his pen to write, -and laid it down to refresh his memory on the latest quotation on some -stock; he tried to think of his plot, and found himself reflecting -concerning debenture bonds and second mortgages, with the vaguest -possible notion of what either might be. - -The strange possession which a vivid fancy may take of a lonely and -imaginative mind is a phenomenon not unfamiliar to those who have -studied the lives of men of fervid temperament; and the whim to which -West now gave himself up was no more extravagant than many another which -has had consequences far more serious. For days he went on, becoming -more and more completely engrossed by the folly he was following. His -writing-table was covered with papers upon which he had memoranda of -stocks, of sales, of investments, calculations of commissions, and all -the rest of it. He even thought of going down town to watch the bulletin -boards at some broker's, but he would hardly have been the fanciful -dreamer he was, had he not shrunk from actually coming in contact with -men and the reality of the business at which he played. - -For a week this absurdity continued. Sometimes West gained a little in -his visionary speculations, and this inspired him with new courage, -although whether he won or lost he was still possessed with the fatal -gambling mania. His work meanwhile was not advancing. It is true that -he sat for hours at his table nominally at work upon his play, but he -interrupted himself constantly to consider whether there were not some -way of recovering the money he had lost. - -When Saturday night came he looked back over his week with regret and -shame. The date fixed for his presenting his sketch to the manager was -now only eight days off, and he was practically no further advanced -in his preparation than on the day when his friend brought him the -delightful news that that elusive personage had consented to make the -appointment. He had wasted the past week in a foolish day-dream, as -profitless as it was absurd. Yet he smiled to himself at the reflection -that his day-dream had at least been amusing. It had been like creating -a story or the plot for a play; and with a characteristically bachelor -thought, he added to himself that it was at least less dangerous to play -with visions of fortune than of love, and quite as sensible. - -He could not, on the whole, however, be satisfied with the result of -his week, and he determined to have no more of this folly. He must -set to work in earnest, and he resented the consciousness which -forced itself upon him that his lonely life and imaginative turn made -it possible for him to fall into vagaries which to the practical -common-sense of mankind in general would be held to indicate anything -but a sound mind. He started up suddenly and gathered all the papers -upon which were recorded his unlucky stock transactions, and began to -thrust them into the stove. He would make an end of the whole foolish -business. And yet, so far from entirely burning his ships, he at least -left for himself a little boat in which to continue his explorations -into the delusive regions of financial fairy-land, since he saved the -one slip which contained the statement of the present condition of his -much-diminished fortune. He condescended to the weak, but eminently -human trick of attempting to humbug himself in regard to his reasons -for doing so. He said to himself, exactly as if he were explaining to -another person, that the bit of paper would serve as a warning to him, -should he ever be tempted to indulge in so idiotic a diversion again; -and he added, as if to quiet the least suspicion that he meant to use -the memorandum, that the morrow being Sunday there would be no market -with which he could play. - -And yet, so weak is human resolution, such a rope of sand is it to -fetter the resistless progress of character,--which is destiny,--that -the next evening found West with the Sunday paper spread before him, -carefully studying the financial article, and elaborating his plans for -a grand _coup_, by which he should regain all the thousands he had lost. -He had become very canny during the week's study of the market reports, -and he felt this Sunday evening all the pleasant satisfaction of one -who, out of sight, cunningly devises the overthrow of clever enemies. On -Monday morning he would--in imagination, of course--go into the field -with a shrewdly devised scheme of buying and selling, which should -result in the triumphant re-establishment of his financial standing. -When one is dealing with life in imagination merely there is of course -no limit to the extent to which one may make himself master of events; -and partly from a keen fancy, partly from pure _naïveté_, West's plan -involved nothing less than bulling the market himself upon his visionary -capital, now shrunken to some $70,000. - -All day Monday West was in a state of excitement which was amazingly -absurd when one considers that the cause was wholly fancy. When a -drunkard returns to his cups he is notoriously more intemperate -than before, and in delivering himself up for a second time to the -intoxication of his vagaries Barum plunged more recklessly than ever -into its extravagances. On Tuesday he was once more to be rich, and then -he would speculate no more. Safe mortgages and government bonds should -suffice him as investments, even though the rate of interest they paid -was low. He would not again expose himself to the chances of such -feverish excitement as that in which he had spent the past week. - -So real had the whole business become to him that, while he smiled at -his own folly as he took up the Tuesday evening paper, he actually felt -a pang of disappointment to discover that his imaginary operations had -produced no effect on the stock market. So far from rising, stocks had -that day gone almost out of sight, so great had been the fall in the -price of securities of all sorts. - -A feeling almost of despair came over the young man as he read. He had -gone out into the street to buy the earliest edition which would contain -the account of the sales that day, and as he walked toward his attic -he experienced almost as sharp a pang as if the absolute wreck which -he found had overtaken his imaginary fortune had befallen a genuine -bank-account. That unreasonable youthful disappointment which arises -from a sense of failure _per se_, with little reference to the real -importance of the stake, stung him keenly; and he was one of those men -who cannot but confound real and æsthetic grievances. - -He returned to his attic and figured it out. He was absolutely and -hopelessly ruined. He had not only lost every dollar of his imaginary -fortune, but he was, on paper, some seven or eight hundred dollars in -debt to his brokers for commissions. He was so overwhelmed by this -catastrophe that he sat brooding over it in the darkness of the February -twilight and gathering night, until it was far past the hour when he -usually took his apology for a dinner. He was not without a sense of -humor sufficiently vivid to make him laugh at himself, and mentally mock -at the vexation which the result of his airy speculations caused him; -but this did not prevent his being vexed, or take his thoughts from -laborious calculations how a different result might have been reached. -He went off to dinner at last with a sober and abstracted mien, -ordering a repast even more economical than usual, as befitted one who -had just lost his whole fortune in ill-starred speculation. - -It was his custom to time his visit to the restaurant so as to dine -before the crowd of customers came for their evening meal. To-night, -however, he was behind them. The place was no fuller than he usually -found it, but it bore signs of the recent crush. The cloth of the table -was crumpled and soiled, the glass in which the inevitable ice-water -was poured was yet warm from being washed, while the evening paper the -waiter gave him was adorned with an irregular stain of coffee. In the -midst of the brown blotch of this stain was a patch undiscolored; and by -one of those odd and improbable coincidences of which life is full, in -the midst of this spot of dingy white Barum West once more caught sight -of his own name. The whimsical fate which had started the fantastic -train of thought in his mind ten days before now finished its work by a -paragraph stating that the will by which $200,000 had been bequeathed to -Barum West by Richard Granger, of Chicago, was now found to antedate a -second testament by which the money was left to Harvard College. - -Barum West went home with the light step of a boy. A great -responsibility seemed suddenly lifted from his shoulders. The capricious -fancy which had insisted that he should be depressed because he had lost -an imaginary fortune had apparently been willing to accept the fact that -even in hypothesis the possession of the money had been a mistake, and -the unlucky speculator was formally acquitted at the bar of his inner -consciousness. He lit his lamp and his pipe, seated himself in his -chintz-covered rocking-chair, with his heels on the top of the coal -stove, and ruminated. He reflected upon the fact that it was only five -days before he was to meet the manager, and nothing was done in the way -of a play which he could for an instant regard as at all satisfactory. - -"Instead of writing an extravaganza," he thought, with mingled amusement -and self-reproach, "I have been living one." - -The form of the thought struck him instantly. His feet came down to the -floor with a crash, and in his excitement his pipe went smashing down -beside them. - -"By Jove!" he cried aloud, "I have it!" - -And the plot of the extravaganza, which everybody will remember as being -so successful the following winter, "A Speculator in Air," and which -set Barum West on his feet financially, was only a properly modified -version of the vagaries in which the author had indulged in the handling -and the losing of his imaginary fortune. - - - - -Interlude Sixth. - -A BUSINESS MEETING. - - - - -A BUSINESS MEETING. - - -[_Certain absurd, not to say malicious, reports having been circulated -in regard to the meeting held by the Rosedale Sewing-Circle to decide -upon the time, place, and other details of their annual spring fair, it -is deemed but simple justice to the estimable ladies who compose that -body to give an accurate and unvarnished account of the proceedings on -that occasion; and the writer feels that not only will such a narration -sufficiently silence all slanders, but that it will as well go far -toward a triumphant refutation of the often-repeated falsehood that -women have no aptitude for business._] - -The meeting, being appointed for 2.30 P. M., was called to order by -the president, Mrs. Gilflora Smithe, at 3.30 P. M., the hour preceding -having been spent in an animated and pleasant discussion of the -important question whether the pastor's wife, who was detained at home -by illness, was really so extravagant as to use granulated sugar in her -sweet pickles, as was positively asserted by Miss Araminta Sharp. The -secretary read the report of the last meeting, as follows:-- - -"Monday, April 7.--Meeting called to order by the president. The records -read and approved. There being no quorum present, it was unanimously -voted to hold the next meeting on Thursday, as that day is more -convenient for the ladies. On motion of Mrs. Percy Browne, voted to -appoint a committee of one to take charge of the Art Department of the -fair. Mrs. Browne kindly volunteered to serve as that committee. -Adjourned." - -The records having been approved, the president remarked that there was -so much business to come before the meeting that she really could not -tell where to begin, and she should be glad if some one would make a -motion, just to start things. - -"A motion to put things in motion," murmured Miss Keene, looking around -with the smile which everybody knew meant that she had made a joke. - -Everybody smiled also, although nobody saw the point until the president -echoed, with a pleased air of discovery, "Motion,--motion! Very good, -Miss Keene." - -Then they all smiled once again, and Miss Gray told of an excellent jest -made by a cousin in Boston:-- - -"My cousin in Boston--that is, she isn't my real cousin, but a -step-cousin by marriage--was at a concert once, and she made an awfully -good joke. I don't remember exactly now what it was, but it was awfully -funny. It was something about music, and we all laughed." - -"It doesn't seem to me," spoke up Miss Sharp, acidly, "that Boston jokes -will help the fair much; and I move you, Mrs. President,--if I don't -make a motion, I'm sure I don't know who ever will,--that the fair be -held on the 20th of April." - -"I second the motion," promptly spoke up Miss Snob, who always seconded -everything. - -"It is moved and seconded," said the president, "that the fair be held -on the 20th of April; but I'm sure the 23d would suit me a great deal -better." - -"Why not have it the 17th?" asked Miss Keene; "that seems to me quite -late enough." - -"Oh, dear, no," interrupted Mrs. Percy Browne, "I never could get half -the things done for my department by that time. I move we have it the -30th." - -"Second the motion," promptly responded Miss Snob. - -"It is moved and seconded," propounded Mrs. Smithe from the chair, "that -the fair be held on the 30th. That seems to me an excellent time. If it -be your minds, you will please to signify it. It is a vote." - -"I still stick to the 20th," declared Miss Sharp, viciously. "I shall -open my candy-table then, whether the rest of the fair is ready or not." - -"Sweets to the sweet," murmured Miss Keene, looking around with her -jest-announcing smile. - -"The 20th is Sunday, any way," observed the Hon. Mrs. Sampson Hoyt, in -tones of great condescension. - -"I don't care," persisted the contumacious Sharp. "I'll have my part of -the fair then, any way." - -"Suppose we compromise," suggested the president, pacifically, "and say -the 25th." - -There was considerable discussion, more or less acrimonious, at this -proposition, but it was finally adopted without the formality of a vote, -the secretary being instructed to set the date April 25th down as the -final decision of the meeting. - -"There will have to be a general committee of arrangements," the -president observed, this important preliminary having been settled. "I -suppose it is customary for the chair to appoint them; but I am ready -to receive nominations." - -"I nominate Miss Keene," said Mrs. Browne, who wished to keep in that -lady's good graces. - -"Second the motion," Miss Snob exclaimed, with enthusiasm. - -"Miss Keene will have enough to do at the cake-table," Mrs. Smithe -replied. "I think I'll appoint Mrs. Hoyt, Mrs. Crowler, Mrs. Henderson, -and Mrs. Lowell." - -"There's never but three on that committee," snapped Miss Sharp. "You'll -have to take off one." - -"Dear me!" responded Mrs. Smithe, in dismay; "I think you must be -mistaken." - -But Miss Sharp persisted, and the president, driven into a corner, was -forced to propose that one of the ladies named should resign. Nobody -seemed willing to do this, however, and it was at length decided that -some one of the four should regard herself as a substitute, to act -in case one of the others could not serve. The president could not, -however, bring herself to specify which should be the substitute, and -was greatly relieved when the conversation was turned by Mrs. -Henderson's remarking,-- - -"Speaking of substitutes reminds me. Did you know that you could make -mince-pies without meat? My niece from Bangor--" - -[_The talk of the next fifteen minutes is omitted, as being irrelevant, -relating exclusively to cooking. At the expiration of that time, the -business of the occasion was accidentally reintroduced by an allusion on -the part of Mrs. Crowler to some delicious chocolate macaroons which she -had eaten at a fair in East Machias._] - -"We really must have some more committees," the president said, -recovering herself with a start. "Will somebody make a motion?" - -"I don't think Friday is a good day for a fair, any way," Mrs. Lowell -now remarked, reflectively. "The 25th is Friday." - -"Oh, I never thought of that," exclaimed half a dozen ladies, in dismay. -"We should be all tired out for baking-day." - -"I don't know what we can do," the president said, in despairing -accents,--"there seem to be so many days, and only one fair; and we've -had so many dates proposed. We shall have to unvote something." - -It was at this crisis that the Hon. Mrs. Sampson Hoyt rose to the -heights of the parliamentary opportunity. - -"I move the previous question," she said, distinctly and firmly. - -There fell a hush of awe over the sewing-circle, and even Miss Snob was -a moment in bringing out her second. - -"I don't think!" Mrs. President Smithe ventured, a little falteringly, -"that I quite understood the motion." - -"I moved," the Hon. Mrs. Hoyt replied, with the air of one conscious -that her husband had once been almost nominated to the State -Legislature, and had been addressed as Honorable ever after, "I moved -the previous question." - -"Yes?" Mrs. Smithe said, inquiringly and pleadingly. - -"That takes everything back to the beginning," Mrs. Hoyt condescended -to explain, "and we can then change the date of our fair in a strictly -legal way." - -She threw a glance of superb scorn around her as she spoke, and even -Miss Sharp took on a subdued and corrected air. - -"It is moved and seconded the previous question," Mrs. Smithe -propounded, with an air of great relief. "It is a vote." - -"I don't think we had better do away with everything in this case," Mrs. -Hoyt observed, with a smile of gracious concession. "We might let the -committee of arrangements stand." - -"That she's chairman of," whispered Mrs. Crowler, spitefully. - -"I don't remember," observed Miss Sharp, gazing into futurity with an -air of abstraction, "that there is anything in the by-laws about the -previous question." - -A flutter stirred the entire company. The ladies looked at each other, -and then with one accord turned their regards upon the Hon. Mrs. Hoyt, -as one who, having got them into this difficulty, was in honor bound to -help them out of it. - -"I supposed everybody knew," that lady remarked, with icy sweetness, -"that the rules of making motions do not have to be in the by-laws. They -are in"--the speaker hesitated, not being exactly sure of the title of -the volume to which her husband had given so careful attention when -expecting to be nominated: feeling, however, that anything was better -than the appearance of ignorance, she went on precipitately--"in 'Pole's -Manual.'" - -Even Miss Sharp had no retort adequate to meet this crushing appeal to -authority, not being sufficiently well informed to connect Pole with -whist, so she contented herself by observing, with a sniff, that for -her part she was glad she did not know so much as some people pretended -to. - -"It does seem to me," observed Mrs. Henderson, at this point, "that -we might let this one year go by without a fair. There's been so much -sickness in Rosedale this winter that everybody is tired out, and we had -a great deal better wait till June, and have a strawberry-festival. I -move we put the whole thing off till then." - -"Second the motion," cried Miss Snob, with great promptitude. - -"I cannot consent to put that motion," the president said, with great -dignity. "We have made up our minds to have a fair now, and we might as -well have it, and be done with it." - -"I move," Mrs. Browne put in sweetly, with the intention of suiting -everybody, "that we have a fair _and_ a strawberry-festival." - -Miss Snob seconded this motion with her customary enthusiasm. - -"It is moved and seconded," the president said, "that we have a fair and -a strawberry-festival. But that seems a great deal; and I think I had -better declare it not a vote, unless doubted." - -Nobody was clear about the effects of doubting a negative proposition; -but Mrs. Crowler was pleased to observe, "Well, any way, now I come to -think it over, I think, on the whole, I won't be on the arrangements -committee at all; but I'll be chairman of the finance committee when -that is fixed,--and that'll leave only three on the arrangements." - -This moved Mrs. Henderson to resign, and Mrs. Lowell following her -example, Mrs. Hoyt was left in solitary grandeur upon the committee. - -Matters were not improved, moreover, when Miss Keene remarked, "If we've -voted 'the previous question,' I don't see but we've still got to fix -the day. All that is undone now." - -"Certainly," responded the Hon. Mrs. Sampson Hoyt, with the virtuous joy -of an iconoclast gazing on the ruin he has wrought. - -"We don't seem to have anything exactly fixed," the president said, with -a helpless and conciliatory smile. "If somebody would make a motion--" - -"It's too late to make any more motions to-day," Miss Sharp interrupted, -with much vigor. "It's ten minutes of six." - -At this announcement of the lateness of the hour, the entire company -started to their feet in dismay; and although, when the president and -secretary tried next day to remember what had been done, that the latter -might make up her report, they recorded that the meeting adjourned, -that statement must be regarded as having been purely a parliamentary -fiction, entered in the secretary's book to gratify that instinct innate -in woman's breast to follow exactly the regular and strictest forms of -recognized rules of order. - - - - -Tale the Seventh. - -A SKETCH IN UMBER. - - - - -A SKETCH IN UMBER. - - -Every life has its history: this is the story of Ruth Welch, the -placid-faced, silver-haired woman who sat in the September twilight -looking out over the moorlands one Saturday evening, and considering -many things. - -The house faced toward the south. It looked across a little creek which -made in from the sea, and it had in its prospect only level heaths to -the horizon's edge. On the west stretched the waters of an arm of the -Atlantic, and the tides came twice a day around the low cape into the -inlet, and the wind blew over the moors; but in all directions one -looked upon level wastes,--"the plains," the country people called them, -speaking of them sometimes as "Welch's bogs," or in sections as the -"blueb'ry plains," or the "cramb'ry marshes;" and people who lived -outside of them regarded the moors as painfully dull. - -They were not, too, without some excuse for such an opinion. The rhodora -and the kalmia--the "lamb-kill"--in spring spread over sections of -the waste transient sheets of glowing color, but for the most part the -country was either white or brown, and to one not fond of it the effect -of the monotone of hue was depressing. The shade of brown varied, -changing from a grayish or even greenish brown in midsummer to a sombre, -almost uniform umber in autumn, which latter tint now and then during -the winter appeared in desolate patches through the flats of snow, until -in March the whole plain came to light darker and more forbidding than -ever. - -All these long months the only break in the low monochrome of the -landscape was the red cottage which still was called "Gran'sir' -Welch's," although the old man had been dead many a year, and the little -garden before it that kept up, with old-fashioned flowers, a show of -bravery until the frosts came. The tint of the old house was dull and -dingy, but in so colorless a setting the hue seemed brighter, as a -single event might assume undue importance in a monotonous life. If -one could have supposed the builder an imaginative man or one given to -refinements of sentiment, it might be easy to imagine that when he built -his house thus alone in the plains, with not another dwelling in sight -and without a break in the level landscape, he felt the need of giving -it some color that should protest against the deadly grayness of all -around and hearten its owner by its warmth of tone. - -So overwhelming were the solitude and the unbroken sameness of the -place, however, that an imaginative man would scarcely have chosen it -as an abiding-place, although once involved in its powerful fascination -he would have been held to his life's end. By what accident Gran'sir' -Welch's grandfather had chosen to build here, half a score of miles from -the little fishing village which stood to the people of that region for -the world, no one knew, and very likely no one cared. Folk thereabout -concerned themselves little with reasons for anything, facts being all -they found mental grasp sufficient to hold. Once established in the -plains, however, there was no especial cause to suppose the family would -not continue to live on there until its course was interrupted either by -extinction or by the arrival of the Judgment-Day. - -Extinction was not very far off now, since only this white-haired -woman remained to bear the name. Her mother had died in the daughter's -infancy. Mrs. Welch had never adapted herself to the silence and -loneliness of the moors, and her people over at the village declared -that she had "died of the plains;" and it is possible that they were -right. Ruth's father, when she was still but a child, had been lost at -sea; and the girl had been cared for by her grandfather and the old -serving-woman Bethiah, who had once been supposed to be a hired girl, -but had ended by being so thoroughly identified with the family that her -surname was wellnigh forgotten, and she was designated, when she was -spoken of at all, as Bethiah Welch. - -The child grew much in the same way as grew the houseleeks in the boxes -beside the southern door, very slowly and dully. Once or twice she went -for a few months to stay with an aunt in the village ten miles away, it -being the unanimous opinion of her relatives that as the Welches always -had known how to read and write it was proper that something should -be done for Ruth's education; and the village school was the only -educational means known in the region. The girl pined for home, however, -and was never content away from the red house. Perhaps by a strange -perversity of circumstance the home-longing of the mother was in the -child transformed into a clinging fondness for the place where the -former was so lonely and alien. The low, level moors were necessary -to Ruth's life; in their colorless monotony she somehow found the -complement for her uneventful life. Perhaps the very dulness developed -her imagination, as special organs appear in animals whose abnormal -conditions of existence render them needful. If this were so, it was no -less true that the moors absorbed whatever mental life they stimulated, -until the girl seemed hardly less a part of them than the knolls of -leathery shrubs, the scattered, shallow pools, the tufts of coarse -grass, or the whispering voices of the wind which all night long and -every night were hurrying to and fro, concerned with unspeakable tidings -which perhaps came from the sea that forever moaned along the moorland's -edges. - -Little conscious imagination had Ruth at nineteen; and it was at -nineteen that the single, trifling event of her life occurred. She was -a maiden by no means uncomely. She was not educated in any conventional -sense of the term; but her life alone with her grandfather and old -Bethiah and the great brown moors had bred in her a certain sweet -gravity which was not without its charm, had there been but those to -see who could appreciate it. - -Along the front of the house ran a bench, where people seldom sat, since -there were none to sit, but where the milk-pans dried in the sun, a -gleaming row; and one sunny morning late in September the flash of their -shimmer caught the eye of a skipper who in his yacht in the bay studied -the horizon with his glass. He was not yet past those years when a man -still finds amusement in imitating fate and nature by yielding to his -impulses; the gleam suggested pleasant draughts of fresh milk; and -without more ado, he headed the trig little craft in which he and a -brother artist were skirting the coast of the Gulf of Maine for the -little inlet upon which Gran'sir' Welch's red cottage stood. - -In those days yachts were less common than now, and both Ruth and -Bethiah left their work to watch the boat as it ran up to the low wharf, -and the snowy sail fell with a musical rattle and clash of metallic -rings. - -The skipper, a stalwart young fellow, too handsome by half, came briskly -ashore and did his errand, and while the old servant went for the milk, -stood with Ruth by the open door asking idle questions, to which she -replied without either shyness or boldness. His eyes were just on a -level with hers as she stood on the threshold above him, and their bold, -merry glance saw with full appreciation how clear were her sherry-brown -orbs. He removed his cap and leaned against the door-post, letting his -glance stray over the landscape. Here and there upon the brown surface -his keen eye detected the flame of a scarlet leaf amid the prevailing -russet, but the combined effect of all the red leaves upon the plain -could not warm the sombre wastes. - -"Don't you get tired of the sameness?" he asked suddenly, as if the -monotony all at once seemed to him too great to be borne. - -"Oh, no," Ruth answered, smiling faintly, "I like it." - -He brushed back his curly, golden locks with a shapely brown hand, and -regarded her more closely. - -"It is like a fish in the water," was his conclusion when he spoke -again. "It would drown me." - -Ruth smiled again, showing her white, even teeth a little, although -she did not in the least understand what he meant; and before the -conversation could go further Bethiah appeared with the milk she had -been getting. Ruth put aside the stranger's offer of pay, and with an -instinct of hospitality which must have been genuine indeed to have -survived so long disuse from lack of opportunity, she stepped down -into the little garden-plot and picked a nosegay of the old-fashioned -flowers which in the southern exposure were still unharmed by frost. - -"Put a posy in my button-hole," he requested lightly, when she gave them -to him. "Pick out the prettiest." - -She had never stuck a flower in a man's coat, but she was too utterly -devoid of self-consciousness to be shy. She selected a beautiful -clove pink, and smiling her grave smile, thrust the stem through the -buttonhole of his yachting-jacket as he held out the lapel. - -"It would be just the color of your cheeks," he said, "if it could only -get sunburned." - -A redder glow flushed up at his words, and so tempting was the innocent -face before him that half involuntarily he bent forward to kiss the -smooth lips. The girl drew back, in that grave, unemotional fashion -of hers which was to the stranger so unaccountable at once and so -fascinating, and he failed of his intent. - -"Ah, well," he said, in nowise disconcerted, "keep the kiss for your -sweetheart, but thank you for the flowers." - -He laughed with a gleeful, deep-toned note, and turned down the -faintly-defined path to the shore again. - -Ruth looked on with interest at the hoisting of the sail; she smiled -responsively as the two mariners doffed their caps to her, and then, -regardless of the old superstition of the ill-luck of watching people -out of sight, she kept her eyes fixed upon the pretty little craft as it -skimmed over the waters, as long as it could be seen. Then she turned -a comprehensive glance over all her moors, as if to to take them into -confidence regarding the pleasant incident which had just happened, and -returned to her interrupted domestic duties. The interview had touched -her with no repinings; and even could she have known that in that brief -moment all the romance of her life had been acted, she would scarcely -have sighed. She smiled as she went about her homely occupations, and -flushed a little with the consciousness of innocent vanity as she found -herself glancing into the glass at the reflection of her softly-glowing -cheeks, reddened with health and with the sun. - -This September day was the single glowing spot in the slow, mellow -years of Ruth's life. She came and went, slept and waked, perhaps even -dreamed. She was always in a happy, contented repose among her moors, -becoming of them every day more and more completely a part. The wide -plains grew green in spring with transient verdure, the purple petals -of the rhodora flushed through their brief day and dropped into the -shallow brown pools left by the late rains in the hollows; then all the -waste turned to fawn and russet under the suns of summer, and the cycle -of the year was completed by deepening browns and the wide stretches of -snow. Now and again great rolling masses of mist came up from the sea -and hid wold and wave alike from sight, but yet the sense of the plains -was like a presence to Ruth, as with heart warm as an egg beneath the -mother-bird's breast, she went her way and lived her span of life. - -She was far from being dull in her feelings. Indeed, for one in her -station and surroundings, she was unusually sensitive to mood of shore -and sky, to the beauty of the sunsets or of the wild flowers which -sprang amid the low shrubs. She was simply content. She was so perfectly -in harmony with her world that she could not be unhappy. She grew as a -bluebell grows. She was not deficient in womanly sentiment. She thought -sometimes of the handsome sailor lad whose bold brown eyes had looked -into hers, and she smiled anew with simple pleasure that he had found -her fair. She remembered the audacious gleam which crossed his face -when he bent forward to kiss her, and she did not forget his words -about a sweetheart. She never spoke of her memories,--she came of a -reticent race, and neither Gran'sir' Welch nor Bethiah was especially -adapted to the reception of confidences,--but she speculated concerning -the sweetheart she never had, and of whose coming fate gave no sign. -There was never any tinge of melancholy in these reflections. She -accepted life too simply to be sad, even with that vague oppression -which seemed to casual observers the obvious consequence of the -overpowering presence of the wastes. - -As years went on, she accepted the fact that the time of dreams of love -was past, and with placid content she reflected that the shadow of the -ungiven kiss of the sailor would never be disturbed by the pressure of -lover's lips upon hers. - -It is between twenty and thirty that the temperament of a woman becomes -fixed, and all her future irrevocably made or marred. Before this her -character is too flexible, after this too rigid for impressions to be -lasting. During these years the peace of the wide, calm, and sombre -moorlands stamped indelibly upon Ruth a sweet, grave content which -nothing could destroy or shake. - -There came a time when into the calm of the old house death rushed, with -that dreadful precipitancy which always marks his coming, even when -expected, and old Gran'sir' Welch, long past fourscore, was, in the -quaint language of the King James version, gathered to his fathers. - -In the gray dawn Ruth tapped softly at the hives of the bees which -stood, straw-thatched, against the eastern end of the cottage, and -announced the sad news, firmly believing that unless within twelve hours -the swarms were told of death they would desert their homes. Then in the -sunny autumn afternoon a funeral procession of boats trailed from the -red cottage to the graveyard behind the church in the village, where -slept such of his forefathers as the sea had spared to die in their -beds. With evenly dipping oars went first the quaintly-shaped pinky -bearing the coffin between two stout fisherman, one at prow and one at -stern; while after followed the dories in which were the few nearer -relatives who had come to attend the services at the house. - -Ruth sat beside a cousin and listened half unconsciously to the plash of -the oars and the rhythmic beat of the waves against the boat, looking -back with tear-dimmed eyes to the red house until it was by distance -blended with the dun country as the last spark dies amid the ashes. She -was sad, and she felt that oppressive terror which the presence of death -brings; yet her calm was not seriously or permanently shaken. - -In their relentless, even course the years moved on, and one day in -spring, when the rhodora was in all its glory, and the one bush of -mountain-laurel in the wide plains, which had strayed into the heath -like a lamb into the wilderness, was as white in the distance as a bunch -of upland maybloom, again Ruth went softly and gravely to tell the bees -that death had been in the red house, and the procession of boats, like -the Egyptian train over the Lake of the Dead, bore away the mortal -remains of faithful old Bethiah. - -Ruth's relatives in the village tried to induce her now to come to them, -and when she could not be moved to do this, urged her at least to have -some one live with her. She was getting to be an old woman, they said -among themselves, although in truth she was little past fifty, and since -for that part of the world she was not ill-provided with worldly goods, -there was no lack of those who were willing to take up their abode as -her companion in the red house. - -Ruth put all offers aside,--kindly, indeed, but decisively. She was -pleased to live alone; not from a misanthropic dislike of her kind, -but because it was so deep and inexhaustible a delight to her to brood -happily among her plains. More and more she loved these umber wastes, -over which cloud-shadows drifted like the darkening ripple of the wind -on the sea. She knew all their ways, those mysterious paths which wind -between the hillocks of deserted heaths as if worn with the constant -passing of invisible feet, and she was never weary of wandering among -the ragged hummocks, breathing in the salt air from the sea and noting -with happy eyes all the weeds and wild flowers, the shrubs that were too -inconspicuous to be singled out at a distance, but which to the careful -and loving observer revealed themselves as full of beauty. She was fond -of the faint, sweet scents of the opening flowers in spring, of the -dying grass in fall, of the burning peat when fires broke out sometimes -to smoulder until the next rain. She never thought about her feelings or -phrased the matter to herself, but she loved so perfectly these wastes -which seemed so desolate that they were to her as kindred and home; -perhaps even the maternal instinct which is inborn in every woman's -breast found some not quite inadequate expression in her almost -passionate fondness for the great heath. - -Her relatives spoke of her always as "odd," and were aggrieved that her -ways should be different from theirs; but everything that continues -comes in time to be accepted, and as the years went on Ruth's method of -life came to seem proper because it had so long been the same. A brawny -armed fisher cousin sailed over from the village every Sunday morning to -see that all was well at the red house, and to bring whatever might be -needed from the village store. Sometimes in winter he found her house -half buried in snow, but he never could report that she appeared either -discontented or sad. - -It was of the coming of this emissary that Ruth was thinking on this -Saturday night in September where first this record found her. She had -been reflecting much to-day about dying. In her walk about the heath she -had come upon a dead bird, and the sight had suggested to her her own -end. She acknowledged to herself that she was old, and for perhaps the -only time in her life her thought had formulated a general truth. She -had regarded the tiny corpse at her feet, and then, looking about upon -the moors, it came over her how immortal is the youth of the world and -how brief is man's life. The land about her was no older than when she -had looked upon it with baby eyes. For a single instant a poignant taste -of bitterness seemed set to her lips; then in a moment the very wide, -changeless plain that had caused her pain seemed itself somehow to -assuage it. - -To-night sitting here she admitted to herself that her strength had -failed somewhat of late. Yes, she was old. It was almost half a century -ago that that bold-eyed handsome stranger had compared the color in her -cheeks to a clove pink. She smiled serenely, although her reflections -were of age and death, so perfectly did she recall the sunny day and the -air with which the sailor would have kissed her. Placid and content in -the gathering dusk, she smiled her own grave, sweet smile, which it were -scarcely too fanciful to liken to the odor of the clove pink of her -garden-plot whose hue half a century ago had been in her cheek. She had -but one regret in leaving life, and that was to leave her moorlands. She -had found existence so pleasant and had been so well content that she -could not understand why people so usually spoke of life as sad; but -she could not think without pain of leaving the plains behind and going -away to lie in the bleak hillside graveyard where slept her kinsfolk. -It had never occurred to her before to consider to which she held more -strongly, her people or the wide brown stretches of open about her, but -to-night she debated it with herself and decided it. She resolved to say -to her cousin tomorrow that she wished her grave made in the plains. -Very likely her relatives would object. They had always thought her -ideas strange; but they would surely let her have her way in this. She -would even make some concessions and perhaps let Cousin Sarah come to -live with her if they would agree to do as she wished about this. It -would be so great a comfort to her to be assured that she was not in -death to be separated from her dearly loved moors. She liked Sarah well -enough, only that it was so pleasant to live alone with her bees and the -plains. Besides, if she should chance to die alone, who would tell the -bees? It would be a pity to have the fine swarms lost. - -Suddenly she started up in the dusk, and without knowing clearly why she -did it, she wrote on the bottom of the list of errands which she always -made on Saturday for her cousin her wish concerning her grave. The spot -she mentioned was a knoll near the house, where the ground rose a little -before it dipped into the sea. She reflected as she wrote that it was -wiser to be prepared for whatever could happen, and, although she would -not own it frankly even in these lonely musings, Ruth had felt strangely -weak and worn to-day. - -She frugally blew out the candle when her writing was done, and with -calm content sat down again in her rocking-chair by the window darkening -to "a glimmering square." She heard the sound of the sea and the low -wind blowing over the wide plains; and, lulled by the soft sounds, she -fell at last asleep. - -The wind rose in the night, and it was afternoon when the cousin from -the village came in sight of the red house. No smoke rose from its -chimney, and as he tied his clumsy sail-boat to the low wharf where so -long ago a yacht had been briefly fastened, a long wavering line of bees -rose glistening from the straw-thatched hives, floating upward and away -like the departing soul of mortal. Their mistress had been dead more -than twelve hours and they had not been told. Perhaps it was a chance -flight; perhaps they were seeking her serene spirit over the moors she -loved so well. - - - - -Interlude Seventh. - -THIRTEEN. - - - - -THIRTEEN. - - -[_The drawing-room of Mr. Sylvanus Potts Thompson, banker. Mr. Thompson -and his wife, with ten guests, making a neat round dozen in all, are -waiting the announcement of dinner. Enter Mr. Sylvanus Potts, a wealthy -uncle from the country._] - -_Mr. Potts._ I told the man there was no need to announce me; you knew -I was coming next week, and a few days don't matter. How do you do, -nephew? how do you do, Jane? - -_Mr. Thompson._ Why, uncle, we did not expect you so soon, but we are -always glad to see you, of course. - -_Mrs. Thompson._ Yes, always, dear Uncle Sylvanus. How is everybody at -home? - -_Mr. P._ Oh, they're all well; you seem to be having a party, nephew? - -_Mr. T._ Only a few friends to dinner. Let me introduce you. - -[_He takes him on his arm and presents him to his guests. While this is -being done, a sentimental, elderly young woman, with thin curls, after -whispering impressively with her neighbor, glides up to the hostess, and -holds a moment's conversation with that lady. Mrs. Thompson turns pale, -and seems engaged in a mental calculation. Then she starts quickly -toward her husband and draws him aside_] - -_Mrs. T._ Sylvanus, do you know how many people there are in this room? - -_Mr. T._ Oh, about a dozen, I suppose. - -_Mrs. T._ About a dozen! There are thirteen, Sylvanus, thirteen! - -_Mr. T._ Well, what of it? - -_Mrs. T._ What of it! Why, we can't sit down to dinner with thirteen at -table. Maria Smith says she should have a fit. - -_Mr. T._ But she wouldn't, my dear; she's too fond of her dinner. - -_Mrs. T._ Mr. Thompson, is it kind to speak so of my most particular -friend? - -_Mr. T._ But what does Maria expect us to do about it? Turn Uncle -Sylvanus out of the house? Wasn't I named for him, and haven't I always -been his favorite? Do you want me to be left out of his will? - -_Mrs. T._ But something must be done. Don't you see everybody is -whispering and counting? Can't we get somebody else? - -_Servant_ (_who has entered unperceived_). There is a man downstairs, -sir, wants you to sign something. - -_Mr. T._ Ah, my dear, here's the very man,--young Jones. He's our new -cashier, and a very clever fellow. - -[_Exit Mr. Thompson. During his absence Mrs. Thompson communicates to -Miss Smith the solution of the difficulty at which they have arrived. -Everybody has soon heard of it, so that on Mr. Thompson's return with -Mr. Jones, the pair are greeted with much joking about the ill-luck -which is thus averted. The necessary introductions take place._] - -_Mr. Jones._ I am sure I am rejoiced at being instrumental in bringing -good luck. - -_Miss Smith._ You can certainly see how welcome you are, Mr. Jones. - -_Mr. J._ But I fear it is not for myself, Miss Smith. - -_Miss S._ That will undoubtedly come later, when we know you better. - -_Mr. P._ I am glad you found somebody, nephew; for I must say I never -would have given up my dinner for a foolish superstition; and as I came -last and uninvited-- - -_Mrs. T._ (_relieved of her fears and remembering the will_) You are -always invited to this house, Uncle Potts; and we would never hear of -your going away. - -_Mr. Robinson._ Well, it is all very well to call it a superstition, you -know; but I knew-- - -[_Mr. Robinson proceeds to narrate a grewsome and melancholy tale, in -which disaster and death resulted from the imprudence of sitting down -with thirteen at table; half a dozen other guests begin simultaneously -the relation of six more equally or even more grewsome and melancholy -tales upon the same subject, when they are interrupted by the arrival of -a note for Mr. Robinson._] - -_Mr. R._ My dear Mrs. Thompson, I am so sorry, but my brother has -telegraphed for me to come to him at once on a matter of the utmost -importance. I regret-- - -_Mrs. T._ But Mr. Robinson, don't you see that-- - -_Servant._ Dinner is served. - -_Mr. T._ May I have the honor, Mrs. Brown? - -_Miss S._ But we can't go to dinner now. Mr. Robinson is called away, -and that leaves us thirteen again. - -[_An awful hush ensues, during which Mr. Robinson, finding himself -regarded as a criminal, suddenly slips away, leaving the company to -extricate themselves from their trying situation as best they can. The -hush is followed by a Babel of voices, in which all sorts of suggestions -are made._] - -_Mr. J._ (_with heroic and renunciatory self-denial_) Let me speak, -please, Mrs. Thompson. It was very kind in your husband to invite me -to remain to dinner, but now that I shall be the thirteenth, I am sure -you'll excuse me. - -_Mr. T._ But it seems so inhospitable. - -_Mrs. T._ But it is more generous to deprive ourselves of Mr. Jones's -company than to be the means of bringing ill-luck upon him. - -_Mr. J._ Quite right. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Thompson. I sincerely -hope nothing further will occur to mar the pleasure of your evening. - -[_Mr. Jones having retired, a move is at once made toward the -dining-room, but just as Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Brown reach the -drawing-room door, they are confronted by Mr. Robinson, who comes in -breathless but triumphant._] - -_Mr. R._ I thought it was so unkind of me to throw all your arrangements -into confusion after the ill-luck of numbers you have already had, that -I concluded to telegraph to my brother instead of going. Phew! How I -have hurried! I am glad I am in time. - -_Mrs. Brown._ Mr. Thompson, I positively cannot sit down at table -with thirteen. My aunt died of it, and my second cousin. I am positive -it runs in the family, and I know I should be the one to bear the -consequence if we had thirteen at any table where I sat down. - -[_The greatest confusion follows. Miss Maria Smith is heard to declare -that_ "Fate takes delight in persecuting her!" _while young Algernon -White mumbles something which has a distinct flavor of the Apostles' -Creed. Mr. Robinson shows a disposition to consider himself a most -ill-used individual, thus to be rewarded for the trouble he has taken._] - -_Mr. T._ My dear, what shall we do now? - -_Mrs. T._ There is only one thing that I can think of; we can send -across the street for Widow Ellis. You might go yourself and explain to -her how it is. - -[_This suggestion being acted upon, the company settles into a solemn -gloom, pending the return of the host with Widow Ellis. Every one knows -the dinner will be spoiled, none being more acutely conscious of that -fact than the hostess, and every one is nearly perishing with hunger. -More grewsome and melancholy stories are told, but in a wavering and -subdued manner, as if they are being offered as excuses for resisting -the cravings of appetite, which are rapidly becoming insupportable. -Young White is heard to mutter, with fresh suspicions of theological -terms, that one might as well die of thirteen at table as of starvation, -and that for his part he prefers the former method of extinction. -The return of Mr. Thompson with the Widow Ellis awakens some feeble -enthusiasm, but it is evident that nothing short of a substantial dinner -can restore the spirits of the company._] - -_Mr. P._ Well, nephew, now I hope we may have some dinner. I, for one, -am faint with hunger. - -_Mr. T._ Oh, immediately. Mrs. Brown, we-- - -[_At this juncture poor Mrs. Thompson, overcome with anxiety, fatigue, -and hunger, produces a diversion by falling in a dead faint. The shrieks -of Miss Maria Smith are re-enforced by those of other ladies of the -company, and it is to be feared that Mr. Algernon White no longer enjoys -the exclusive privilege of indulging in ecclesiastical references. The -excitement usual upon such occasions reigns, and when at length Mrs. -Thompson is restored to consciousness, but is found to be too ill to -stand, and is borne off to her chamber, the company, once more reduced -to thirteen, distributes itself in a stricken and overwhelmed state -about the drawing-room, with the air of having ceased to struggle -against an adverse fate._] - -_Widow E._ We are thirteen again, neighbor; and if you'll excuse me-- - -_Mr. P._ Thirteen or no thirteen, nephew, I'm going to have something to -eat if it's in this house. - -[_He disappears toward the dining-room, and as the resolution of Widow -Ellis seems to have solved once more the dreadful conundrum of the fated -number, the company hastily follow, too nearly famished to notice that -the lady does not carry out her apparent intention of returning home, so -that after all they sit down thirteen at table._] - - - - -Tale the Eighth. - -APRIL'S LADY. - - - - -APRIL'S LADY. - - -It was fortunate that when the editor of the "Dark Red" magazine first -did me the honor to request a story from my pen, I had one ready for -him, and one, moreover, with which I was so well satisfied. I had so -long vainly desired to be really asked for a contribution, and thus -raised from the numerous and indiscriminate company of scribblers who -send hopeful manuscripts to the magazines, and in trembling uncertainty -await the issue, that it is not strange my bosom swelled with gratified -pride, and that I dispatched my copy with so perfect a sense of -complacency that I almost seemed to condescend a little in letting the -editor have it. - -I was fond of that story. I experienced a certain delight in recalling -the circumstances under which it was composed, and I felt in it that -confidence which an author is sure to have in work which has sprung -spontaneously, and as it were full-grown, from his brain. Every -literary worker, down to the veriest penny-a-liner of them all, knows -the difference between a tale which makes itself, so to speak, growing -unforced into beauty and completeness like a crystal, and a laboriously -constructed piece of work, be it contrived never so ingeniously and -cleverly. The fiction I sent to the editor of the "Dark Red" was of the -former variety. It had come into my head all of itself, as the children -say, while I was travelling between New York and Boston, so complete and -so distinct that I scarcely seemed to have more to do with its creation -than the later putting upon paper. - -The circumstances were these:-- - -I had reached the Grand Central Station just in time to catch the -morning train; and as the cars swept out into the daylight, I settled -myself into a seat with a comfortable and something too self-satisfied -feeling. In the first place, I was glad to be out of New York,--partly -because it was hot and dusty there, partly because I am not over-fond of -Gotham, and partly because sundry pleasant bachelor friends and divers -good times were awaiting me at the Boston end of the journey. - -I looked out upon the sunny landscape, over which the splendors of -an April day cast a glow of warmth and brightness, smiled at the -remembrance of a retort I had made at the Century Club on the previous -evening, which seemed to me rather neat, and then with a sort of mental -nod of farewell to all the outside world I took up my book and prepared -to follow the fortunes of the woful and wicked, but thoroughly charming -French heroine with whose adventures I was at that particular time -occupying myself. To my vexation, however, I discovered that instead of -the second volume I had taken the first, and as I had no especial desire -to peruse again the somewhat detailed account of the heroine's youth, -her career at school, her first confession and early marriage,--all -these being preliminary to the impropriety and the interest of the -book, which, after the reprehensible manner of French novels, began -together,--I laid down the volume with a sigh, and resigned myself to -a ride of unalleviated dulness. - -A resource instantly presented itself, however, in the page which the -lady in the seat before me was reading. As I glanced up I saw that she -was entertaining herself with poetry, and the next moment a familiar -line caught my eye:-- - - "If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May." - -"Swinburne," I mused, "or a collection of selected poems, perhaps. -Wiseacres would say one ought to know what a reader is like by the book -she reads; but in the first place that's nonsense, and in the second -place I don't know what book she is reading. She has an exquisite ear, -and her hair is something bewildering. 'If you were April's lady.' -April's lady should be a capricious creature, all smiles and tears, with -winning ways and wilful wiles,--impulsive and wayward, and thoroughly -enchanting. It would not,"--my thoughts ran on in a professional turn, -while my eyes dwelt appreciatively, if somewhat presumptuously, upon the -lovely curve of my neighbor's neck,--"it would not be a bad notion to -write a story of such a maiden and call it 'April's Lady.' Let me see, -what should it be like?" - -And upon this impulse I fell to pondering, when suddenly, as if by -magic, a tale presented itself all complete in my mind. My mental action -appeared to me more like that of remembering than of creating, so real -and so complete was the pretty history. The self-willed, volatile damsel -whose fortunes it concerned seemed one whom I had known, and whom I -might meet again some day. In my mind she assumed, it is true, an -outward semblance similar to that of the lady before me, upon whose -back I fixed my regards in an absorbed stare, which should have -disturbed her could looks make themselves felt. She did not move, -however, and as she did not turn the leaf of her book, I fancied she -might have fallen into a reverie as deep as my own. I had not been able -fully to see her face, although a lucky turn had given me a glimpse of a -profile full of character and beauty, and which made me desire to behold -more. I did not, however, trouble myself about the exact details of -my heroine's features, since every story-teller has a stock of choice -personal charms with which to endow his fictitious children, but -continued to gloat over my little romance; and so vividly was the tale -of "April's Lady" impressed upon my mind that although some weeks -elapsed before I found time to put it upon paper, I had not the -slightest difficulty in recalling even its most trifling incidents. - -Almost the whole of my journey was taken up in turning the story over -in my mind, and when we drew into the Boston station, and my neighbor -closed her volume to begin the collection of her numerous feminine -possessions, I had half a mind to lean forward and thank her for having -given me, although unconsciously, so good a story. - -It did seem to me, even after I had sent my manuscript off and the -dreadful moment came when one realizes that it is too late to make -changes and consequently thinks of plenty of things he wishes to alter, -that "April's Lady" was the best work I had ever done. I had let a month -or two pass between its first writing and the final revision, and I was -pretty well satisfied that I had produced a really capital story. I -fondly hoped Mr. Lane, the editor of the "Dark Red," would be moved -by its excellence to give me further orders; and the eagerness with -which I one morning tore open an envelope upon which I recognized his -handwriting, may be easily enough imagined, at least by members of the -literary guild. My impatience gave place to profound astonishment as I -read the following note:-- - - OFFICE DARK RED MAGAZINE, - BOSTON, September 27. - - MY DEAR MR. GRAY,--Can you drop into my office to-morrow about noon? - By some odd coincidence I received a story very similar to your - "April's Lady," and bearing the same title, several days earlier, - and should like to talk with you about it. - - Very truly yours, - J. Q. LANE. - -I was utterly confounded. I racked my brains to discover who could -possibly have stolen my story, and even suspected the small black girl -who dusted my rooms, although the sooty little morsel did not know one -letter from another. The first draft of the story had lain in my desk -for some time, it was true, yet that any literary burglar should have -forced an entrance and then contented himself with copying this seemed, -upon the whole, scarcely probable. I ransacked my memory for some old -tale which I might unconsciously have plagiarized, but I could think -of nothing; and, moreover, I reflected that the coincidence of names -certainly could not be accounted for in this way, even did I recall the -germ of my plot. - -I presented myself at the office of the "Dark Red" at the hour appointed -with a clear conscience, it is true, but with positively no suggestion -whatever to offer in regard to the method by which a copy of my story -could have reached the editor in advance of my own manuscript. - -Mr. Lane received me with the conventionally cordial manner which is as -much a part of editorial duties as is the use of the blue pencil, and -without much delay came to the business of the call. - -"There is something very singular about this affair," he said, laying -out my manuscript, and beside it another which I could see was written -in a running feminine hand. "If the stories were a little more alike, -I should be sure one was copied from the other; as it is, it is -inconceivable that they have not at least a common origin. Where did you -get your idea?" - -"Why, so far as I know," I replied in perplexity, "I evolved it from -my inner consciousness; but the germ may have been the unconscious -recollection of some incident or floating idea. I've tried to discover -where I did get the fancy, but without a glimmer of success. Who sent -you the other version?" - -"A lady of whose integrity I am as sure as I am of yours. That's the -odd part of it. Besides, you are both of you too clever to plagiarize, -even if you weren't too honest. The mere similarity of theme isn't so -strange; that happens often enough; but that the title of the stories -should be identical, and that in each the heroine should be named May--" - -"Is her heroine named May?" I interrupted in astonishment; "why, then, -she must have seen my copy; or," I added, a new thought striking me, -"she must have got the name in the same way I did. I took the title of -the story and the name of the heroine from a line of Swinburne, and--" - -"And," interrupted the editor in turn, catching up the manuscript before -him, "so did she." - -And he showed me, written at the head of the page:-- - - "If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May." - -"Well," I remarked, with a not unnatural mingling of philosophy and -annoyance, "it is all of a piece with my theory that ideas are in the -air, and belong, like wild geese, to whoever catches them first; but it -is vexatious, when I captured a fancy that particularly pleased me, to -find that some woman or other has been smart enough to get salt on its -tail-feathers before I did." - -Mr. Lane smiled at my desperate air, and at that moment his little -office-boy, whom I particularly detest because of the catlike stillness -and suddenness of his movements, silently produced first himself and -then a card. - -"'Agnes Graham,'" read Mr. Lane. "Here is your rival to speak for -herself. I hope you don't mind seeing her?" - -"Oh, by no means," I replied rather ungraciously. "Let us see what she -is like, and what she will have to say about this puzzle." - -The name was not wholly new to me, as I had seen it signed to various -magazine articles, concerning which at this moment I had only the most -vague and general idea. I was sitting with my back to the door, and in -rising I still kept my face half turned away from the lady who entered, -but I saw the reflection of her face in a mirror opposite without any -sense of recognition. As she advanced a step or two, however, and half -passed me, I knew her. The delicate ear, the fine sweep of the neck, the -knot of golden brown hair, were all familiar. It was the lady who had -sat before me in the cars from New York on that April day. - -As she turned in recognition of Mr. Lane's introduction, a faint flush -seemed to show that she too recognized me, although I was unable to -understand how she should know me, since she certainly had not turned -her head once in the entire journey. I set it down to pure feminine -intuition, not having wholly freed myself from that masculine -superstition which regards woman's instinct as a sort of supernatural -clairvoyance. - -My sensations on discovering her identity were not wholly unlike those -of a man who inadvertently touches a charged Leyden jar. - -"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "what a psychological conundrum, or -whatever you choose to call it. The whole matter is as plain to me now -as daylight." - -"Well?" Mr. Lane asked, while Miss Graham regarded me with an air which -seemed to question whether my insanity were of a dangerous type. - -"Pardon me, Miss Graham, if I cross-question you a little," I went on, -becoming somewhat excited. "You came from New York on the morning train -on Wednesday, the fifteenth--no, the sixteenth of last April, did you -not?" - -"Yes," she answered, her color again a trifle heightened, but her -appearance being rather that of perplexity than of self-consciousness. - -"And on the way you read Swinburne till you came to the line, - - 'If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May,' - -and it occurred to you what a capital name for a story 'April's Lady' -would be?" - -"Yes," she repeated; and then, with a yet more puzzled air, she turned -to Mr. Lane to ask, "Is this mind-reading?" - -"I'm sure I don't know," returned he. "Mr. Gray can best tell what it -is." - -"And the rest of the way to Boston," I continued, ignoring the -interruption, "you were elaborating your story. You took the heroine's -name from the same line, and had a pun at the climax about the hero's -becoming 'lord of May.'" - -"No," Miss Graham retorted, beginning to enter into the spirit of the -situation. "I deny the pun, although I acknowledge the rest. The pun I -didn't even think of." - -"Well, you see I haven't read your manuscript, but I own I fell so low -that I put in the pun myself. At least the old gentleman with a scar on -his cheek, who sat in the corner of the car, gave you hints for--" - -"The uncle," broke in Miss Graham, with a gleeful laugh at the -remembrance of the oddity of the old gentleman's appearance. "But how -in the world did you know?" - -"Oh, he did me. We evidently had the same mental experience; which -proves, I suppose, that we are literary Corsican brothers or something -of the sort." - -"But the great question to be settled is," Mr. Lane observed, bringing -in, after some further talk, the editorial consideration, "whose story -this really is." - -"Miss Graham's, by all means," I said instantly. "Hers was first in -the field, and if I hadn't impertinently looked over her shoulder, I -shouldn't have had any share in it whatever." - -Miss Graham laughed, showing a delicious dimple, and Mr. Lane, who -evidently had no desire to settle the question under discussion, looked -inquiringly at her for a response to my words. - -"You are very generous, Mr. Gray," she answered; "but in the first place -my story has never been accepted for the 'Dark Red,' and in the second, -as the stories really ought to stand on their merits, I shall certainly -not venture to put mine into competition with yours, but prefer to -pocket my manuscript and retire." - -"I fear," was my reply, "that I discover rather a tendency to sarcasm in -what you say than any true humility. Of course the first point is one -for Mr. Lane to settle." - -The editor cleared his throat with some embarrassment, but before he -found the words he wanted, Miss Graham spoke again. - -"I had not the slightest idea of being sarcastic, for, of course, it -goes without saying that your story is better than mine; but since you -choose to take it in that way, I am willing to leave the whole matter to -Mr. Lane. He is at least the only person who has read both manuscripts." - -"Really," Mr. Lane said, thus pushed into a corner, "I am extremely -sorry to find myself placed in so trying a situation. There are points -in which each story excels, and the best result would undoubtedly be -attained by welding them together." - -"If that could be done," said Miss Graham, thoughtfully. - -"Now, in Mr. Gray's version," he continued, "the heroine is more -attractive and real." - -"That," I interpolated, trying to cover the awkwardness I felt by -a jest, "is the first time in all my literary experience that the -character I thought best in a story I'd written has seemed so to the -editorial mind." - -The dark eyes of my neighbor gave me a bright, brief glance, but whether -of sympathy with my statement or of contempt for the feebleness of my -attempts at being jocose, I could not determine. - -"While Miss Graham," went on the editorial comment, "has decidedly the -advantage in her hero." - -Miss Graham flushed slightly, but offered no remark in reply to this -opinion beyond a smile which seemed one of frank pleasure. We sat in -silence a moment, a not unnatural hesitancy preventing my making a -proposition which had presented itself to my mind. - -"If it will not seem impertinent to Miss Graham," I ventured at length, -"I would propose that we really do try the experiment of collaboration -on this story. I have never worked with anybody, but I promise to be -tractable; and the thing had so odd a beginning that it is a pity to -thwart the evident intention of destiny that we shall both have a hand -in it." - -To this proposition the lady at first returned a decided and even -peremptory negative; but my persuasions, seconded by those of Mr. Lane, -who was partly curious and partly anxious to escape from the necessity -of arbitrating in the matter, in the end induced her to alter her -decision. - -The result of the interview was that when we left the office of the -"Dark Red" Miss Graham had my manuscript and I hers, and that an -appointment had been made for my calling upon her with a view to an -interchange of comments and criticisms. - -Upon the appointed evening I presented myself at the home of Miss -Graham, and almost without the usual conventionalities concerning -the weather we proceeded to discuss the stories. We began with great -outward suavity and courtesy the exchange of compliments, which were so -obviously formal and perfunctory that in a moment more we looked into -each other's faces and burst into laughter which if hardly polite was -at least genuine. - -"Come," I said, "now the ice is broken and we can say what we really -think; and I must be pardoned for saying that that hero of yours, whom -Mr. Lane praised, is the most insufferable cad I've encountered this -many a day. He can't be set off against that lovely girl in my story. -Why, the truth is, Miss Graham, I meant her to be what I fancied you -might be. She's the ideal I built up from seeing you in the cars." - -"I must say," Miss Graham retorted with spirit, "that if you meant that -pert heroine of yours for _me_, I am anything but complimented." - -"It is a pity, then, that you didn't intend your hero for me, and we -should have been more than quits." - -She blushed so vividly that a sudden light burst upon me. - -"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "he does have my eyes and beard; but you -didn't see me. It isn't possible--" - -"But it is," interrupted she, desperately. "With a mirror in the end of -the car directly before me all the way from New York, do you suppose -I could help seeing you! I'm sure you kept your eyes on me steadily -enough to give me a good excuse." - -I whistled rudely; whereat she looked offended, and we went on from one -thing to another until we had got up a very respectable quarrel indeed. -There is nothing more conducive to a thoroughly good understanding -between persons of opposite sex than a genuine quarrel; and having -reached the point where there was no alternative but to separate in -anger or to apologize, we chose the latter course, and having mutually -humbled ourselves, after that got on capitally. - -"It is my deliberate conviction," she observed, when we at length got -upon a footing sufficiently familiar for jesting, "that this story -is really mine, and that you purloined it from me by some mysterious -clairvoyance." - -"That may be," I admitted. "I once guessed that a man was a bartender by -the way he stirred his coffee at the steamer table, and that got me a -very pretty reputation as a seer for a day or two; and very likely the -truth is that I was all the time a mind-reader without knowing it." - -She smiled good-naturedly--more good-naturedly, indeed, than the jest -deserved; and from that moment our acquaintance got on famously. The -story was far from advancing as rapidly, however. A very brief time -sufficed to reduce both versions of "April's Lady" to hopeless -confusion, but to build from the fragments a new and improved copy was -a labor of much magnitude. Circumstances moreover, conspired to hinder -our work. It was necessary that we verify our impressions of material we -had used, and to do this we were obliged to attend the theatre together, -to read together various poems, and together to hear a good deal of -music. A little ingenuity, and a common inclination to prolong these -investigations, effected so great a lengthening out that it was several -months before we could even pretend to be ready to begin serious work -upon the story; and even then we were far from agreeing in a number of -important particulars. - -"Agnes," I remarked, one February evening, when we were on our way home -from a concert to which we had boldly gone without even a pretence that -it was in the remotest way connected with our literary project, "I fear -we are becoming demoralized, and it seems to me the only hope of our -ever completing 'April's Lady' is to put everything else aside for the -time being and give our minds to it. I can get my work arranged, and you -can finish those articles for 'The Quill' by the middle of March. Then, -we can be quietly married and go to some nice old-fashioned place--say -St. Augustine--for a couple of months and get this _magnum opus_ on -paper at last." - -"As to being married," returned she sedately, "have you considered that -we could not possibly make a living, since we should inevitably be -always writing the same things?" - -"Why, that is my chief reason," I retorted, "for proposing it. Think how -awkward it is going to be if either of us marries somebody else, and -then we write the same things. It is a good deal better to have our -interests in common if our inventive faculty is to be so." - -"There is something in what you say," Agnes assented; "and it would be -especially awkward for you, since the invention is in my head." - -"Then we will consider it all arranged." - -"Oh, no, George; by no means. I couldn't think of it for a minute!" - -Whether she did think of it for a minute is a point which may be left -for the settling of those versed in the ways of the feminine mind; -certain it is that the programme was carried out--except in one trifling -particular. We were quietly married, we did go to St. Augustine, but as -for doing anything with the story, that was quite another thing. We did -not finish it then, and we have not finished it yet, and I have ceased -to have any very firm confidence that we ever shall finish it; although, -whenever arises one of those financial crises which are so painfully -frequent in the family of a literary man, and we sit down to consider -possible resources, one or the other of us is sure sooner or later to -observe:-- - -"And then there is 'April's Lady,' you know." - - - - -Interlude Eighth. - -A CUBAN MORNING. - - - - -A CUBAN MORNING. - - -[_Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marianao, Cuba. Time, nine -o'clock on a hot March morning. Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester -tête-à-tête._] - -_She._ Why did you follow us to Cuba? - -_He._ I have already told you that I thought you were in Florida. - -_She._ Yes? And so you came to Marianao, where nobody comes at this time -of year, in order that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, I -suppose. - -_He._ Oh, I--that is; precisely. - -_She._ I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yesterday. - -_He._ Had you? - -_She._ Yes; and she said you told her that you were coming to Cuba to -find me. - -_He._ Oh, that's nothing. It isn't to be supposed I told her the truth. - -_She._ Do you speak the truth so seldom, then? Is there no dependence to -be put on what you say? - -_He._ None whatever; otherwise I should be continually hampered by the -necessity of conforming my actions to my words. You can see yourself how -inconvenient that would be. - -_She._ For one who has had so little practice, very likely; but then you -would find it a novel experience, I have no doubt. - -_He._ Ah, you have given me an idea. I'll try it when all other -novelties in life are exhausted. - -_She._ Don't put it off too long, or from the force of habit you may -find it impossible. - -_He._ You underrate my adaptability. - -_She._ Meanwhile I wish to know why you came. - -_He._ Since you are here yourself, you might be supposed to regard the -place as sufficiently interesting to attract the traveller. - -_She._ Then you decline to tell me? - -_He._ Oh, no; I came because you amuse me. - -_She._ Thank you for nothing. - -_He._ And consequently I am in love with you, as I did myself the honor -to mention before you left New York. - -_She._ Am I to understand that amusement is your idea of love? - -_He._ Love certainly must be something that does not bore one. - -_She._ But it seems a somewhat limited view to take. - -_He._ Oh, it is only one way out of many; I assure you I have quantities -of ideas upon the subject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie -Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne cup. Indeed, for ten -days I positively adored her, until one night she put in too much -curaçoa, and I realized how uncertain a foundation my passion had. Then -there was Elsie Manning. My passion for her was roused entirely by her -divine waltzing, but I realized that it isn't good form for a man to -waltz with his wife, and I stood a much better chance if she married -some other man. After that came Kate Turner; she writes so fascinating a -letter that I lost my heart every time I saw her handwriting on the back -of an envelope, although perhaps that feeling you would call only a -fancy, since nobody would think of marrying on a virtue that is sure to -end with the wedding. A wife never writes to her husband about anything -but the servants and the payment of her milliner's bills; so my -flirtation with her wouldn't really count as a love affair. - -_She._ You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions. - -_He._ Then there was Miss French. I loved her because she snubbed -me,--just as I loved Nora Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for -her music. - -_She._ And now you love me, I am to understand, as suited to the -position of court jester to your Royal Highness. - -_He._ One must have some sort of a reason for being in love. - -_She._ But one needn't be in love. - -_He._ Oh, yes; life is very dull otherwise; and besides, I have always -thought it very stupid to marry without having been in love a dozen -times at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise; and how can he -judge of the value of his passion without having had a good deal of -experience? - -_She._ So you advertise yourself as a marrying man? - -_He._ Every bachelor is a marrying man. It is only a question of finding -a convenient wife. - -_She._ Like a convenient house, I suppose. - -_He._ Exactly. - -_She._ I wonder any woman ever consents to marry a man. - -_He._ They know their own sex too well to be willing to marry a woman. - -_She._ But men are such selfish creatures! - -_He._ You are amazingly pretty when you toss your head that way. It is -worth coming from New York to see. - -_She._ It is well you think so; otherwise you might consider your voyage -a waste of time. - -_He._ What, with the certainty of your consenting to marry me? - -_She._ I like your assurance! Why should I marry you? - -_He._ I supposed that with your sex the fact of my amazing attachment -would be a sufficient reason. - -_She._ Your knowledge of our sex is then remarkably limited. Apparently, -whether I happen to love you is of no particular consequence. - -_He._ Oh, love is said to beget love. - -_She._ But you love me, you say, because I amuse you. Now you don't -amuse me in the least, and as I do not know just how to cultivate -a passion simply on the rather doubtful ground of your affection, -especially with the chance of its being transient, there really seems -to be very little chance of reciprocity. - -_He._ Do you know what a tremendously hot day it is? - -_She._ I don't see the connection, and I am sure I am cool enough. - -_He._ But you make it very hot for me! How picturesque that ragged -fellow over there looks, riding on the top of his high saddle. - -_She._ With a string of mules tied to his horse's tail. I am fond of the -mules, their bells are so musical. - -_He._ And their bray. - -_She._ And the muleteers sing such weird songs. I hear them going by -about four o'clock in the morning, on their way to the Havana market, -and the effect is most fascinating. - -_He._ I should have expected you to be fond of the mules. - -_She._ Why? - -_He._ A fellow feeling is said to have a softening effect, and the -mule's strongest characteristic is-- - -_She._ Consistency! - -_He._ And as I was about to remark, we are apt to value others most for -the virtues we do not ourselves possess. - -_She._ You are sufficiently rude. - -_He._ There is always danger that honesty will be thought rude. - -_She._ Really, you begin to amuse me. Please go on; I would like to try -falling in love on the amusement plan; it must be very droll. - -_He._ Oh, bother the amusement! Like the young ladies in novels, I would -be loved for myself alone. - -_She._ I fear that would be more difficult than the other way. What have -you ever done to make me admire you? - -_He._ Perhaps nothing. Admiration presupposes the capability of -appreciation. - -_She._ Ah! What have you done, then, worthy of admiration? - -_He._ I have managed to find you at Marianao, and bring about a -tête-à-tête before I have been here fifteen hours. - -_She._ Wonderful man! And of all that, what comes? - -_He._ That I ask you to marry me. That is certainly something. - -_She._ Yes; it isn't much, and you have done it before. But as you say, -it is certainly something. - -_He._ You are always flattering! Really, one wouldn't have expected you -to be light now, when it is my deepest affections and all that sort of -touching thing with which you are trifling. - -_She._ You are a humbug! - -_He._ Of course; so are you; so is everybody. Civilization is merely the -apotheosis of humbug. - -_She._ My friend, that trick of striving after epigram is fast making -you as bad as a confirmed punster. - -_He._ Still, it is all true. I am a humbug in proposing to you; you, if -you reject me-- - -_She._ I certainly do, most emphatically and finally! - -_He._ You make me the happiest of men. - -_She._ You make your system of humbug far too complicated for me to -follow. - -_He._ Why, this is genuine. - -_She._ Anything genuine from you, I fear, is impossible. - -_He._ Oh, no; I have to be genuine occasionally, for the sake of -contrast. The humbug was in asking you to marry me, and I wouldn't have -had you say yes for the world. - -_She._ I never suspected you of insanity, Mr. Chester. Am I to infer -that the climate of Cuba, or the wines-- - -_He._ Oh, neither, I assure you. Besides, Cuba has no wines, as you -ought to know. Now, see; I'll do you the rare honor of telling you -the truth. Of course, you are at liberty to believe it or not, as you -please; and very likely you won't, because it happens to be as true as -the Gospel, revised version. Some days since, I asked Annie Cleaves to -marry me. - -_She._ What particular thing had she been playing to rouse you to that -point of enthusiasm? - -_He._ If my memory serves me, it was the Chopin Nocturne in G minor. She -did play extremely well, and as we happened to be in the conservatory -afterward, I improved the opportunity to propose. - -_She._ Oh, very naturally! - -_He._ It is a form of words that comes very readily to my lips, as -you know. Annie confessed to that very superfluous and old-fashioned -sentiment called love, which wasn't in good form, I'll admit; but in -consideration for the object of her attachment, and the fact that on -that particular evening I was in love myself, I managed to overlook it. - -_She._ Very good of you, I'm sure. I hope Annie appreciated your -generosity. - -_He._ Very likely she didn't. Your sex very seldom do appreciate -masculine virtues; but Annie has a far more old-fashioned and worse -vice than love. Why, the girl, in the midst of these enlightened -nineteenth-century days, actually goes to the nonsensical bother of -keeping a conscience! It must be more trouble to attend to, Agnes, than -her aunt Wheeler's seven pet poodles and three red-headed parrots. - -_She._ I suppose you are right. You don't speak from experience, though, -do you? - -_He._ Oh, no; I never had a conscience: as a boy, I preferred white -mice; now I have my horses, you know. - -_She._ And your innumerable loves. - -_He._ If such trifles are to be taken into account. - -_She._ Go on about Annie. - -_He._ Well, on my confessing how far I had carried my flirtation with -you-- I can't, for the life of me, tell how I happened to speak of it; -I am usually more discreet. - -_She._ I should hope so. - -_He._ Oh, I am, I assure you; but the loves are so numerous, while I am -but one, that they sometimes get the better of my discretion. What is -one among so many? - -_She._ Oh, in this case, absolutely nothing. - -_He._ Thank you again. - -_She._ But to continue-- - -_He._ Well, to continue, Annie actually seemed to think that you had -some sort of claim upon me. Fancy! - -_She._ She needn't have troubled. - -_He._ Oh, of course not. Why, I have offered myself to dozens of girls, -with no more idea of marrying them than I have of becoming a howling -dervish; and more than that, I have habitually been accepted. That is -one thing about you that attracted me, do you know? There is a beautiful -novelty about being rejected. - -_She._ So that is the secret of my amusing you, is it? You ought to have -explained this to Annie. - -_He._ Oh, she wouldn't have understood. Like every other girl, 'twas the -personal application that she was touched by. You see she didn't know -the other girls, and she did know you; and she seems to think your no -more binding than any other person's yes. Perhaps she knows that a -woman's negative-- - -_She._ Really, Arthur, that's so hackneyed that if you haven't the -gallantry not to say it you ought to be ashamed to repeat anything so -stale. - -_He._ Perhaps you are right; I have known you to be on very rare -occasions. However, Annie insisted that I should come, and, as she said, -"assure myself of your sentiments and of my own." Did you ever hear -anything more absurd? As if I didn't know, all the time, that you were -dying for me; and as if I--despite my mad and overpowering passion for -your lovely self, Miss Peltonville--couldn't tell as well in New York as -in Cuba whether I wanted to marry her or not. - -_She._ If you were no better informed of your own sentiments than of -mine, I don't wonder she doubted your conclusions. - -_He._ Oh, she didn't in the least. - -_She._ At least, Annie may set her mind quite at rest, so far as I am -concerned. - -_He._ Thank you so much. It is such a relief to have things settled. - -_She._ What would you have done if I had accepted you? - -_He._ Oh, I was confident of my ability of putting the question so that -you wouldn't. - -_She._ I have almost a mind to do it, even now. - -_He._ Really? - -_She._ Oh, don't be alarmed. There is one insuperable obstacle. - -_He._ What is that? - -_She._ Yourself. - -_He._ Then I am quite safe. That is a permanent one. - -_She._ Well, I wish Annie joy of her bargain. She is worthy of a better -fate; and since we are talking frankly, I must say that what she can see -in you I can't imagine. - -_He._ These things are so strange; there is no accounting for them. Why, -I have been perfectly puzzled--do you know?--ever since I came last -night, to tell what I found in you last winter. - -_She._ Since we seem to be striving to outdo each other in abuse, it is -quite in keeping for me to add, that I have no occasion to bother my -head on such a question, for I never pretended to have found anything in -you. - -_He._ But then, as I said, you amused me; and one may sometimes be so -far amused that-- - -_She._ His amusement may even amount to astonishment, perhaps; and, by -the way, that gentleman on the gray horse, just coming between the China -laurels with papa, expects to marry me. - -_He._ Fred Armstrong, by all that is unspeakable! Agnes Peltonville, -I humble myself in the dust before you; and no humiliation could be -greater than going down into Cuban dust. You are an angel; you have -removed my last fear. - -_She._ Yes; and how? - -_He._ I was always jealous of Fred Armstrong; he was forever dangling -about Annie. Do I understand that you are engaged? - -_She._ Oh, I didn't say that I expected to marry him; but since Annie -confesses such a strong attachment to you-- - -_He._ Oh, I didn't say I was the object of the attachment. - -[_They sit confronting each other in silence a moment, until the riders, -having dismounted, are seen approaching the piazza. Then Chester leans -forward impulsively, and speaks with a new intensity._] - -_He._ Agnes! - -_She._ Arthur! - -_He._ Quick! Before they come! You won't send me away? - -_She._ But-- - -_He._ No, no more nonsense; I am in dead earnest now. You know I -couldn't live without you, or I shouldn't have followed you to Cuba. - -_She._ And Annie Cleaves? - -_He._ Oh, if you had a letter from her yesterday, you must know she's -engaged to Bob Wainwright. Is it yes? - -_She._ (_rising._) It would be a pity that you should have come so far -for nothing. - -[_As he rises also he manages to catch her hand, which he clasps -joyously before the pair go forward to meet the new-comers._] - -_He._ I hope you had a pleasant ride, Mr. Peltonville? I like Marianao -so well that I have concluded to remain a while. - - - - -Tale the Ninth. - -DELIA GRIMWET. - - - - -DELIA GRIMWET. - - -To an ordinary observer, nothing could be more commonplace than Kempton, -a decrepit little apology for a village, lying on the coast of Maine. -Properly speaking, however, no sea-port can be utterly commonplace, with -its suggestion of the mystery of the sea, the ships, the sailors who -have been to far lands, the glimpses of unwritten tragedies on every -hand. But among sea-side villages Kempton was surely dull enough, -and dry enough, and lifeless enough,--as if the sea-winds had sucked -its vitality, leaving it empty and pallid and juiceless, like the -cockle-shells which bleached upon its sandy beaches. - -Yet Kempton had one peculiarity which marked it as singular among all -New England towns. It had a woman to dig its graves. - -Its one church stood stark and doleful upon the hill at whose foot lay -the rotting wharves; and back from the church stretched the church-yard -in which the Kempton dead took their long repose, scarcely more -monotonous than their colorless lives. The sexton, digging their last -resting-places in the ochery loam, might look far off toward the sea -where they had wrested from the grudging waters a scanty subsistence; -and the dead wives, if so be that their ears were yet sentient, might -lie at night and hear below the beat of the waves which afar had rolled -over the unmarked graves of their sailor husbands. - -To and fro among the grass-grown mounds the sexton went daily, quite -unmindful of being the unique feature of Kempton by belonging to the -weaker sex. With masculine stride and coarse hands, her unkempt locks -blown by the salt winds, the woman went her way and did her work with -a steadfastness and a vigor which might have put to shame many a man -idling about the boats under the hill. She was not an old woman,--not -even middle-aged, except with the premature age of toil and sorrow; but -the weather-beaten face, the stooping shoulders, and the faded hair made -her seem old. To look at her, it was difficult to realize what her youth -could have been like, or to call up any image of sweet or gracious -maidenhood in which she could have shared. - -It was a gray November day. The white-caps made doubly black the dark -waves of the bay, and the bitter wind blew freshly through the withered -grass and stubble, chasing the faded leaves over Kempton Hill until they -rushed about the old meeting-house like a flight of terrified witches. A -stranger was driving slowly up the road from the next town in an open -carriage, and as he came to the top of the hill he drew rein before the -church and looked about him. - -His gaze was not that of one who beheld the scene for the first time. -He gazed down at the irregular houses under the hill, cuddled like -frightened and weak-kneed sheep. He looked over the bay to the -lighthouse, looming ghastly and white against the dark sea and sky. His -glance took in all the details of the picture, cold and joyless, devoid -alike of warmth and color. He shivered and sighed, his brows drooping -more heavily yet over his dark piercing eyes, and then turned his gaze -to objects nearer at hand. - -Close by was the stark church, with weather-beaten steeple, wherein half -a dozen generations of Kempton women,--the men, for the most part, being -at sea,--had worshipped the power of the storm, praying more for the -escape from evil of the absent than for good to themselves. Beyond -the church appeared the first headstones of the graveyard, the ground -sloping away so rapidly that little more than the first row of slate -slabs was visible from the street. With another shiver Mr. Farnsworth -(for by that name the gentleman played his part upon this world's stage) -got down from his carriage, fastened his horse, and walked toward the -stones, whose rudely chiselled cherubs leered at him through their tawny -rust of moss with a diabolic and sinister mirthfulness. - -As Mr. Farnsworth opened the sagging and unpainted gate of the -enclosure, he became aware that the place was not empty. The head and -shoulders of a human being were visible half-way down the hill, now -and then obscured by the dull-reddish heap of earth thrown up from a -partially dug grave. - -The visitor made his way down the irregular path, so steep as to be -almost like a rude flight of stairs, and as he neared the worker, he -suddenly perceived, with something of a shock, that the grave-digger was -a woman. She worked as if familiar with her task, a man's battered hat -pushed back from her forehead, over which her faded hair straggled in -confusion, and across which certain grimy streaks bore witness that she -had not escaped the primal curse, but labored in the sweat of her brow. - -Kempton's peculiarity in the matter of its sexton had not come to -the knowledge of the stranger before, although he once had known the -village life somewhat intimately. He regarded the woman with a double -curiosity,--to see what she was like and to discover whether perchance -he had ever known her. He paused as he neared her, resting one nicely -gloved hand upon a tilted stone which perpetuated the memory and -recorded the virtues of a captain who reposed in some chill cave under -the Northern seas. Some slight sound caught the ear of the sexton, -who until then had not perceived his approach; she looked up at him -stolidly, and as stolidly looked down again, continuing her work without -interruption. If there remained any consciousness of the strangeness of -her occupation, or if there stirred any womanly shame to be so observed, -they were betrayed by no outward sign. She threw up the dull-yellow -earth at the feet of the new-comer as unmoved as if she had still only -the dwellers in the graves as companions of her labor. - -"Don't you find this rather hard work, my good woman?" the gentleman -inquired at length, more by way of breaking the silence than from any -especial interest. - -"Yes," the sexton returned impassively, "it's hard enough." - -"It is rather unusual work for a woman, too," he said. - -To this very obvious remark she returned no answer, a stone to which -she had come in her digging seeming to absorb all her attention. She -unearthed the obstacle with some difficulty, seized it with her rough -hands, and threw it up at the feet of the stranger, who watched her with -that idle interest which labor begets in the unconcerned observer. - -"Do you always do this work?" Farnsworth asked at length. - -"Yes," was the laconic return. - -"But the old sexton,--Joe Grimwet,--is he gone?" - -The woman looked up with some interest at this indication that the other -had some previous acquaintance with Kempton and its people. She did not, -however, stop her labor, as a man would probably have stopped. - -"Yes," she said. "He's buried over yonder,--there beyond the burdocks." - -The gentleman changed his position uneasily. Some subtile disquietude -had arisen to disturb his serenity. The wind rustled mournfully -among the dry leaves, the pebbles rattled against the spade of the -grave-digger, increasing the sombreness of a scene which might easily -affect one at all susceptible to outward influences. In such an -atmosphere a sensitive nature not unfrequently experiences a certain -feeling of unreality, as if dealing with scenes and creatures of the -imagination rather than with actualities; and Farnsworth, whatever the -delicacy of his mental fibre, was conscious of such a sense at this -moment. He hastened to speak again, as if the sound of his own voice -were needed to assure him of the genuineness of the place and scene. - -"But how long has he been dead?" he asked. "And his daughter; what -became of her?" - -The grave-digger straightened herself to her full height; brushing back -her wind-blown hair with one grimy hand, she raised her face so that her -deep-set eyes were fixed upon the questioner's face. - -"So you knew Delia Grimwet?" she said. "When was you here before? It'd -go hard for you to make her out now, if it's long since." - -"Is she here still?" Farnsworth persisted, ignoring her question. - -"Yes," the sexton replied, suddenly sinking back into the unfinished -grave as a frightened animal might retreat into its den. "Yes; she -lives in the old place." - -"Alone?" - -"Her and the boy." - -He recoiled a step, as if the mention of a child startled or repelled -him. Yet to a close observer it might have seemed as if he were making -an effort to press her with further questions. If so his courage did not -prove sufficient, and he watched in silence while the woman before him -went steadily on with her arduous work. Presently, however, he advanced -again toward the edge of the pit, which was rapidly approaching -completion under her familiar labor. - -"Should I find her at home at this time?" he inquired. "Or would she be -out at work?" - -The woman started and crouched, much as if she had received or expected -a blow. - -"She's out, most likely," she replied in a muffled voice. "She'll be -home along about sundown." - -Farnsworth lingered irresolutely a moment or two, as if there were many -things concerning which he could wish to ask; but, as the woman gave him -no encouragement, he turned at last and climbed the slippery, ragged -path up to the church, untethered his horse, and drove slowly down the -hill to the village. - -Cap'n Nat Hersey was just coming out of the village store, and to him -Farnsworth addressed an inquiry where he might find shelter for himself -and horse. - -"Well," the cap'n responded, with the deliberation of a man who has very -little to say and his whole life to say it in, "well I dunno but ye -might get a chance with Widder Bemis, an' I dunno _as_ ye could; but -there ain't no harm trying, as I knows of." - -Further inquiry regarding the whereabouts of the domicile of the Widow -Bemis led to an offer on the part of Cap'n Hersey to act as pilot to -that haven. He declined, however, to take a seat in the buggy. The Cap'n -had his own opinion of land-vehicles. A man might with perfect assurance -trust himself in a boat; but, for his own part, the cap'n had no faith -in those dangerous structures which roam about with nothing better -than dry land under them. He walked along by the side of the carriage, -conversing affably with the stranger under his convoy. - -"Isn't it a queer notion to have a woman for a sexton?" Farnsworth -asked, as they wended along. - -"Well, yes," the captain returned reflectively. "Yes, it is sort of -curious. Folks mostly speaks of it that comes here. It is curious, if ye -look at it that way. But it all come about as natural as a barnacle on a -keel. Old Sexton Grimwet kept getting considerable feeble, and Dele she -took to helping him with his work. She was sort of cut off from folks, -as ye may say, owing to having a baby and no father to show for it, and -she naturally took to heaving anchor alone, or leastways along with the -old man. And when the old man was took down with a languishment, she -turned to and did all his work for him,--having gradually worked into -it, as you may say." - -The cap'n paused to recover from his astonishment at having been -betrayed into so long a speech; but, as the stranger had the air of -expecting him to continue, he presently went on again: - -"There was them that wanted her turned out when old Grimwet died. Some -said a woman of that character hadn't ought to have no connection with -the church, even to digging its graves. But Parson Eaton he was good for -'em--I've always noticed that when these pious men gets their regular -mad up they most generally have things their own way; and he preached -'em a sermon about the Samaritan woman, and Mary Magdalene, and a lot -more of them disreputable Scripture women-folks, and, though he never -mentioned Dele by name, they all knew what he was driving at, and they -wilted. 'Twas a pitiful sight to see the girl a-digging her own father's -grave up there. Me and Tom Tobey and Zenas Faston took hold and finished -it for her." - -They moved on in silence a moment or two. Farnsworth's gaze was fixed -upon the darkening bay, and no longer interrogated his companion; but -the latter soon again took up his narrative:-- - -"'Twas well the parson stood up for Dele, too; women-folks is so cussed -hard on each other. They wouldn't ha' let the girl live, I believe. I -always were of the notion there warn't no harm in Dele. Some ---- city -chap got the better of her. She never was over-smart, but she was awful -pretty; and I never believed there was any harm in her. At any rate, she -digs a grave as well as a man, and I guess them that's in 'em don't lay -awake none thinking who tucked 'em in." - -The house of the Widow Bemis was by this time reached, and that -estimable lady, who in the summer furnished accommodations to a boarder -whenever that rare blessing was to be secured in Kempton, readily -undertook the charge of Mr. Farnsworth and his horse for the night. -The latter was given into the care of her daughter, for the frequent -absences of the men had accustomed the damsels of Kempton to those -labors which in inland villages are more frequently left to their -brothers; and Farnsworth strolled off toward the wharves, leaving the -widow Bemis and Cap'n Hersey in an agony of curiosity in regard to -himself and his errand. - -Whatever may have been Farnsworth's feelings at the discovery that the -daughter of the dead sexton and the woman of whom he had asked tidings -of her were identical,--and they must have been both deep and strong--he -had given no outward sign. But now the settling of his brows, and the -disquiet apparent in his eyes betrayed his inward conflict. He strolled -out upon one of the rotting wharves about which the tide lapped in -mournful iteration, folded his arms upon a breast-high post, and stood -gazing seaward. - -The retrospect which occupied his mind was scarcely more cheerful than -the gray scene which spread before his eyes. How awful are the corpses -of dead sins which memory casts up, as the sea its victims! The betrayal -of a woman is a ghastly thing when one looks back upon it stripped -of the garlands and enchantments of passion and temptation; and to -Farnsworth, with the image fresh in his rememberance of that faded, -earth-stained woman digging a grave upon the bleak hillside, the -fault of his youth seemed an incredible dream which only stubborn and -stinging memory converted into a possibility. A retrospect is apt to be -essentially a plea for self against conscience; but in his gloomy revery -Farnsworth found scant excuse for the wreck he had made of the life -of Delia Grimwet. He had gone away, married, and lived honored and -prosperous. He would have forgotten, had not some nobility of his nature -prevented. With the stubbornness of his race, he had fought long and -determinedly against his conscience, but he had been forced to yield -at last. The death of his wife, to whom he had been tenderly attached, -had at once left him free to make such reparation as might still be -possible, and had softened him as only sharp sorrow can. He had come to -Kempton with the determination of finding Delia, and of doing whatever -could be done, at whatever cost to himself. - -He had been unprepared, however, for the woman he found. He had left -a fresh, beautiful young girl; ten years had transformed her into a -repulsive old woman. He had no means of adequately measuring the force -of the storms of scorn and poverty and sorrow which had beaten upon -Delia Grimwet in the years that had made of him the cultured, delicately -nurtured man he was. What man ever appreciated the woe of the woman he -betrays? Indeed, what measure has a man of the sorrow of any woman? -Farnsworth had painfully to adjust himself to a condition of affairs for -which he should have been prepared, yet which took him absolutely by -surprise. - -He lingered upon the bleak wharf, unconsciously the object of much -mildly speculative curiosity, until the twilight began to fall. Then -with a shiver, no less of mind than of body, he shook off his painful -abstraction, and turned his steps toward the path, once well known, -which led to the house of Delia Grimwet. It seemed to him, as he paused -a brief instant with his hand upon the old knocker, as if nothing here -had changed in ten years. The sunlight would have shown him traces of -decay, but in the gathering dusk the house seemed a pallid phantom from -the past, unchanged but lifeless. - -But his knock at once destroyed all illusions, since it summoned the -woman who belonged not at all to that past which he remembered, but to -the pitiful and too tangible present. She held her guttering candle up -without a word, and, having identified him, made him, without speaking, -a signal to enter. - -When Farnsworth had left her in the afternoon, Delia crouched in -the bottom of the grave she was digging, her first feeling being an -unreasoning desire for concealment. She thought she should remain -passive if the sides of the pit collapsed and buried her. In the old -days before her boy was born she had been night after night out on the -old wharves, praying for courage to drown herself. After the child came, -her feelings changed, and she longed only to escape and to take her son -away from the scorn and the sordid life which surrounded them. Gradually -she had become hardened; hers was one of those common natures to which -custom and pain are opiates, mercifully dulling all sensibilities. -To-day the appearance of her betrayer had revivified all the old -impressions, and for a moment seemed to transport her to the early -days when her anguish was new. The keenest pangs of sorrow stabbed her -afresh, and she lived again the bitter moments of her sin and shame. -Her instinct was to flee from the man whose presence meant to her only -pain. - -But habit is strong, and presently the fading light reminded the sexton -that her work was still unfinished, and that Widow Pettigrove, who was -past all earthly tribulation, must have her last bed prepared, whatever -the woe of the living woman who worked at it with trembling hands and -a sensation as if a demon had clutched her by the throat. Yet work was -not unmerciful; it brought some relief, since it served to dilute the -thought which rushed dizzyingly to her brain, and by the time her toil -was completed she was steadier. When she opened the door to Farnsworth -she was not unlike her usual stolid self. She perceived at a glance that -he had learned who she was, and she hoped in a blind, aching way, that -he had not betrayed his presence to the neighbors, thus to re-awaken all -the old stinging flight of bitter words. - -Farnsworth followed Delia into the kitchen, without even those greetings -which habit renders so involuntary that only in the most poignant -moments are they disregarded. With their past between them it was not -easy to break the silence. Farnsworth seated himself, and the woman -stood regarding him. There was in her attitude all the questioning, all -the agony, of her years of suffering. Her wrongs and her sorrows gave -her a dignity before which he shrank as he could not have quailed under -the most withering reproaches. Whatever words he would have spoken--and -no man can come deliberately to so important a crisis without -formulating, even if unconsciously, the plea which his self-defence will -make--were forgotten, or seemed miserably inadequate now. What were -words to this woman, pallid and worn before her time with privation, -anguish, and unwomanly toil? The contrast between his rich and careful -dress and her coarse garb, between his white hands and her knotted -fingers, between his high-bred, pale face and her cowed, weather-beaten -countenance, was too violent not to be apparent to them both,--as if -they were in some strange way merely spectators looking dispassionately -at this wretched meeting of those who had once been passionate lovers. - -With each moment the silence became more oppressive; yet as each moment -dragged by it became more difficult to break the stillness. Only a man -utterly devoid of remorse or feeling could have framed upon his tongue -commonplace phrases at such a time. It seemed to Farnsworth as if he -were brought to judgment before the whole universe. His throat became -parched. He longed to have the candle and the flames flickering in the -old fireplace go out in darkness, and take from his sight the Nemesis -that confronted him. - -He broke the silence at last with a cry:-- - -"Ah, my God, Delia! What have I done?" - -She wavered as she stood, putting out her hand as if reaching for -support. Then she half staggered backward into a chair. - -"There is nothing I can say!" Farnsworth went on vehemently. "There is -nothing I can do! I came here dreaming of making reparation; but there -is no reparation I can make. There is nothing that can change the -past,--nothing that will undo what I have done to you. Oh, my God! How -little I dreamed it would be like this!" - -"No," she said slowly, almost stupidly, "nothing can undo it." - -"Why did you not tell me?" he began. "Why--" - -But the words rebuked him before they were spoken. He buried his face in -his hands, and again they were silent. What the woman,--this woman who -had never been able to think much, even in her best days, and who now -was blunted and dulled almost to stupidity,--what she felt in those -bitter moments, who can tell? The man's soul was a tumult of wild regret -and unavailing remorse, while she waited again for him to speak. - -"But," Farnsworth said at length, a new idea seizing him, "but the--our -child, Delia? The boy?" - -A shuddering seized her. Unused to giving way to her emotions, she was -torn by her excited feelings almost to the verge of convulsions. She -clutched the arms of her chair and set her teeth together. In her -incoherent attempts at thought, as she had delved among her graves, -there had occurred to her the possibility that the father might sometime -take his child from her. Now this fear possessed her like a physical -epilepsy. Twice she tried to speak, and only emitted a gurgling sound -as if strangling. He sprang toward her, but a sudden repulsion gave her -self-control. She put out her hands as if to ward him off. - -"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she cried, breaking out into hysterical sobs. "My -boy, my boy!" - -She wrung her hands, and twisted them together in fierce contortions -which frightened Farnsworth; but she still would not allow him to -approach her. She struggled for composure, writhing in paroxysms -dreadful to see. - -"Oh, my child!" she cried out, in a tone new and piercing; "no, no! not -him! Oh, God! You cannot have my boy!" - -Farnsworth retreated sharply. - -He had not considered this. Indeed, so different was everything he found -from everything he had expected, that whatever he had preconsidered -was swept out of existence as irrelevant. He was confronted with a -catastrophe in which it was necessary to judge unerringly and to act -instantly, yet which paralyzed all his powers by its strangeness and -its horror. He groped his way back to his chair and sat down, leaving -the silence again unbroken save by her convulsive breathing and his -deep-drawn sighs. - -All at once a new sound broke in upon them, and the mother started to -her feet. - -"He is coming!" she gasped hoarsely. "I sent him away; but he has come -back. He could not keep away, my beautiful boy." - -Her face was illumined with a love which wellnigh transfigured it. The -door was opened violently, and the boy came rudely in,--a gaunt, rough -whelp of a dozen summers, defiant, bold, and curious. - -"I knew there was something up," the young rascal observed with much -self-complacency. "I knew when you sent me off to stay all night that -somebody's funeral was comin' off, and I was bound I'd be here to see -it." - -Neither the mother nor the father returned any answer. Ordinary feelings -were so absolutely swept away that the woman did not even remember that -she should have attempted to quiet and to excuse the intruder. Even the -maternal pride which would usually have been troubled by the impression -the child's rudeness must make upon her guest was overwhelmed by the -greater emotion which possessed her whole being. - -Farnsworth had never been more keenly alive in every fibre of his being -than at this moment. All his family pride, his refined tastes, his -delicate nature, revolted from a kinship with the ugly, uncouth child -who stood grinning maliciously upon his guilty parents. His impulse, -almost too strong to be resisted, was to turn back and hide himself -again in the world from which he had come,--to leave this woman and her -loutish child in the quiet and obscurity in which he had found them. -But he was nobler than his impulses and had paid already too dearly for -rashness; the claim of a son upon the father who has brought him into -the world grasped his sense of justice like a hand of steel. - -He rose to his feet firm and determined. - -"Go away now," he said to the boy quietly, but in a voice which even -the urchin felt admitted of no disobedience. "I wish to talk with your -mother. I will see you to-morrow." - -"Yes, Farnsworth," the mother said pleadingly. "Go to bed now. I will -come to you before long. That's a good boy." - -The boy slowly and unwillingly withdrew, his reluctance showing how rare -obedience was to him, and the parents were once more alone. - -"You have given him my name," were Farnsworth's first words, as the door -closed behind his son. - -"It was father who did that. He said he should remember to curse you -every time the name was spoken." - -"And you?" the other asked, almost with a shudder. - -"I did not care. Cursing could not change things. Only I would not let -him do it before the boy. I didn't want him to know what sort of a -father he had." - -In the midst of his self-abasement some hidden fibre of resentment and -wounded vanity tingled at her words; but he would not heed it. - -"I am not so wholly bad, Delia," he said in a moment. "I came back to -marry you. It will not change or mend the past; but it is the best I can -do now." - -"It is no use to talk of that," she returned wearily; "you and I are -done with each other. Even I can see that." - -She was spent with the violence of her emotions, and only longed to have -Farnsworth leave her. She was keenly sensitive now of the nicety of -his attire, the contrast between him and her meagre surroundings. The -shamefacedness of the poor overwhelmed her. She rose with uneven steps -and trembling hands, and began to put things to rights a little. She -snuffed the ill-conditioned candle, and trimmed the fire, whose -drift-wood sent out tongues of colored flame. She set back into their -usual gaunt and vulgar order the chairs which had been disturbed. - -Farnsworth watched her with an aching heart. - -"Delia," he said at length, "come and sit down. We must decide what it -is best to do." - -She obeyed him, although with evident reluctance. All the brief dignity -which her elevation of mood had imparted had vanished now, leaving her -more haggard and worn than ever. A faded, prematurely old woman, she -sat twisting her red, stained hands in a vain attempt to hide their -ugliness in the folds of her poor dress. Even self-pity in Farnsworth's -breast began to vanish in the depth of compassion which the sexton -excited. - -"Delia," he said, "I must think for us both, and for the boy. He must -be considered. For his sake we must be married." - -It was at once with a sense of relief and of humiliation that he saw how -she shrank from this proposition. To have fallen from godhood in the -meanest woman's eyes is the keenest thrust at man's pride. It gave -Farnsworth a new conception that the gulf between them must look as -impassable from her side as from his. He had thus far been too much -absorbed in the sacrifices he himself was making to consider that all -the desirabilities of his world would not appeal to her as to him,--that -its very fulness and richness which so held and delighted him would -confuse and repel her. - -"It is of no use!" he exclaimed, starting up. "I must have time to -think. I will come back in the morning. Think yourself, Delia,--not of -me, or even of yourself, so much as of the boy. It is of him that we -must have the first care. Nothing can much change our lives; but the -world is before him. Goodnight." - -However different may have been the reflexions of Farnsworth and of -Delia Grimwet through that long, sad night, their conclusions must have -been in some respects identical, for when the former came to the house -in the morning with the astonished clergyman the woman acquiesced -without any discussion in the performance of the marriage ceremony. It -was an occasion which the Rev. Mr. Eaton long remembered, and of which -he told to the end of his life, filling out, it must be confessed, as -time went on, its spare facts with sundry incidents, trifling, it is -true, yet gradually overlaying the bare truth with a completeness which -the clerical gossip himself, whose belief always kept pace with his -invention, was far from realizing. The only thing he could with accuracy -have told, beyond the simple fact of the marriage, was that when, -according to his wont, he attempted to add a few words of exhortation -and moral reflection, the bridegroom cut him short and showed him to -the door with a courtesy perfect but irresistible, the rebuff somewhat -softened by the liberality of the fee which accompanied the dismissal. - -The boy during these singular proceedings had remained in a state of -excited astonishment almost amounting to stupefaction; but when the -newly united family were alone together, his natural perversity broke -out, and showed itself in its natural and unamiable colors. To the -father the child's every uncouth word and act were the most acute -torture; and the mother, partly by woman's instinct, partly from -previous acquaintance with her husband's fastidiousness, was to a great -degree sensible of this. She made no effort, however, to restrain her -child. She seemed to have thrown off all responsibility upon the father, -and busied herself in preparations for the boy's departure, about which, -although neither had spoken of it, there seemed to be some tacit -understanding. - -The forenoon was well worn when Farnsworth came to the door with his -carriage, for which he had gone in person. - -"Come, Delia," he said, entering the house. "We may as well leave -everything as it is. I told Mrs. Bemis to lock up the house and see to -it. Are you ready?" - -"Farnsworth is," she replied, seating herself in a low chair and drawing -to her side the uncouth boy, who struggled to get free. - -He broke in rudely, announcing his readiness, his joy at leaving -Kempton, and his satisfaction at wearing his Sunday jacket, which to -his father looked poor enough. - -"But you, Delia?" her husband inquired, putting up his hand to quiet the -child. "Are you ready?" - -"I am not going." - -Whether it was relief, remorse, or astonishment which overwhelmed him, -John Farnsworth could not have told. He stood speechless, looking at his -wife like one suddenly stricken dumb. The boy filled in the pause with -noisy expostulations, depriving the tragedy of even the poor dignity of -silence. The father knew from the outset that remonstrances would not -be likely to avail, yet he remonstrated; perhaps, for human nature is -subtle beyond word, he was unconsciously for that reason the more -earnest in his pleading. He would have been glad could this woman and -her child have been swept out of existence. Already he had to hold -himself strongly in check, lest the reaction which had followed his -heroic resolve to marry Delia should show itself; but he choked back -the feeling with all his resolution. - -"No," Delia persistently said, her eyes dry, her voice harsh from -huskiness. "I've no place anywhere but here. It is too late now. I've -more feeling than I thought, for I do care something even now to be an -honest woman in the sight of my neighbors; and that'll help me bear it, -I suppose. Take the boy, and do for him all you owed to me. I should -spoil all if I went. He is best quit of me if he's to please you and -grow like you. I'll stay here and dig graves; I am fit for nothing else. -I want nothing of you. I married you for the boy's sake, and for his -sake I break my heart and send him away; but I will have nothing for -myself. The days when I would have taken a penny from you are long -gone." - -She spoke calmly enough, but with a certain poignant stress which made -every word fall like a weight. He did not urge her further. He held out -his hand, into which she laid hers lifelessly. - -"Good-bye," he said. "As God sees me, Delia, I'll do my best by the boy. -I will write to you. If you change your decision,--but no matter now. I -will write to you and to the minister." - -All other words of parting were brief and soon spoken. The boy showed -no emotion at leaving his mother, as he had throughout exhibited no -tenderness. He climbed noisily into the carriage, and the father and -son, so strangely assorted, rode together up the hill, past the stark -meeting-house, and so on into the world whose seething waves seldom -troubled, even by such a ripple as the events just narrated, the dull -calm of Kempton; and to John Farnsworth it was as if the woful burden of -remorse which had so long vexed heart and conscience had taken bodily -shape and rode by his side. - -Delia had been calm until the two were gone,--so calm that her husband -thought her still half dazed by the excitement and anguish of the -previous night. She stood steadily at the window until the carriage -disappeared behind the grave-covered hill. Then she threw herself -grovelling upon the floor in the very ecstasy of woe. She did not -shriek, strangling in her throat into inarticulate moans and gurglings -the cries which rent their way from her inmost soul; but she beat her -head upon the bare floor; she caught at the furniture like a wild -beast, leaving the print of her strong teeth in the hard wood; she -was convulsed with her agony, a speechless animal rage, a boundless, -irrepressible anguish which could not be measured or expressed. She -clutched her bosom with her savage hands, as if she would tear herself -in pieces; she wounded and bruised herself with a fierceness so intense -as to be almost delight. - -In the midst of her wildest paroxysm there came a knocking at the door. -She started up, her face positively illuminated. - -"They have come back!" she murmured in ecstasy. - -She rushed to the door and undid its fastenings with fingers tremulous -from eager joy. A neighbor confronted her, staring in dismay and -amazement at her strange and dishevelled appearance. - -"What's come to ye, Dele?" he demanded roughly, though not unkindly. -"When ye goin' to put the box in Widder Pettigrove's grave?" - -She confronted him for an instant with a wandering look in her eye, as -though she had mercifully been driven mad. Then the tyranny of life and -habit reasserted itself. - -"I'll come up now, Bill," she said. - -And she went back to her graves. - - -THE END. - - - - -_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._ - - -A LAD'S LOVE. - -By ARLO BATES. - -=16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents.= - -It is just the kind of a story to suit the majority of watering-place -people who wish to help pass the time with light reading. The scene is -laid in Campobello; and the social life at a sea-side resort, with its -impromptu festivities, is attractively set forth. The persons who form -the principal group in the story are above the usual watering-place -gossips, that magnify every innocent flirtation they see; and the lad -who at twenty-one falls desperately in love with a charming widow of -thirty-five years, at last sensibly turns to the daughter, loves her and -marries her, through the shrewd management of her mother. The object -of the book is to show how often and how fervently a callow youth is -attracted to some one older and more cultivated than himself; and the -analysis of his passion is very well done.--_Hartford Times._ - -This time Mr. Bates, who wields a facile pen, has taken up a facile -subject, for the burden of his story is the evolution of a young -man's love in the cool shades and sylvan retreats of Campobello.... -Incidentally he pictures certain aspects of society and gives a fair -account of Campobello. _A Lad's Love_ is a readable story, and young -women will read it not only with pleasure but also with profit. It will -teach them how love acts in a pure lad.--_The Beacon._ - -Arlo Bates is favorably known as a writer of pleasant and healthy verse, -and he appears to equal advantage as the author of this bright novel, -which is as breezy as the air of Mount Desert, where the scene is laid. -The "Lad" is a youth of twenty-two or so, just through Harvard; and the -depth, strength, and variety of his love are well illustrated by his -frantic passion for a widow old enough to be his mother, by his rapid -transfer of affection to her lovely daughter, and by his nearly getting -entangled with a third woman before he secures the right one. There is -a thorough-bred air about the book which leaves a good impression, and -a liveliness of fancy and description which promises more good stories -from Mr. Bates's pen. The minor characters, though merely sketched in -lightly, fill their places admirably, and the two heroines are quite -delicious.--_Pittsburgh Bulletin._ - -The author delights in making an analytical study of the mental -condition of the principal actors at various stages of the story, and -now and then brightens the pages with a crisp epigram that betrays -a habit of close observation of human nature in the lines of the -story's theme.... The people of the story are lifelike, however, -and there is not an impossible nor even an improbable person among -them.--_Springfield Union._ - -_Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the -Publishers_, - - ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - -POEMS BY ARLO BATES. - -_Including "BERRIES OF THE BRIER," and "SONNETS IN SHADOW."_ - - =One Volume. 16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50. - Each volume separate, price, $1.00.= - -These poems are always poetical; they are carefully finished; they are -not _vers de société_; they do not affect American humor, and they are -utterly unpretentious. Mr. T. B. Aldrich might own a good many of them. -They reveal Mr. Bates' mind and temper at their very best, and will be -enjoyed by those who have an ear for fine, light impressions finely and -delicately expressed.--_The Beacon._ - -The poems, all very short, except the "Ballad of the Spinner," are -almost all flavorous with love's delicious essence. The perennial -passion receives fresh illumination in a hundred ways. Warmth, richness, -suggestiveness, smooth-flowing melody,--these are some of the traits of -Mr. Bates' verses, which are well worthy the tasteful setting here given -them. - -They are almost invariably the setting of some pretty and thoroughly -poetic thought; and the writer's expression is clear and precise, and -studded with bits of exquisite imagery.--_Argonaut._ - -There are many who will welcome another volume from the pen of Arlo -Bates, although it be a sad one. The twenty-nine sonnets which make up -this little collection are but variations of one melody, and that played -in the minor key. They will sink deep into many hearts, for they are the -expressions of various moods which all who have known grief and loss -will have felt and be able to comprehend. The men and women who have no -artistic gifts, and who sit and shed salt tears in stony silence, unable -to give their woe adequate words, will feel that a human heart has here -been revealed to them able to sympathize with every throb and pulsation -of their own. There is not a cry of a bruised soul but will find its -echo in some one of these sonnets, and the knowledge that they are the -expression of a real and personal sorrow gives them a power and interest -that no ideal or imaginary work could possess.--_Transcript._ - - -ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - -A WOODLAND WOOING. - -By ELEANOR PUTNAM. - -=16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents.= - -A thoroughly wholesome story is _A Woodland Wooing_, by Eleanor Putnam -(the late Mrs. Arlo Bates). It is as sweet as a meadow of clover and -as bright as a crisp October morning. Its simplest events are made -fascinating by their rare naturalness. The motherless children of a -country doctor figure prominently in the tale, and they devise all sorts -of original modes of amusing themselves, of course omitting whatever is -incompatible with self-respect or unapproved by conscience. Boys and -girls are for the most part the story's heroes and heroines, and when -they find themselves quite unexpectedly grown into men and women and -realize all that maturity means, their natures are strong and unhurt by -the evils of self-consciousness or of unwholesome speculations regarding -the significance of this life or the next. They are children of fine, -vigorous intellectual fibre and noble impulses that lead them toward -worthiness, happiness, and usefulness, and the story of their progress -toward higher things is charmingly told.--_The Delineator._ - -Like a cool breeze on a sultry day comes this little book, _A Woodland -Wooing_, by Eleanor Putnam, fresh and sparkling, with almost child-like -fun, and not even the shadow of a moral spectre to be found stalking -anywhere between its dainty covers.... The Yankee country-folks all -around are photographed very accurately to our mind's eye, and it is -difficult to say whether they are more amusing than the widely-travelled -and elegantly-Bohemian family of Sparhawks, whose advent in the village -makes such a sensation. The infant Sparhawks are especially droll, and -remind one strongly of those famous personages, "Toddy and Budge." In -fact it is just the sort of book to read aloud, so as to have some one -to laugh with over its joyous humor.--_Home Journal._ - -One of the breeziest, brightest books of the year. It is not only -charmingly original, but thoroughly amusing. Its characters are drawn -with all the skill of the literary artist, and stand out in the mind of -the reader like beautiful pictures upon the canvas. The reading will -make old gray heads feel again young. It will revive the visions of -youth, with spring flowers, when all the world stretched away in -brightness. The story is a summer camping-out, told in alternate -chapters by a brother and sister, in which all sorts of people are -introduced to the reader in a most delightful and amusing way. It -matters not that it contains much nonsense; life needs a good deal of -such to spice it up. The woodland wooing, it may be remarked, is carried -on under many and trying circumstances. But it all ends well. It is -indeed a bright, breezy, pleasing book, and tears will only come in the -remembrance that the hand that penned the lines has ceased forever from -such pleasing earthly tasks.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ - - -_Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the -Publishers_, - - ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - - - -PRINCE VANCE. - -=A Story of a Prince with a Court in His Box.= By ELEANOR PUTNAM and -ARLO BATES. Illustrated by Frank Myrick. - -[Illustration] - -_"Prince Vance" is an Entertaining Fairy Story of the wildest and most -fantastic adventures and of amusing and original impossibilities, which, -however, carry with them a stern puritan moral. This allegiance of -unfettered imagination and straightforward, wholesome, moral teaching is -unusual, and gives the little book a special value._ - -Small 4to. Cloth gilt. Price, $1.50. - - ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -For this txt-version italics were surrounded with _underscores_, bold -with =signs=, and small capitals changed to all capitals. - -In the Table of Contents "283" was changed to "285" (Interlude Eighth: -A CUBAN MORNING 285). Also the following corrections were made, on page - - 171 "forgotton" changed to "forgotten" (he had forgotten the pain - she might endure) - 174 "Dr" changed to "Dr." (while Dr. Lommel, who had charge of the - ward) - 240 "Gran'sir" changed to "Gran'sir'" (Gran'sir' Welch's red - cottage) - 269 "slighest" changed to "slightest" (I had not the slightest - difficulty) - 273 "anoyance" changed to "annoyance" (mingling of philosophy and - annoyance) - 279 "persausions" changed to "persuasions" (but my persuasions, - seconded by those of) - 313 "accomodations" changed to "accommodations" (furnished - accommodations to a boarder). - -Otherwise the original was preserved, including archaic and inconsistent -spelling and hyphenation. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book o' Nine Tales., by Arlo Bates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK O' NINE TALES. *** - -***** This file should be named 41189-8.txt or 41189-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/1/8/41189/ - -Produced by sp1nd, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -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. 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