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diff --git a/old/51142-0.txt b/old/51142-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b57f9e6..0000000 --- a/old/51142-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11665 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Times Red Cross Story Book, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Times Red Cross Story Book - by Famous Novelists Serving in His Majesty's Forces - -Author: Various - -Release Date: February 7, 2016 [EBook #51142] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIMES RED CROSS STORY BOOK *** - - - - -Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Elizabeth Oscanyan and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration: Dimoussi. _Frontispiece._] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - =The Times’= - _RED CROSS_ - _STORY BOOK_ - - BY - FAMOUS NOVELISTS SERVING - IN HIS MAJESTY’S FORCES - - ILLUSTRATED - - PUBLISHED FOR - =The Times’= - FUND FOR THE - SICK & WOUNDED - - BY HODDER AND STOUGHTON - LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - Page - - DIMOUSSI AND THE PISTOL A. E. W. Mason, 3 - _Manchester Regiment_ - - THE WOMAN A. A. Milne, 16 - _Royal Warwick Regiment_ - - THE CHERUB Oliver Onions, _Army Service Corps_ 31 - - AN IMPOSSIBLE PERSON W. B. Maxwell, _Royal Fusiliers_ 37 - - THE VEIL OF FLYING WATER Theodore Goodridge Roberts, 51 - _Canadian Expeditionary Force_ - - “BILL BAILEY” Ian Hay, 62 - _Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders_ - - LIFE-LIKE Martin Swayne, 74 - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - LAME DOGS Cosmo Hamilton, _Royal Naval Air 83 - Service_ - - THE SILVER THAW R. E. Vernede, _Rifle Brigade_ 97 - - CARNAGE Compton Mackenzie, _Royal Navy_ 104 - - THE BRONZE PARROT R. Austin Freeman, 115 - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - THE FORBIDDEN WOMAN Warwick Deeping, 125 - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - ELIZA AND THE SPECIAL Barry Pain, 136 - _Royal Naval Air Service_ - - THE PROBATION OF JIMMY BAKER Albert Kinross, 140 - _Army Service Corps_ - - THE GHOST THAT FAILED Desmond Coke, 149 - _Loyal North Lancashire Regiment_ - - THE MIRACLE Ralph Stock, _Artists’ Rifles_ 157 - - THE FIGHT FOR THE GARDEN Sir Arthur T. Quiller-Couch, 162 - _Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry_ - - THE FACE IN THE HOP VINES Charles G. D. Roberts, 178 - _King’s (Liverpool) Regiment_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Dimoussi _and the_ Pistol - - _By_ A. E. W. Mason - - _Manchester Regiment_ - -In the maps of Morocco you will see, stretching southwards of the city -of Mequinez, a great tract of uncharted country. It is lawless and -forbidden land. Even the Sultan Mulai el Hassen, that great fighter, -omitted it from his expeditions. - -But certain tribes are known to inhabit it, such as the Beni M’tir, and -certain villages can be assigned a locality, such as Agurai, which lies -one long day’s journey from the Renegade’s Gate of Mequinez. - -At Agurai Dimoussi was born, and lived for the first fifteen years of -his life—Dimoussi the Englishman, as he was called, though in features -and colour he had the look of an Arab with just a strain of Negro blood. - -At the age of fifteen a desire to see the world laid hold upon Dimoussi. -As far as the eye could see from any mound about the village, there -stretched on every side a rolling plain, silent and empty. Hardly a bird -sang in the air above it; and everywhere it was dark with bushes wherein -the flowers of asphodel gleamed pale and small. - -Dimoussi wearied of the plain. One thin, reddish line meandered -uncertainly from north to south, a stone’s throw from the village, where -the feet of men and mules passing at rare intervals through many -centuries had beaten down a path. Along this path Dimoussi allowed his -fancies to carry him into a world of enchantment; and one spring morning -his feet carried him along it, too. - -For half a dozen men of the Beni M’tir carrying almonds and walnuts into -Mequinez happened to pass Agurai at a moment when Dimoussi was watching, -and his mother was at work on a patch of tilled ground out of sight. -Dimoussi had no other parent than his mother. - -He ran into the hut, with its tent roof of sacking and its sides of -rough hurdles, which was his home, searched in a corner for a big -brass-barrelled pistol which had long been the pride of the -establishment, and, hiding it under his ragged jellaba, he ran down the -track and joined himself on to the tiny caravan. The next morning he -came to Mequinez, where he parted company with the tribesmen. - -Dimoussi had not so much as a copper flouss upon him, but, on the other -hand, he had a pistol and the whole world in front of him. And what -reasonable boy could want more? All that day he wandered about the -streets, gaping at the houses, at the towers of the mosques, and at the -stalls in the markets, but as the afternoon declined, hunger got hold of -him. His friends of yesterday had vanished. Somehow he must get food. - -He fingered the pistol under his jellaba irresolutely. He walked along a -street which he came to know afterwards as the Sôk Kubba. In the middle -was built a square tent of stone with an open arch at each side and a -pointed roof of fluted tiles trailed over by a vine. Just beyond this -stone tent the street narrowed, and on the left-hand side a man who sold -weapons squatted upon the floor of a dark booth. - -“How much?” asked Dimoussi, producing his pistol, but loth to let it go. - -The shopman looked at Dimoussi, and looked at the pistol. Then he tossed -it carelessly behind him into the litter of his booth. - -“It is no good. As sure as my name is Mustapha, it would not kill a -rabbit. But see! My heart is kind. I will give you three dollars.” - -He counted them out. Dimoussi stolidly shook his head. “Seven,” said he. - -Mustapha reached behind him for the pistol, and flung it down at -Dimoussi’s feet. - -“Take it away!” said he. “I will not haggle with foolish boys who have -stolen a thing of no value, and wish to sell it at a great price. Take -it away! Yet, out of my charity, I will give you four dollars.” - -“Five,” said Dimoussi. - -And five he received. - -He bought rice and eggs in the market, and turned under an old archway -of green tiles into the Fondak Henna. There he cooked his food at a -fire, ate, and proposed to sleep. - -But Fate had laid her hand upon Dimoussi. He slept not at all that -night. He sat with his back propped against the filigree plaster of one -of the pillars, and listened to a Moor of the Sherarda tribe, who smoked -keef and talked until morning. - -“Yes,” said the Sherarda man, “I have travelled far and wide. Now I go -to my own village of Sigota, on Jebel Zarhon.” - -“Have you been to Fez?” asked Dimoussi eagerly. - -“I have lived in Fez. I served in the army of my lord the Sultan until I -was bored with it. It is a fine town and a large one. The river flows in -a hundred streams underneath the houses. In every house there is running -water. But it is nothing to the town of Mulai Idris.” - -Dimoussi clasped his hands about his knees. - -“Oh, tell me! Tell me!” he cried so loudly that in the shadows of the -Fondak men stirred upon their straw and cursed him. - -“I have also travelled to Rabat, a great town upon the sea, whither many -consools come in fireships. A great town draped with flowers and cactus. -But it is nothing to Mulai Idris. There are no consools in Mulai Idris.” - -All through his talk the name of Mulai Idris, the sacred city on the -slope of Jebel Zarhon, came and went like a shuttle of a loom. - -The Sherarda Moor thought highly of the life in Mulai Idris, since it -was possible to live there without work. - -Pilgrims came to visit the shrine of the founder of the Moorish Empire, -with offerings in their hands; and the whole township lived, and lived -well, upon those offerings. Moreover, there were no Europeans, or -“consools,” as he termed them. - -The Moor spoke at length, and with hatred, of the Europeans—pale, -ungainly creatures in ridiculous clothes, given over to the devil, -people with a clever knack of invention, no doubt, in the matter of -firearms and cameras and spy-glasses, but, man for man, no match for any -Moor. - -“Only three cities are safe from them now in all Morocco: Sheshawan in -the north, Tafilat in the south, and Mulai Idris. But Mulai Idris is -safest. Once a party of them—Englishmen—came rising up the steep road to -the gate even there, but from the walls we stoned them back. God’s curse -on them! Let them stay at home! But they must always be pushing -somewhere.” - -Dimoussi, recognising in himself a point of kinship with the “consools,” -said gravely: - -“I am an Englishman.” - -The Sherarda man laughed, as though he had heard an excellent joke, and -continued to discourse upon the splendours of Mulai Idris until the -sleepers waked in their corners, and the keeper flung open the door, and -the grey daylight crept into the Fondak. - -“Oh, tell me!” said Dimoussi. “The city is far from here?” - -“Set out now. You will be in Mulai Idris before sunset.” - -Dimoussi rose to his feet. - -“I will go to Mulai Idris,” said he, and he went out into the cool, -clear air. The Sherarda Moor accompanied Dimoussi to the Bordain Gate, -and there they parted company, the boy going northward, the Moor -following the eastward track towards Fez. He had done his work, though -what he had done he did not know. - -At noon Dimoussi came out upon a high tableland, as empty as the plains -which stretched about his native Agurai. Far away upon his left the -dark, serrated ridge of Jebel Gerouan stood out against the sky. Nearer -to him upon his right rose the high rock of Jebel Zarhon. In some fold -of that mountain lay this fabulous city of Mulai Idris. - -Dimoussi walked forward, a tiny figure in that vast solitude. There were -no villages, there were no trees anywhere. The plateau extended ahead of -him like a softly heaving sea, as far as the eye could reach. It was -covered with bushes in flower; and here and there an acre of marigolds -or a field of blue lupins decked it out, as though someone had chosen to -make a garden there. - -Then suddenly upon Dimoussi’s right the hillside opened, and in the -recess he saw Mulai Idris, a city high-placed and dazzlingly white, -which tumbled down the hillside like a cascade divided at its apex by a -great white mosque. - -The mosque was the tomb of Mulai Idris, the founder of the empire. -Dimoussi dropped upon his knees and bowed his forehead to the ground. -“Mulai Idris,” he whispered, in a voice of exaltation. Yesterday he had -never even heard the name of the town. To-day the mere sight of it -lifted him into a passion of fervour. - -Those white walls masked a crowded city of filth and noisome smells. But -Dimoussi walked on air; and his desire to see more of the world died -away altogether. - -He was in the most sacred place in all Morocco; and there he stayed. -There was no need for him to work. He had the livelong day wherein to -store away in his heart the sayings of his elders. And amongst those -sayings there was not one that he heard more frequently than this: - -“There are too many Europeans in Morocco.” - -Fanaticism was in the very stones of the town. Dimoussi saw it shining -sombrely in the eyes of the men who paced and rode about the streets; he -felt it behind the impassivity of their faces. It came to him as an echo -of their constant prayers. Dimoussi began to understand it. - -Once or twice he saw the Europeans during that spring. For close by in -the plain a great stone arch and some broken pillars showed where the -Roman city of Volubilis had stood. And by those ruins once or twice a -party of Europeans encamped. - -Dimoussi visited each encampment, begged money of the “consools,” and -watched with curiosity the queer mechanical things they carried with -them—their cameras, their weapons, their folding mirrors, their brushes -and combs. But on each visit he became more certain that there were too -many Europeans in Morocco. - -“A djehad is needed,” said one of the old men sitting outside the -gate—“a holy war—to exterminate them.” - -“It is not easy to start a djehad,” replied Dimoussi. - -The elders stroked their beards and laughed superciliously. - -“You are young and foolish, Dimoussi. A single shot from a gun, and all -Moghrebbin is in flame.” - -“Yes; and he that fired the shot certain of Paradise.” - -Not one of them had thought to fire the shot. They were chatterers of -vain words. But the words sank into Dimoussi’s mind; for Dimoussi was -different. He began to think, as he put it; as a matter of fact, he -began to feel. - -He went up to the tomb of Mulai Idris, bribed the guardian, who sat with -a wand in the court outside the shrine, to let him pass, and for the -first time in his life stood within the sacred place. The shrine was -dark, and the ticking of the clocks in the gloom filled Dimoussi’s soul -with awe and wonderment. - -For the shrine was crowded with clocks: grandfather clocks with white -faces, and gold faces, and enamelled faces, stood side by side along the -walls, marking every kind of hour. Eight-day clocks stood upon pedestals -and niches; and the whole room whirred, and ticked, and chimed; never -had Dimoussi dreamed of anything so marvellous. There were glass balls, -too, dangling from the roof on silver strings, and red baize hanging -from the tomb. - -Dimoussi bowed his head and prayed for the djehad. And as he prayed in -that dark and solitary place there came to him an inspiration. It seemed -that Mulai Idris himself laid his hand upon the boy’s head. It needed -only one man, only one shot to start the djehad. He raised his head and -all the ticking clocks cried out to him: “Thou art the man.” Dimoussi -left the shrine with his head high in the air and a proudness in his -gait. For he had his mission. - -Thereafter he lay in wait upon the track over the plain to Mequinez, -watching the north and the south for the coming of the traveller. - -During the third week of his watching he saw advancing along the track -mules carrying the baggage of Europeans. Dimoussi crouched in the bushes -and let them pass with the muleteers. A good way behind them the -Europeans rode slowly upon horses. As they came opposite to Dimoussi, -one, a dark, thin man, stretched out his arm and, turning to his -companion, said: - -“Challoner, there is Mulai Idris.” - -At once Dimoussi sprang to his feet. He did not mean to be robbed of his -great privilege. He shook his head. - -“Lar, lar!” he cried. “Bad men in Mulai Idris. They will stone you. You -go to Mequinez.” - -The man who had already spoken laughed. - -“We are not going to Mulai Idris,” he replied. He was a man named Arden -who had spent the greater part of many years in Morocco, going up and -down that country in the guise of a Moor, and so counterfeiting accent, -and tongue, and manners, that he had even prayed in their mosques and -escaped detection. - -“You are English?” asked Dimoussi. - -“Yes. Come on, Challoner!” - -And then, to his astonishment, as his horse stepped on, Dimoussi cried -out actually in English: - -“One, two, three, and away!” - -Arden stopped his horse. - -“Where did you learn that?” he asked; and he asked in English. - -But Dimoussi had spoken the only five words of English he knew, and even -those he did not understand. - -Arden repeated the question in Arabic; and Dimoussi answered with a -smile: - -“I, too, am English.” - -“Oh! are you?” said Arden, with a laugh; and he rode on. “These Moors -love a joke. He learned the words over there, no doubt, from the -tourists at Volubilis. Do you see those blocks of stone along the -track?” - -“Yes,” answered Challoner. “How do they come there?” - -“Old Mulai Ismail, the sultan, built the great palace at Mequinez two -hundred years ago from the ruins of Volubilis. These stones were dragged -down by the captives of the Salee pirates.” - -“And by the English prisoners from Tangier?” said Challoner suddenly. - -“Yes,” replied Arden with some surprise, for there was a certain -excitement in his companion’s voice and manner. “The English were -prisoners until the siege ended, and we gave up Tangier and they were -released. When Mulai Ismail died, all these men dragging stones just -dropped them and left them where they lay by the track. There they have -remained ever since. It’s strange, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” said Challoner thoughtfully. He was a young man with the look of -a student rather than a traveller. He rode slowly on, looking about him, -as though at each turn of the road he expected to see some Englishman in -a tattered uniform of the Tangier Foot leaning upon a block of masonry -and wiping the sweat from his brow. - -“Two of my ancestors were prisoners here in Mequinez,” he said. “They -were captured together at the fall of the Henrietta Fort in 1680, and -brought up here to work on Mulai Ismail’s palace. It’s strange to think -that they dragged these stones down this very track. I don’t suppose -that the country has changed at all. They must have come up from the -coast by the same road we followed, passed the same villages, and heard -the pariah dogs bark at night just as we have done.” - -Arden glanced in surprise at his companion. - -“I did not know that. I suppose that is the reason why you wish to visit -Mequinez?” - -Challoner’s sudden desire to travel inland to this town had been a -mystery to Arden. He knew Challoner well, and knew him for a dilettante, -an amiable amateur of the arts, a man always upon the threshold of a new -interest, but never by any chance on the other side of the door, and, -above all, a stay-at-home. Now the reason was explained. - -“Yes,” Challoner admitted. “I was anxious to see Mequinez.” - -“Both men came home when peace was declared, I suppose?” said Arden. - -“No. Only one came home, James Challoner. The other, Luke, turned -renegade to escape the sufferings of slavery, and was never allowed to -come back. The two men were brothers. - -“I discovered the story by chance. I was looking over the papers in the -library one morning, in order to classify them, and I came across a -manuscript play written by a Challoner after the Restoration. Between -the leaves of the play an old, faded letter was lying. It had been -written by James, on his return, to Luke’s wife, telling her she would -never see Luke again. I will show you the letter this evening.” - -“That’s a strange story,” said Arden. “Was nothing heard of Luke -afterwards?” - -“Nothing. No doubt he lived and died in Mequinez.” - -Challoner looked back as he spoke. Dimoussi was still standing amongst -the bushes watching the travellers recede from him. His plan was -completely formed. There would be a djehad to-morrow, and the honour of -it would belong to Dimoussi of Agurai. - -He felt in the leathern wallet which swung at his side upon a silk -orange-coloured cord. He had ten dollars in that wallet. He walked in -the rear of the travellers to Mequinez, and reached the town just before -sunset. He went at once to the great square by the Renegade’s Gate, -where the horses are brought to roll in the dust on their way to the -watering fountain. - -There were many there at the moment; and the square was thick with dust -like a mist. - -But, through the mist, in a corner, Dimoussi saw the tents of the -travellers, and, in front of the tents, from wall to wall, a guard of -soldiers sitting upon the ground in a semicircle. - -Dimoussi was in no hurry. He loitered there until darkness followed upon -the sunset, and the stars came out. - -He saw lights burning in the tents, and, through the open doorway one, -the man who had spoken to him, Arden, stretched upon a lounge-chair, -reading a paper which he held in his hand. - -Dimoussi went once more to the Fondak Henna, and made up for the wakeful -night he had passed here with a Moor of the Sherarda tribe by sleeping -until morning with a particular soundness. - - - II - -The paper which Arden was reading was the faded letter written at “Berry -Street, St. James’s” on April 14, 1684, by the James Challoner who had -returned to the wife of Luke Challoner who had turned renegade. - -Arden took a literal copy of that letter; and it is printed here from -that copy: - - “BERRY STREET, ST. JAMES’S, - “_April 14, 1684_. - -“MY DEAR PAMELA, - - “I have just now come back from Whitehall, where I was most - graciously received by his Majestie, who asked many questions about - our sufferings among the Moors, and promised rewards with so fine a - courtesy and condescension that my four years of slavery were all - forgotten. Indeed, my joy would have been rare, but I knew that the - time would come when I must go back to my lodging and write to you - news that will go near to break your heart. Why did my brother not - stay quietly at home with his wife, at whose deare side his place - was? But he must suddenlie leave his house, and come out to his - younger brother at Tangier, who was never more sorry to see any man - than I was to see Luke. For we were hard pressed: the Moors had - pushed their trenches close under our walls, and any night the city - might fall. And now I am come safely home, though there is no deare - heart to break for me, and Luke must for ever stay behind. For that - is the bitter truth. We shall see noe more of Luke, and you, my - deare, are widowed and yet no widow. Oh, why did you let him goe, - knowing how quick he is to take fire, and how quick to cool? I, too, - am to blame, for I kept him by me out of my love for him, and that - was his undoing. - - “In May ... I commanded the Henrietta Fort, and Luke was a volunteer - with me. For five days we were attacked night and day, we were cut - off from the town, there was no hope that way, and all our - ammunition and water consumed, and most of us wounded or killed. So - late on the night of the 13th we were compelled to surrender upon - promise of our lives. Luke and I were carried up to Mequinez, and - there set to build a wall, which was to stretch from that town to - Morocco city, so that a blind man might travel all those many miles - safely without a guide. I will admit that our sufferings were beyond - endurance. We slept underground in close, earth dungeons, down to - which we must crawl on our hands and knees; and at day we laboured - in the sunlight, starved and thirsting, no man knowing when the whip - of the taskmaster would fall across his back, and yet sure that it - would fall. Luke was not to be blamed—to be pitied rather. He was of - a finer, more delicate nature. What was pain to us was anguish and - torture to him. One night I crept down into my earth alone, and the - next day he walked about Mequinez with the robes of a Moor. He had - turned renegade. - - “I was told that the Bashaw had taken him into his service, but I - never had the opportunity of speech with him again, although I once - heard his voice. That was six months afterwards, when peace had been - re-established between his Maj. and the Emperor. Part of the terms - of the peace was that the English captives should be released and - sent down to the coast, but the renegade must stay behind. I pleaded - with the Bashaw that Luke might be set free too, but could by no - means persuade him. We departed from Mequinez one early morning, and - on the city wall stood the Bashaw’s house; and as I came opposite to - it I saw a hand wave farewell from a narrow window-slit, and heard - Luke’s voice cry, ‘Farewell!’ bravely, Pamela, bravely! - - “JAMES CHALLONER.” - -When Arden had finished this letter he walked out of the tent, passed -through the semicircle of sentinels, and stood in front of the -Renegade’s Gate. There Challoner joined him, and both men looked at the -great arch for a while without speaking. It rose black against a violet -and starlit sky. The pattern of its coloured tiles could not be -distinguished; but even in the darkness something of its exquisite -delicacy could be perceived. - -“Luke Challoner very likely worked upon that arch,” said Arden. “Yet, as -I read that letter, it seemed so very human, very near, as though it had -been written yesterday.” - -“I wonder what became of him?” said Challoner. “From some house on the -city wall he waved his hand to his brother, and cried ’Farewell!’ -bravely. I wonder what became of him?” - -“I will take a photograph of that gate to-morrow,” said Arden. - - - III - -The next morning Dimoussi came out of the Fondak Henna and walked to the -little booth in the Sôk Kubba. Mustapha was squatting upon the floor, -and with a throbbing heart Dimoussi noticed the familiar pistol shining -against the dark wall behind. It had not been sold. - -“Give it to me,” he said. - -Mustapha took the pistol from the nail on which it hung. - -“It is worth fourteen dollars,” said he. “But, see, to every man his -chance comes. I am in a good mind to-day. My health is excellent and my -heart is light. You shall have it for twelve.” - -Dimoussi took the pistol in his hand. It had a flint lock and was -mounted in polished brass, and a cover of brass was on the heel of the -butt. - -“It is not worth twelve. I will give you seven for it.” - -Mustapha raised his hands in a gesture of indignation. - -“Seven dollars!” he cried in a shrill, angry voice. “Hear him! Seven -dollars! Look, it comes from Agadhir in the Sus country where they make -the best weapons.” - -He pointed out to Dimoussi certain letters upon the plate underneath the -lock. “There it is written.” - -Dimoussi could not read, but he nodded his head sagely. - -“Yes. It is worth seven,” said he. - -The shopman snatched it away from the boy. - -“I will not be angry, for it is natural to boys to be foolish. But I -will tell you the truth. I gave eight dollars for it after much -bargaining. But it has hung in my shop for a year, and no one any more -has money. Therefore, I will sell it to you for ten.” - -He felt behind his back and showed Dimoussi a tantalising glint of the -brass barrel. Dimoussi was unshaken. - -“It has hung in your shop for four months,” said he. - -“A year. That is why I will sell it to you at the loss of a dollar.” - -“Liar, and son of a liar,” replied the boy, without any heat, “and -grandson of a liar. I sold it to you for five dollars four months ago. I -will give you eight for it to-day.” - -He counted out the eight dollars one by one on the raised floor of the -booth, and the shopman could not resist. - -“Very well,” he cried furiously. “Take it, and may your children starve -as mine surely will!” - -“You are a pig, and the son of a pig,” replied Dimoussi calmly. “Have -you any powder?” - -He changed his ninth dollar and bought some powder. - -“You will need bullets, too,” said Mustapha. “I will sell you them very -cheap. Oh, you are lucky! Do you see those signs upon the barrel? The -pistol is charmed and cannot miss.” - -Dimoussi looked at the signs engraved one above the other on the barrel. -There was a crown, and a strange letter, and a lion. He had long -wondered what those signs meant. He was very glad now that he -understood. - -“But I will not buy lead bullets,” said Dimoussi wisely. “The pistol may -be enchanted so that it cannot miss, but there are also enchantments -against lead bullets so that they cannot hurt.” - -So Dimoussi walked away, and begged a lump of rock salt from another -booth instead. He cut down the lump until it fitted roughly into the -hexagonal barrel of his pistol. Then he loaded the pistol, and hiding -the weapon in the wide sleeve of his jellaba, sauntered to the great -square before the Renegade’s Gate. There were groups of people standing -about watching the tents, and the inevitable ring of sentries. But while -Dimoussi was still loitering—he would have loitered for a fortnight if -need be, for there were no limits to Dimoussi’s patience—Arden came out -of the tent with his camera, and Challoner followed with a tripod stand. - -The two consools passed the line of guards and set up the camera in -front of the Renegade’s Gate. Dimoussi was quite impartial which of the -two should be sacrificed to begin the djehad, but again an ironical fate -laid its hand upon him. It was Arden who was to work the camera. It was -Arden, therefore, who was surrounded by the idlers, and was safe. -Challoner, on the other hand, had to stand quite apart, so as to screen -the lens from the direct rays of the sun. - -“A little more to the right, Challoner,” said Arden. “That’ll do.” - -He put his head under the focussing cloth, and the next instant he heard -a loud report, followed by shouts and screams and the rush of feet; and -when he tore the focussing cloth away he saw Challoner lying upon the -ground, the sentries agitatedly rushing this way and that, and the -bystanders to a man in full flight. - -Dimoussi had chosen his opportunity well. He stood between two men, and -rather behind them, and exactly opposite Challoner. All eyes were fixed -upon the camera, even Challoner’s. It was true that he did see the sun -glitter suddenly upon something bright, that he did turn, that he did -realise that the bright thing was the brass barrel of a big flintlock -pistol. But before he could move or shout, the pistol was fired, and a -heavy blow like a blow from a cudgel struck him full on the chest. - -Challoner spoke no more than a few words afterwards. The lump of rock -salt had done the work of an explosive bullet. He was just able to -answer a question of Arden’s. - -“Did you see who fired?” - -“The boy who came from Mulai Idris,” whispered Challoner. “He shot me -with a brass-barrelled pistol.” That seemed to have made a most vivid -impression upon his mind, for more than once he repeated it. - -But Dimoussi was by this time out of the Renegade’s Gate, and running -with all his might through the olive grove towards the open, lawless -country south of Mequinez. By the evening he was safe from capture, and -lifted up with pride. - -Certainly no djehad had followed upon the murder, and that was -disappointing. But it was not Dimoussi’s fault. He had done his best -according to his lights. Meanwhile, it seemed prudent to him to settle -down quietly at Agurai. He was nearly sixteen now. Dimoussi thought that -he would settle down and marry. - -Here the episode would have ended but for two circumstances. In the -first place Dimoussi carried back with him from Mequinez the -brass-barrelled pistol; and in the second place Arden, two years later, -acted upon a long-cherished desire to penetrate the unmapped country -south of Mequinez. - -He travelled with a mule as a Jew pedlar, knowing that such a man, for -the sake of his wares, may go where a Moor may not. Of his troubles -during his six months’ wanderings now is not the time to speak. It is -enough that at the end of the six months he set up his canvas shelter -one evening by the village of Agurai. - -The men came at once and squatted, chattering, about his shelter. - -“Is there a woman in the village,” asked Arden, “who will wash some -clothes for me?” - -And the sheikh of the village rose up and replied: - -“Yes; the Frenchwoman. I will send her to you.” - -Arden was perplexed. It seemed extraordinary that in a little village in -a remote and unusually lawless district of Morocco there should be a -French blanchisseuse. But he made no comment, and spread out his wares -upon the ground. In a few moments a woman appeared. She had the Arab -face, the Arab colour. But she stood unconcernedly before Arden, and -said in Arabic: - -“I am the Frenchwoman. Give me the clothes you want washing.” - -Arden reached behind him for the bundle. He addressed her in French, but -she shook her head and carried the bundle away. Her place was taken by -another, a very old, dark woman, who was accompanied by a youth carrying -a closed basket. - -“Pigeons,” said the old woman. “Good, fat, live pigeons.” - -Arden was fairly tired of that national food by this time, and waved her -away. - -“Very well,” said she. She took the basket from the youth, placed it on -the ground, and opened the lid. Then she clapped her hands and the -pigeons flew out. As they rose into the air she laughed, and cried out -in English—“One, two, three, and away!” - -Arden was fairly startled. - -“What words are those?” he exclaimed. - -“English,” the old woman replied in Arabic. “I am the Englishwoman.” - -And the men of the village who were clustered round the shelter agreed, -as though nothing could be more natural: - -“Yes, she is the Englishwoman.” - -“And what do the words mean?” - -The old woman shrugged her shoulders. - -“My father used them just as I did,” she said. She spoke with a certain -pride in the possession of those five uncomprehended words. “He learned -them from his father. I do not know what they mean.” - -It was mystifying enough to Arden that, in a country where hardly a Moor -of a foreign tribe, and certainly no Europeans, had ever been known to -penetrate, there should be a Frenchwoman who knew no French, and an -Englishwoman with five words of English she did not understand. - -But there was more than this to startle Arden. He had heard those same -words spoken once before, by a Moorish boy who had declared himself to -be an Englishman, and that Moorish boy had murdered his friend -Challoner. - -Arden glanced carelessly at the youth who stood by the old woman’s side. - -“That is your son?” said he. - -“Yes. That is Dimoussi.” - -Dimoussi’s cheeks wore the shadow of a beard. He had grown. - -Arden could not pretend to himself that he recognised the boy who had -sprung up from the asphodel-bushes a few miles from Mulai Idris. - -He bethought himself of a way to test his suspicions. He took from his -wares an old rusty pistol and began to polish it. A firearm he knew to -be a lure to any Moor. Dimoussi drew nearer. Arden paid no attention, -but continued to polish his pistol. A keen excitement was gaining on -him, but he gave no sign. At last Dimoussi reached out his hand. Arden -placed the pistol in it. Dimoussi turned the pistol over, and gave it -back. - -“It is no good.” - -Arden laughed. - -“There is no better pistol in Agurai,” said he contemptuously. In his -ears there was the sound of Challoner’s voice repeating and repeating: -“He shot me with a brass-barrelled pistol—a brass-barrelled pistol.” - -The contempt in his tone stung Dimoussi. - -“I have a better,” said he, and at that the old woman touched him -warningly on the arm. Dimoussi stopped at once, and the couple moved -away. - -Arden wondered whether this was the end. There was a chance that it was -not. Dimoussi might return to compare his pistol with Arden’s, and to -establish its superiority. Arden waited all the evening in a strong -suspense; and at ten o’clock, when he was alone, Dimoussi stepped -noiselessly into the shelter, and laid his brass-barrelled pistol on the -ground in the light of the lamp. - -“It is better than yours. It comes from Agadhir, in the Sus country, -where the best pistols are made. See, those letters prove it.” - -Arden had no doubt that he had now Challoner’s murderer sitting at his -side. But he looked at the letters on the pistol-barrel to which -Dimoussi pointed. The letters were in English, and made up the name -“Bennett.” There was also engraved upon the brass of the barrel -“London.” The pistol was an old horse-pistol of English make. Even its -period was clear to Arden. For above the lion and the crown was the -letter C. Arden pointed to those marks. - -“What do they mean?” - -“They are charms to prevent it missing.” - -Arden said nothing. His thoughts were busy on other matters. This pistol -was a pistol of the time of Charles II, of the time of the Tangier -siege. - -“How long have you had it?” he asked. - -“My father owned it before me.” - -“And his father before him?” - -“Very likely. I do not know.” - -Arden’s excitement was increasing. He began to see dim, strange -possibilities. Suppose, he reasoned, that this pistol had travelled up -to Mequinez in the possession of an English prisoner. Suppose that by -some chance the prisoner had escaped and wandered; and suddenly he saw -something which caught his breath away. He bent down and examined the -brass covering to the heel of the butt. Upon that plate there was an -engraved crest. Yes! and the crest was Challoner’s! - -Arden kept his face bent over the pistol. Questions raced through his -mind. Had that pistol belonged to Luke Challoner, who had turned -renegade two hundred years ago? Had he married in his captivity? Had his -descendants married again, until all trace of their origin was lost -except this pistol and five words of English, and the name -“Englishwoman”? Ah! but if so, who was the Frenchwoman? - -It was quite intelligible to Arden why Dimoussi had slain Challoner. -Fanaticism was sufficient reason. But supposing Dimoussi were a -descendant of Luke! It was all very strange. Challoner was the last of -his family, the last of his name. Had the family name been extinguished -by a Challoner? - -Arden returned to Mequinez the next day, and, making search, through the -help of the Bashaw, who was his friend, amongst documents which existed, -he at last came upon the explanation. - -The renegades, who were made up not merely of English prisoners of -Tangier, but of captives of many nationalities taken by the Salee -pirates, had, about the year 1700, become numerous enough to threaten -Mequinez. Consequently the Sultan had one fine morning turned them all -out of the town through the Renegade’s Gate and bidden them go south and -found a city for themselves. - -They had founded Agurai, they had been attacked by the Beni M’tir; with -diminishing numbers they had held their own; they had intermarried with -the natives; and now, two hundred years later, all that remained of them -were the Frenchwoman, Dimoussi, and his mother. - -There could be no doubt that Challoner had been murdered because he was -a European, by one of his own race. - -There could be no doubt that the real owner of the Challoner property, -which went to a distant relation on the female side, was a Moorish youth -living at the village of Agurai. - -But Arden kept silence for a long while. - - - - - The Woman - - _By_ A. A. Milne - - _Royal Warwick Regiment_ - - - I - -It was April, and in his little bedroom in the Muswell Hill -boarding-house, where Mrs. Morrison (assisted, as you found out later, -by Miss Gertie Morrison) took in a few select paying guests, George -Crosby was packing. Spring came in softly through his open window; it -whispered to him tales of green hedges and misty woods and close-cropped -rolling grass. “Collars,” said George, trying to shut his ears to it, -“handkerchiefs, ties—I knew I’d forgotten something: ties.” He pulled -open a drawer. “Ties, shirts—where’s my list?—shirts, ties.” He wandered -to the window and looked out. Muswell Hill was below him, but he hardly -saw it. “Three weeks,” he murmured. “Heaven for three weeks, and it -hasn’t even begun yet.” There was the splendour of it. It hadn’t begun; -it didn’t begin till to-morrow. He went back in a dream to his packing. -“Collars,” he said, “shirts, ties—ties——” - -Miss Gertie Morrison had not offered to help him this year. She had not -forgotten that she had put herself forward the year before, when George -had stammered and blushed (he found blushing very easy in the Muswell -Hill boarding-house), and Algy Traill, the humorist of the -establishment, had winked and said, “George, old boy, you’re in luck; -Gertie never packs for me.” Algy had continued the joke by smacking his -left hand with his right, and saying in an undertone, “Naughty boy, how -dare you call her Gertie?” and then in a falsetto voice: “Oh, Mr. -Crosby, I’m sure I never meant to put myself forward!” Then Mrs. -Morrison from her end of the table called out—— - -But I can see that I shall have to explain the Muswell Hill ménage to -you. I can do it quite easily while George is finishing his packing. He -is looking for his stockings now, and that always takes him a long time, -because he hasn’t worn them since last April, and they are probably -under the bed. - -Well, Mrs. Morrison sits at one end of the table and carves. Suppose it -is Tuesday evening. “Cold beef or hash, Mr. Traill?” she asks, and Algy -probably says “Yes, please,” which makes two of the boarders laugh. -These are two pale brothers called Fossett, younger than you who read -this have ever been, and enthusiastic admirers of Algy Traill. Their -great ambition is to paint the town red one Saturday night. They have -often announced their intention of doing this, but so far they do not -seem to have left their mark on London to any extent. Very different is -it with their hero and mentor. On Boat-race night four years ago Algy -Traill was actually locked up—and dismissed next morning with a caution. -Since then he has often talked as if he were a Cambridge man; the -presence of an Emmanuel lacrosse blue in the adjoining cell having -decided him in the choice of a university. - -Meanwhile his hash is getting cold. Let us follow it quickly. It is -carried by the servant to Miss Gertie Morrison at the other end of the -table, who slaps in a helping of potatoes and cabbage. “What, asparagus -_again_?” says Algy, seeing the cabbage. “We _are_ in luck.” Mrs. -Morrison throws up her eyes at Mr. Ransom on her right, as much as to -say, “Was there ever such a boy?” and Miss Gertie threatens him with the -potato spoon, and tells him not to be silly. Mr. Ransom looks -approvingly across the table at Traill. He has a feeling that the Navy, -the Empire, and the Old Country are in some way linked up with men of -the world such as Algy, or that (to put it in another way) a Radical -Nonconformist would strongly disapprove of him. It comes to the same -thing; you can’t help liking the fellow. Mr. Ransom is wearing an M.C.C. -tie; partly because the bright colours make him look younger, partly -because unless he changes _something_ for dinner he never feels quite -clean, you know. In his own house he would dress every night. He is -fifty; tall, dark, red-faced, black-moustached, growing stout; an -insurance agent. It is his great sorrow that the country is going to the -dogs, and he dislikes the setting of class against class. The proper -thing to do is to shoot them down. - -Opposite him, and looking always as if he had slept in his clothes, is -Mr. Owen-Jones—called Mr. Joen-Owns by Algy. He argues politics fiercely -across Mrs. Morrison. “My dear fellow,” he cries to Ransom, “you’re -nothing but a reactionary!”—to which Ransom, who is a little doubtful -what a reactionary is, replies, “All I want is to live at peace with my -neighbours. I don’t interfere with them; why should they interfere with -me?” Whereupon Mrs. Morrison says peaceably, “Live and let live. After -all, there are two side to _every_ question—a little more hash, Mr. -Owen-Jones?” - -George has just remembered that his stockings are under the bed, so I -must hurry on. As it happens, the rest of the boarders do not interest -me much. There are two German clerks and one French clerk, whose broken -English is always amusing, and somebody with a bald, dome-shaped head -who takes in _Answers_ every week. Three years ago he had sung “Annie -Laurie” after dinner one evening, and Mrs. Morrison still remembers -sometimes to say, “Won’t you sing something, Mr. ——?” whatever his name -was, but he always refuses. He says that he has the new number of -_Answers_ to read. - -There you are; now you know everybody. Let us go upstairs again to -George Crosby. - -Is there anything in the world jollier than packing up for a holiday? If -there is, I do not know it. It was the hour (or two hours or three -hours) of George’s life. It was more than that; for days beforehand he -had been packing to himself; sorting out his clothes, while he bent over -the figures at his desk, making and drawing up lists of things that he -really mustn’t forget. In the luncheon hour he would look in at hosiers’ -windows and nearly buy a blue shirt because it went so well with his -brown knickerbocker suit. You or I would have bought it; it was only -five and sixpence. Every evening he would escape from the -drawing-room—that terrible room—and hurry upstairs to his little -bedroom, and there sit with his big brown kit-bag open before him ... -dreaming. Every evening he had meant to pack a few things just to begin -with: his tweed suit and stockings and nailed shoes, for instance; but -he was always away in the country, following the white path over the -hills, as soon as ever his bag was between his knees. How he ached to -take his body there too ... it was only three weeks to wait, two weeks, -a week, three days—to-morrow! To-morrow—he was almost frightened to -think of it lest he should wake up. - -Perhaps you wonder that George Crosby hated the Muswell Hill -boarding-house; perhaps you don’t. For my part I agree with Mrs. -Morrison that it takes all sorts to make a world, and that as Mr. —— (I -forget his name: the dome-shaped gentleman) once surprised us by saying, -“There is good in everybody if only you can find it out.” At any rate -there is humour. I think if George had tried to see the humorous side of -Mrs. Morrison’s select guests he might have found life tolerable. And -yet the best joke languishes after five years. - -I had hoped to have gone straight ahead with this story, but I shall -have to take you back five years; it won’t be for long. Believe me, no -writer likes this diving back into the past. He is longing to get to the -great moment when Rosamund puts her head on George’s shoulder and -says—but we shall come to that. What I must tell you now, before my pen -runs away with me, is that five years ago George was at Oxford with -plenty of money in his pocket, and a vague idea in his head that he -would earn a living somehow when he went down. Then his only near -relation, his father, died ... and George came down with no money in his -pocket, and the knowledge that he would have to earn his living at once. -He knew little of London east of the Savoy, where he had once lunched -with his father; I doubt if he even knew the Gaiety by sight. When his -father’s solicitor recommended a certain Islington boarding-house as an -establishment where a man of means could be housed and fed for as little -as thirty shillings a week, and a certain firm in Fenchurch Street as -another establishment where a man of gifts could earn as much as forty -shillings a week, George found out where Islington and Fenchurch Street -were, and fell mechanically into the routine suggested for him. That he -might have been happier alone, looking after himself, cooking his own -meals or sampling alone the cheaper restaurants, hardly occurred to him. -Life was become suddenly a horrible dream, and the boarding-house was -just a part of it. - -However, three years of Islington was enough for him. He pulled himself -together ... and moved to Muswell Hill. - -There, we have him back at Muswell Hill now, and I have not been long, -have I? He has been two years with Mrs. Morrison. I should like to say -that he is happy with Mrs. Morrison, but he is not. The terrible thing -is that he cannot get hardened to it. He hates Muswell Hill; he hates -Traill and the Fossetts and Ransom; he hates Miss Gertie Morrison. The -whole vulgar, familiar, shabby, sociable atmosphere of the place he -hates. Some day, perhaps, he will pull himself together and move again. -There is a boarding-house at Finsbury Park he has heard of.... - - - II - -If you had three weeks’ holiday in the year, three whole weeks in which -to amuse yourself as you liked, how would you spend it? Algy Traill went -to Brighton in August; you should have seen him on the pier. The Fossett -Brothers adorned Weymouth, the Naples of England. They did good, if -slightly obvious, work on the esplanade in fairly white flannels. This -during the day; eight-thirty in the evening found them in the Alexandra -Gardens—dressed. It is doubtful if the Weymouth boarding-house would -have stood it at dinner, so they went up directly afterwards and -changed. Mr. Ransom spent August at Folkestone, where he was understood -to have a doubtful wife. She was really his widowed mother. You would -never have suspected him of a mother, but there she was in Folkestone, -thinking of him always, and only living for the next August. It was she -who knitted him the M.C.C. tie; he had noticed the colours in a -Piccadilly window. - -Miss Gertie went to Cliftonville—not Margate. - -And where did George go? The conversation at dinner that evening would -have given us a clue; or perhaps it wouldn’t. - -“So you’re off to-morrow,” Mrs. Morrison had said. “Well, I’m sure I -hope you’ll have a nice time. A little sea air will do you good.” - -“Where are you going, Crosby?” asked Ransom, with the air of a man who -means to know. - -George looked uncomfortable. - -“I’m not quite sure,” he said awkwardly. “I’m going a sort of -walking-tour, you know; stopping at inns and things. I expect it—er—will -depend a bit, you know.” - -“Well, if you _should_ happen to stop at Sandringham,” said Algy, “give -them all my love, old man, won’t you?” - -“Then you won’t have your letters sent on?” asked Mrs. Morrison. - -“Oh no, thanks. I don’t suppose I shall have any, anyhow.” - -“If you going on a walking-tour,” said Owen-Jones, “why don’t you try -the Welsh mountains?” - -“I always wonder you don’t run across to Paris,” said the dome-shaped -gentleman suddenly. “It only takes——” He knew all the facts, and was -prepared to give them, but Algy interrupted him with a knowing whistle. - -“Paris, George, aha! Place me among the demoiselles, what ho! I don’t -think. Naughty boy!” - -Crosby’s first impulse (he had had it before) was to throw his glass of -beer at Algy’s face. The impulse died down, and his resolve hardened to -write about the Finsbury Park boarding-house at once. He had made that -resolution before, too. Then his heart jumped as he remembered that he -was going away on the morrow. He forgot Traill and Finsbury Park, and -went off into his dreams. The other boarders discussed walking-tours and -holiday resorts with animation. - -Gertie Morrison was silent. She was often silent when Crosby was there, -and always when Crosby’s affairs were being discussed. She knew he hated -her, and she hated him for it. I don’t think she knew why he hated her. -It was because she lowered his opinion of women. - -He had known very few women in his life, and he dreamed dreams about -them. They were wonderful creatures, a little higher than the angels, -and beauty and mystery and holiness hung over them. Some day he would -meet the long-desired one, and (miracle) she would love him, and they -would live happy ever afterwards at—— He wondered sometimes whether an -angel _would_ live happy ever afterwards at Bedford Park. Bedford Park -seemed to strip the mystery and the holiness and the wonder from his -dream. And yet he had seen just the silly little house at Bedford Park -that would suit them; and even angels, if they come to earth, must live -somewhere. She would walk to the gate every morning, and wave him -good-bye from under the flowering laburnum—for I need not say that it -was always spring in his dream. That was why he had his holiday in -April, for it must be spring when he found her, and he would only find -her in the country.... Another reason was that in August Miss Morrison -went to Cliftonville (not Margate), and so he had a fortnight in Muswell -Hill without Miss Morrison. - -For it was difficult to believe in the dreams when Gertie Morrison was -daily before his eyes. There was a sort of hard prettiness there, which -might have been beauty, but where were the mystery and the wonder and -the holiness? None of that about the Gertie who was treated so -familiarly by the Fossetts and the Traills and their kind, and answered -them back so smartly. “You can’t get any change out of Gertie,” Traill -often said on these occasions. Almost Crosby wished you could. He would -have had her awkward, bewildered, indignant, overcome with shame; it -distressed him that she was so lamentably well-equipped for the battle. -At first he pitied her, then he hated her. She was betraying her sex. -What he really meant was that she was trying to topple over the -beautiful image he had built. - -I know what you are going to say. What about the girl at the A B C shop -who spilt his coffee over his poached egg every day at one thirty-five -precisely? Hadn’t she given his image a little push too? I think not. He -hardly saw her as a woman at all. She was a worker, like himself; -sexless. In the evenings perhaps she became a woman ... wonderful, -mysterious, holy ... I don’t know; at any rate he didn’t see her then. -But Miss Morrison he saw at home; she was pretty and graceful and -feminine; she might have been, not _the_ woman—that would have been -presumption on his part—but a woman ... and then she went and called -Algy Traill “a silly boy,” and smacked him playfully with a teaspoon! -Traill, the cad-about-town, the ogler of women! No wonder the image -rocked. - -[Illustration: “Let’s sit down,” he said. “I thought you always went to -Mar—to Cliftonville for your holiday?” (page 27).] - -Well, he would be away from the Traills and the Morrisons and the -Fossetts for three weeks. It was April, the best month of the year. He -was right in saying that he was not quite sure where he was going, but -he could have told Mrs. Morrison the direction. He would start down the -line with his knapsack and his well-filled kit-bag. By-and-by he would -get out—the name of the station might attract him, or the primroses on -the banks—leave his bag, and, knapsack on shoulder, follow the road. -Sooner or later he would come to a village; he would find an inn that -could put him up; on the morrow the landlord could drive in for his -bag.... And then three weeks in which to search for the woman. - - - III - -A south wind was blowing little baby clouds along a blue sky; lower -down, the rooks were talking busily to each other in the tall elms which -lined the church; and, lower down still, the foxhound puppy sat himself -outside the blacksmith’s and waited for company. If nothing happened in -the next twenty seconds he would have to go and look for somebody. - -But somebody was coming. From the door of “The Dog and Duck” opposite, a -tall, lean, brown gentleman stepped briskly, in his hand a pair of -shoes. The foxhound puppy got up and came across the road sideways to -him. “Welcome, welcome,” he said effusively, and went round the tall, -lean, brown gentleman several times. - -“Hallo, Duster,” said the brown gentleman; “coming with me to-day?” - -“Come along,” said the foxhound puppy excitedly. “Going with you? I -should just think I am! Which way shall we go?” - -“Wait a moment. I want to leave these shoes here.” - -Duster followed him into the blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith thought -he could put some nails in; gentlemen’s shoes and horses’ shoes, he -explained, weren’t quite the same thing. The brown gentleman admitted -the difference, but felt sure that the blacksmith could make a job of -anything he tried his hand at. He mentioned, which the blacksmith knew, -that he was staying at “The Dog and Duck” opposite, and gave his name as -Carfax. - -“Come along,” said Duster impatiently. - -“Good morning,” said the brown gentleman to the blacksmith. “Lovely day, -isn’t it?... Come along, old boy.” - -He strode out into the blue fresh morning, Duster all round him. But -when they got to the church—fifty yards, no more—the foxhound puppy -changed his mind. He had had an inspiration, the same inspiration which -came to him every day at this spot. He stopped. - -“Let’s go back,” he said. - -“Not coming to-day?” laughed the brown gentleman. “Well, good-bye.” - -“You see, I think I’d better wait here, after all,” said the foxhound -puppy apologetically. “Something might happen. Are you really going on? -Well—you’ll excuse me, won’t you?” - -He ambled back to his place outside the blacksmith’s shop. The tall, -lean, brown gentleman, who called himself Carfax, walked on briskly with -spring in his heart. Above him the rooks talked and talked; the hedges -were green; and there were little baby clouds in the blue sky. - -Shall I try to deceive you for a page or two longer, or shall we have -the truth out at once? Better have the truth. Well, then—the gentleman -who called himself Carfax was really George Crosby. You guessed? Of -course you did. But if you scent a mystery you are wrong. - -It was five years ago that Crosby took his first holiday. He came to -this very inn, “The Dog and Duck,” and when they asked him his name he -replied “Geoffrey Carfax.” It had been an inspiration in the train. To -be Geoffrey Carfax for three weeks seemed to cut him off more definitely -from the Fenchurch Street office and the Islington boarding-house. -George Crosby was in prison, working a life sentence; Geoffrey Carfax -was a free man in search of the woman. Romance might come to Geoffrey, -but it could never come to George. They were two different persons; then -let them be two different persons. Besides, glamour hung over the mere -act of giving a false name. George had delightful thrills when he -remembered his deceit; and there was one heavenly moment of panic, on -the last day of his first holiday, when (to avoid detection) he shaved -off his moustache. He was not certain what the punishment was for -calling yourself Geoffrey Carfax when your real name was George Crosby, -but he felt that with a clean-shaven face he could laugh at Scotland -Yard. The downward path, however, is notoriously an easy one. In -subsequent years he let himself go still farther. Even the one false -name wouldn’t satisfy him now; and if he only looked in at a -neighbouring inn for a glass of beer, he would manage to let it fall -into his conversation that he was Guy Colehurst or Gervase Crane or—he -had a noble range of names to choose from, only limited by the fact that -“G.C.” was on his cigarette-case and his kit-bag. (His linen was -studiously unmarked, save with the hieroglyphic of his washerwoman—a -foolish observation in red cotton which might mean anything.) - -The tall, lean, brown gentleman, then, taking the morning air was George -Crosby. Between ourselves we may continue to call him George. It is not -a name I like; he hated it too; but George he was undoubtedly. Yet -already he was a different George from the one you met at Muswell Hill. -He had had two weeks of life, and they had made him brown and clear-eyed -and confident. I think I said he blushed readily in Mrs. Morrison’s -boarding-house; the fact was he felt always uneasy in London, awkward, -uncomfortable. In the open air he was at home, ready for he knew not -what dashing adventure. - -It was a day of spring to stir the heart with longings and memories. -Memories, half-forgotten, of all the Aprils of the past touched him for -a moment, and then, as he tried to grasp them, fluttered out of reach, -so that he wondered whether he was recalling real adventures which had -happened, or whether he was but dreaming over again the dreams which -were always with him. One memory remained. It was on such a day as this, -five years ago, and almost in this very place, that he had met the -woman. - -Yes, I shall have to go back again to tell you of her. Five years ago he -had been staying at this same inn; it was his first holiday after his -sentence to prison. He was not so resigned to his lot five years ago; he -thought of it as a bitter injustice; and the wonderful woman for whom he -came into the country to search was to be his deliverer. So that, I am -afraid, she would have to have been, not only wonderful, mysterious, and -holy, but also rich. For it was to the contented ease of his early days -that he was looking for release; the little haven in Bedford Park had -not come into his dreams. Indeed, I don’t suppose he had even heard of -Bedford Park at that time. It was Islington or The Manor House; anything -in between was Islington. But, of course, he never confessed to himself -that she would need to be rich. - -And he found her. He came over the hills on a gentle April morning and -saw her beneath him. She was caught, it seemed, in a hedge. How -gallantly George bore down to the rescue! - -“Can I be of any assistance?” he said in his best manner, and that, I -think, is always the pleasantest way to begin. Between “Can I be of any -assistance?” and “With all my worldly goods I thee endow” one has not -far to travel. - -“I’m caught,” she said. “If you could——” Observe George spiking himself -fearlessly. - -“I say, you really _are_! Wait a moment.” - -“It’s very kind of you.” - -There—he has done it. - -“Thank you so much,” she said, with a pretty smile. “Oh, you’ve hurt -yourself!” - -The sweet look of pain on her face! - -“It’s nothing,” said George nobly. And it really was nothing. One can -get a delightful amount of blood and sympathy from the most -insignificant scratch. - -They hesitated a moment. She looked on the ground; he looked at her. -Then his eyes wandered round the beautiful day, and came back to her -just as she looked up. - -“It is a wonderful day, isn’t it?” he said suddenly. - -“Yes,” she breathed. - -It seemed absurd to separate on such a day when they were both -wandering, and Heaven had brought them together. - -“I say, dash it,” said George suddenly: “what are you going to do? Are -you going anywhere particular?” - -“Not very particular.” - -“Neither am I. Can’t we go there together?” - -“I was just going to have lunch.” - -“So was I. Well, there you are. It would be silly if you sat here and -ate—what _are_ yours, by the way?” - -“Only mutton, I’m afraid.” - -“Ah, mine are beef. Well, if you sat here and ate mutton sandwiches and -I sat a hundred yards farther on and ate beef ones, we _should_ look -ridiculous, shouldn’t we?” - -“It _would_ be rather silly,” she smiled. - -So they sat down and had their sandwiches together. - -“My name is Carfax,” he said, “Geoffrey Carfax.” Oh, George! And to a -woman! However, she wouldn’t tell him hers. - -They spent an hour over lunch. They wandered together for another hour. -Need I tell you all the things they said? But they didn’t talk of -London. - -“Oh, I must be going,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t know it was so late. -No, I know my way. Don’t come with me. Good-bye.” - -“It can’t be good-bye,” said George in dismay. “I’ve only just found -you. Where do you live? Who are you?” - -“Don’t let’s spoil it,” she smiled. “It’s been a wonderful day—a -wonderful little piece of a day. We’ll always remember it. I don’t think -it’s meant to go on; it stops just here.” - -“I _must_ see you again,” said George firmly. “Will you be there -to-morrow, at the same time—at the place where we met?” - -“I might.” She sighed. “And I mightn’t.” - -But George knew she would. - -“Then good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand. - -“My name is Rosamund,” she whispered, and fled. - -He watched her out of sight, marvelling how bravely she walked. Then he -started for home, his head full of strange fancies.... - -He found a road an hour later; the road went on and on, it turned and -branched and doubled—he scarcely noticed it. The church clock was -striking seven as he came into the village. - -It was a wonderful lunch he took with him next day. Chicken and tongue -and cake and chocolate and hard-boiled eggs. He ate it alone (by the -corner of a wood, five miles from the hedge which captured her) at -half-past three. That day was a nightmare. He never found the place -again, though he tried all through the week remaining to him. He had no -hopes after that day of seeing her, but only to have found the hedge -would have been some satisfaction. At least he could sit there and -sigh—and curse himself for a fool. - -He went back to Islington knowing that he had had his chance and missed -it. By next April he had forgotten her. He was convinced that she was -not the woman. _The_ woman had still to be found. He went to another -part of the country and looked for her. - -And now he was back at “The Dog and Duck” again. Surely he would find -her to-day. It was the time; it must be almost the place. Would the -loved one be there? He was not sure whether he wanted her to be the -woman of five years ago or not. Whoever she was, she would be the one he -sought. He had walked some miles; funny if he stumbled upon the very -place suddenly. - -Memories of five years ago were flooding his mind. Had he really been -here, or had he only dreamed of it? Surely that was the hill down which -he had come; surely that clump of trees on the right had been there -before. And—could that be the very hedge? - -It was. - -And there was a woman caught in it. - - - IV - -George ran down the hill, his heart thumping heavily at his ribs.... She -had her back towards him. - -“Can I be of any assistance?” he said in his best manner. But she didn’t -need to be rich now; there was that little house at Bedford Park. - -She turned round. - -It was Gertie Morrison! - -Silly of him; of course, it wasn’t Miss Morrison; but it was -extraordinarily like her. Prettier, though. - -“Why, Mr. Crosby!” she said. - -It _was_ Gertie Morrison. - -“You!” he said angrily. - -He was furious that such a trick should have been played upon him at -this moment; furious to be reminded suddenly that he was George Crosby -of Muswell Hill. Muswell Hill, the boarding-house—Good Lord! Gertie -Morrison! Algy Traill’s Gertie. - -“Yes, it’s me,” she said, shrinking from him. She saw he was angry with -her; she vaguely understood why. - -Then George laughed. After all, she hadn’t deliberately put herself in -his way. She could hardly be expected to avoid the whole of England -(outside Muswell Hill) until she knew exactly where George Crosby -proposed to take his walk. What a child he was to be angry with her. - -When he laughed, she laughed too—a little nervously. - -“Let me help,” he said. He scratched his fingers fearlessly on her -behalf. What should he do afterwards? he wondered. His day was spoilt -anyhow. He could hardly leave her. - -“Oh, you’ve hurt yourself!” she said. She said it very sweetly, in a -voice that only faintly reminded him of the Gertie of Muswell Hill. - -“It’s nothing,” he answered, as he had answered five years ago. - -They stood looking at each other. George was puzzled. - -“You are Miss Morrison, aren’t you?” he said. “Somehow you seem -different.” - -“You’re different from the Mr. Crosby I know.” - -“Am I? How?” - -“It’s dreadful to see you at the boarding-house.” She looked at him -timidly. “You don’t mind my mentioning the boarding-house, do you?” - -“Mind? Why should I?” (After all, he still had another week.) - -“Well, you want to forget about it when you’re on your holiday.” - -Fancy her knowing that. - -“And are you on your holiday too?” - -She gave a long deep sigh of content. - -“Yes,” she said. - -He looked at her with more interest. There was colour in her face; her -eyes were bright; in her tweed skirt she looked more of a country girl -than he would have expected. - -“Let’s sit down,” he said. “I thought you always went to Mar—to -Cliftonville for your holiday?” - -“I always go to my aunt’s there in the summer. It isn’t really a -holiday; it’s more to help her; she has a boarding-house too. And it -really is Cliftonville—only, of course, it’s silly of mother to mind -having it called Margate. Cliftonville’s much worse than Margate really. -I hate it.” - -(This can’t be Gertie Morrison, thought George. It’s a dream.) - -“When did you come here?” - -“I’ve been here about ten days. A girl friend of mine lives near here. -She asked me suddenly just after you’d gone—I mean about a fortnight -ago. Mother thought I wasn’t looking well and ought to go. I’ve been -before once or twice. I love it.” - -“And do you have to wander about the country by yourself? I mean, -doesn’t your friend—I say, I’m asking you an awful lot of questions. I’m -sorry.” - -“That’s all right. But, of course, I love to go about alone, -particularly at this time of year. _You_ understand that.” - -Of course he understood it. That was not the amazing thing. The amazing -thing was that she understood it. - -He took his sandwiches from his pocket. - -“Let’s have lunch,” he said. “I’m afraid mine are only beef.” - -“Mine are worse,” she smiled. “They’re only mutton.” - -A sudden longing to tell her of his great adventure of five years ago -came to George. (If you had suggested it to him in March!) - -“It’s rather funny,” he said, as he untied his sandwiches—“I was down -here five years ago——” - -“I know,” she said quietly. - -George sat up suddenly and stared at her. - -“It was you!” he cried. - -“Yes.” - -“You. Good Lord!... But your name—you said your name was—wait a -moment—that’s it! Rosamund!” - -“It is. Gertrude Rosamund. I call myself Rosamund in the country. I like -to pretend I’m not the”—she twisted a piece of grass in her hands, and -looked away from him over the hill—“the horrible girl of the -boarding-house.” - -George got on to his knees and leant excitedly over her. - -“Tell me, do you hate and loathe and detest Traill and the Fossetts and -Ransom as much as I do?” - -She hesitated. - -“Mr. Ransom has a mother in Folkestone he’s very good to. He’s not -really bad, you know.” - -“Sorry. Wash out Ransom. Traill and the Fossetts?” - -“Yes. Oh yes. Oh yes, yes, yes.” Her cheeks flamed as she cried it, and -she clenched her hands. - -George was on his knees already, and he had no hat to take off, but he -was very humble. - -“Will you forgive me?” he said. “I think I’ve misjudged you. I mean,” he -stammered—“I mean, I don’t mean—of course, it’s none of my business to -judge you—I’m speaking like a prig, I—oh, you know what I mean. I’ve -been a brute to you. Will you forgive me?” - -She held out her hand, and he shook it. This had struck him, when he had -seen it on the stage, as an absurdly dramatic way of making friends, but -it seemed quite natural now. - -“Let’s have lunch,” she said. - -They began to eat in great content. - -“Same old sandwiches,” smiled George. “I say, I suppose I needn’t -explain why I called myself Geoffrey Carfax.” He blushed a little as he -said the name. “I mean, you seem to understand.” - -She nodded. “You wanted to get away from George Crosby; _I_ know.” - -And then he had a sudden horrible recollection. - -“I say, you must have thought me a beast. I brought a terrific lunch out -with me the next day, and then I went and lost the place. Did you wait -for me?” - -Gertie would have pretended she hadn’t turned up herself, but Rosamund -said, “Yes, I waited for you. I thought perhaps you had lost the place.” - -“I say,” said George, “what lots I’ve got to say to you. When did you -recognise me again? Fancy my not knowing you.” - -“It was three years, and you’d shaved your moustache.” - -“So I had. But I could recognise people just as easily without it.” - -She laughed happily. It was the first joke she had heard him make since -that day five years ago. - -“Besides, we’re both different in the country. I knew you as soon as I -heard your voice just now. Never at all at Muswell Hill.” - -“By Jove!” said George, “just fancy.” He grinned at her happily. - -After lunch they wandered. It was a golden afternoon, the very afternoon -they had had five years ago. Once when she was crossing a little stream -in front of him, and her foot slipped on a stone, he called out, “Take -care, Rosamund,” and thrilled at the words. She let them pass unnoticed; -but later on, when they crossed the stream again lower down, he took her -hand and she said, “Thank you, Geoffrey.” - -They came to an inn for tea. How pretty she looked pouring out the tea -for him—not for him, for them; the two of them. She and he! His thoughts -became absurd.... - -Towards the end of the meal something happened. She didn’t know what it -was, but it was this. He wanted more jam; she said he’d had enough. -Well, then, he wasn’t to have much, and she would help him herself. - -He was delighted with her. - -She helped him ... and something in that action brought back swiftly and -horribly the Gertie Morrison of Muswell Hill, the Gertie who sat next to -Algy and helped him to cabbage. He finished his meal in silence. - -She was miserable, not knowing what had happened. - -He paid the bill and they went outside. In the open air she was Rosamund -again, but Rosamund with a difference. He couldn’t bear things like -this. As soon as they were well away from the inn he stopped. They leant -against a gate and looked down into the valley at the golden sun. - -“Tell me,” he said, “I want to know everything. Why are you—what you -are, in London?” - -And she told him. Her mother had not always kept a boarding-house. While -her father was alive they were fairly well off; she lived a happy life -in the country as a young girl. Then they came to London. She hated it, -but it was necessary for her father’s business. Then her father died, -and left nothing. - -“So did my father,” said George under his breath. - -She touched his hand in sympathy. - -“I was afraid that was it.... Well, mother tried keeping a -boarding-house. She couldn’t do it by herself. I had to help. That was -just before I met you here.... Oh, if you could know how I hated it. The -horrible people. It started with two boarders. Then there was -one—because I smacked the other one’s face. Mother said that wouldn’t -do. Well, of course, it wouldn’t. I tried taking no notice of them. -Well, that wouldn’t do either. I had to put up with it; that was my -life.... I used to pretend I was on the stage and playing the part of a -landlady’s vulgar daughter. You know what I mean; you often see it on -the stage. That made it easier—it was really rather fun sometimes. I -suppose I overplayed the part—made it more common than it need have -been—it’s easy to do that. By-and-by it began to come natural; perhaps I -am like that really. We weren’t anybody particular even when father was -alive. Then you came—I saw you were different from the rest. I knew you -despised me—quite right too. But you really seemed to hate me, I never -quite knew why. I hadn’t done you any harm. It made me hate you too.... -It made me want to be specially vulgar and common when you were there, -just to show you I didn’t mind what you thought about me.... You were so -superior. - -“I got away in the country sometimes. I just loved that. I think I was -really living for it all the time.... I always called myself Rosamund in -the country.... I hate men—why are they such beasts to us always?” - -“They _are_ beasts,” said George, giving his sex away cheerfully. But he -was not thinking of Traill and the Fossetts; he was thinking of himself. -“It’s very strange,” he went on; “all the time I thought that the others -were just what they seemed to be, and that I alone had a private life of -my own which I hid from everybody. And all the time _you_.... Perhaps -Traill is really somebody else sometimes. Even Ransom has his secret—his -mother.... What a horrible prig I’ve been!” - -“No, no! Oh, but you were!” - -“And a coward. I never even tried.... I might have made things much -easier for you.” - -“You’re not a coward.” - -“Yes, I am. I’ve just funked life. It’s too much for me, I’ve said, and -I’ve crept into my shell and let it pass over my head.... And I’m still -a coward. I can’t face it by myself. Rosamund, will you marry me and -help me to be braver?” - -“No, no, no,” she cried, and pushed him away and laid her head on her -arms and wept. - -Saved, George, saved! Now’s your chance. You’ve been rash and impetuous, -but she has refused you, and you can withdraw like a gentleman. Just say -“I beg your pardon,” and move to Finsbury Park next month ... and go on -dreaming about the woman. Not a landlady’s vulgar little daughter, but—— - -George, George, what are you doing? - -He has taken the girl in his arms! He is kissing her eyes and her mouth -and her wet cheeks! He is telling her.... - -I wash my hands of him. - - - V - -John Lobey, landlord of “The Dog and Duck,” is on the track of a -mystery. Something to do with they anarchists and such-like. The chief -clue lies in the extraordinary fact that on three Sundays in succession -Parson has called “George Crosby, bachelor, of this parish,” when -everybody knows that there isn’t a Crosby in the parish, and that the -gentleman from London, who stayed at his inn for three weeks and comes -down Saturdays—for which purpose he leaves his bag and keeps on his -room—this gentleman from London, I tell you, is Mr. Geoffrey Carfax. -Leastways it was the name he gave. - -John Lobey need not puzzle his head over it. Geoffrey Carfax is George -Crosby, and he is to be married next Saturday at a neighbouring village -church, in which “Gertrude Rosamund Morrison, spinster, of this parish,” -has also been called three times. Mr. and Mrs. Crosby will then go up to -London and break the news to Mrs. Morrison. - -“Not until you are my wife,” said George firmly, “do you go into that -boarding-house again.” He was afraid to see her there. - -“You dear,” said Rosamund; and she wrote to her mother that the weather -was so beautiful, and she was getting so much stronger, and her friend -so much wanted her to stay, that ... and so on. It is easy to think of -things like that when you are in love. - -On the Sunday before the wedding George told her that he had practically -arranged about the little house in Bedford Park. - -“And I’m getting on at the office rippingly. It’s really quite -interesting after all. I shall get another rise in no time.” - -“You dear,” said Rosamund again. She pressed his hand tight and.... - -But really, you know, I think we might leave them now. They have both -much to learn; they have many quarrels to go through, many bitter -misunderstandings to break down; but they are alive at last. And so we -may say good-bye. - - - - - The Cherub - - _By_ Oliver Onions - - _Army Service Corps_ - - -It was provided in the roster of Garrison Duties, Section “Guards and -Picquets,” that a sentry should march and return along that portion of -the grey wall that lay between the Sowgate Steps and the Tower of the -ancient South Bar, a hundred yards away; but fate alone had determined -that that sentry should be Private Hey. And, since Private Hey was -barely tall enough to look forth from the grey embrasures of the outer -wall to the pleasant Maychester Plain where the placid river wound, the -same fate had further decreed that his gaze should be directed inwards, -over the tall trees below him, to the row of Georgian houses of mellow -plum-like brick that stood beyond the narrow back gardens, and past -these again to other trees and other houses, to where the minster towers -arose in the heart of the ancient city. Only occasionally did a -fleeting, pathetic wonder cross Private Key’s mind whether there was an -irony in this. - -A lithograph of uniforms outside the post office (guards, artillery, and -militia, all in one frame) had turned his thoughts to the Army seven -years before, and the recruiting-sergeant had clinched the matter. Until -then he had been a builder’s clerk. He was just five-and-twenty. He had -a pink, round face, wide-open blue eyes, the slightest of blond -moustaches, and his soft, slack mouth seemed only to be held closed by -his chin-strap. He always looked hot and on the point of perspiration. - -Knowing something of the building trade, it had been his amusement, -while on his lofty beat, to work out in his mind the interiors of the -Georgian houses of which he saw only the outsides. With the -chimney-stacks thus and thus, the fireplaces were probably distributed -after such and such a fashion; white-sashed windows irregularly placed -among the ivy doubtless gave on landings; waste and cistern-pipes were -traceable to sources here and there; and Private Hey had his opinion on -each of the chimney-cowls that turned this way and that with the wind. -He knew the habits, too, of the folk on whose back gardens he looked -down. The nurse in native robes reminded him of his five years in India; -the old lady in black merino who fed the birds was familiar; and he -liked to see the children who spread white cloths on the grass beneath -the pear and cherry trees and held their small tea-parties. Sometimes he -wondered whether, to them, so far above them, he did not look like one -of the scarlet geraniums of their own window-boxes. - -It had been during the previous spring that the incoming of a new tenant -to the end house of the row had interested him mildly. He had watched -the white-jacketed house-painters at work, and had reflected that the -small window they were covering with a coloured transparency was -probably that of a bathroom. Then the new tenants had moved in, and one -day a small, plump woman’s figure had appeared shaking a table-cloth at -the top of the narrow garden. The sentry had stopped suddenly in his -beat, and broken into the sweat he always seemed on the point of. Even -at that distance he had recognised her; and when, after some minutes, he -had begun to think again, the only idea that had come to him was, why, -during the seven years in which he had not ceased to think of Mollie -Westwood, had he never once pictured her in a blue gown? - -But she was Mollie Hullah now; he knew that. And he knew Hullah, too, -architect and surveyor. Hullah had been the foreman of Peterson’s -building yard in the days when he, Tom Hey, civilian, had been -Peterson’s junior clerk. He remembered him as an ambitious sort of chap, -who (while Tom Hey had “flown his kite,” as he put it) had bought -himself a case of instruments and a reel-tape, and studied, and made -himself an architect. Tom Hey’s duties had been confined to the -day-book; Hullah and Peterson between them contained the true account of -the Peterson business; and Hey had not guessed the reason for this -until, in India, he had received the newspaper that contained the -account of Peterson’s bankruptcy. Then he had “tumbled.” The examination -showed Peterson’s books to have been ill-kept with a sagacity and -foresight that had drawn forth ironical compliments from the registrar -himself. “Your chief witness abroad, too; excellent!” the registrar had -commented.... No; Hullah was not the fellow to tell all he knew about -contractors and palm-oil and peculating clerks-of-works. Hullah was the -kind of man who got on. - -Since Hullah had come to live in the end house, Private Hey, eyes-right -when he turned at the South Bar, and eyes-left when he turned again at -the Sowgate Steps, had counted the days when Mollie had appeared at the -windows or shaken the table-cloth in the narrow garden. His amusement -was no longer with chimney-pots and bath-rooms; it was, to tell over to -himself the dissolute life he had led since Mollie had turned her back -on him. Somehow, it seemed to exalt her. - -It was not that he had ever lied, or stolen, or left a friend in -trouble. To the pink-faced private these things were not merely wicked; -they were “dead off”—a much worse thing. He drew the line at things that -were “off.” But he had committed a monotonous routine of other sins, -beginning usually at the canteen, continuing at the “regulation” inns or -at the Cobourg Music-hall, and ending on the defaulter-sheet with a C.B. -And one day his colonel had said to him: “Hey, you remind me of a cherub -who kicks about in the mud and glories to think himself an imp.” That -had puzzled and troubled Hey, for he liked the fine old colonel. - -[Illustration: “He forgot everything except little Mollie Westwood” -(page 35).] - -For he had ranked himself with the magnificently wicked. In amours, -short of anything that was “off,” was he not a Juan? In the matter of -inebriety, and for brawling in the streets, why, his officers might make -war with ceremony and all that, but (the cherub flattered himself) he -was an item of the reckless, heroic, glorious stuff they had to do it -with. And since Mollie, by refusing him, had driven him to all this, the -sight of her ought surely to have inspired him in his courses; it -troubled him that it did not do so. On the contrary, he never felt less -inclination to fuddle himself or to click his heels over the -gallery-rail of the Cobourg than when he had seen her. When he did not -see her, these things were less difficult, and that again was wrong. To -regulate his conduct at all by the sight of another man’s wife was, of -all dead-off things, the deadest. - -Now Hullah, as the sentry knew, had no family; but when, the following -spring, the apple trees put forth their pink, and the white clouds -sailed high over Maychester, and the note of the cuckoo floated on the -air, the cherub became moody and bashful and changed colour ten times in -an hour. Thrushes and blackbirds flew back and forth from their nests; -and Mollie, too, her figure dwarfed by his point of vantage, sunned -herself in the garden. Sometimes the cherub blushed red as his tunic. He -ought to have gone to the Cobourg and played the very deuce; instead, -off duty, he wandered unhappily alone. Then one day he missed her, and -his eyes scanned the house and her windows timorously. - -Six weeks passed. Then one morning he saw that the white blinds were -drawn. His face became white as wax. - -The next day he saw the tail of a coach beyond the end of the house. He -exceeded his beat, descended the Sowgate Steps, and stood, trembling and -watching. Then he gave a great sob of relief. The coach had turned; the -horse wore white conical peaks of linen on its ears—the mark of a -child’s funeral. The small procession passed, and the cherub resumed his -beat. - -That evening the colonel stopped him as he crossed the barrack yard. - -“Ah, Hey!... I’m glad you’ve given us so little trouble lately. I’d try -to keep it up if I were you.” - -“Yes, sir,” said the cherub, saluting; and the colonel nodded kindly and -passed on. - - * * * * * - -The July sun beat fiercely down on the grey walls, and the sentry’s -tunic was of a glaring bull’s red. Not a breath moved the trees below, -and the click of his heels sounded monotonously. - -Within the shadow of the South Bar, where the steps wound down to the -street, a frock-coated, square-built man of forty, with clipped whiskers -and crafty eyes, watched the sentry approach. For the second time he -cleared his throat and said “Tom!” - -This time the sentry turned. “I ain’t allowed to talk on duty,” he said. - -The man within the shadow waited. - -He waited for half an hour, and then the clatter of the relief was heard -ascending the turret. Presently Private Hey passed him without looking -at him. He descended after him, and in the street spoke again. - -“I ain’t off duty yet; you can come to the Buttercup,” said Private Hey. - -The bar of the Buttercup was below the level of the street, and a -gas-jet burned all day over its zinc-covered counter. In the back -parlour behind it Hullah awaited Private Hey. - -The cherub’s voice was heard shouting an order, and he entered the snug. -The uncoated barman followed him with the liquor, and retired. - -“Did you want to speak to me?” the cherub demanded. - -“I did, Tom, I did. How—how are you getting on?” - -“Spit it out.” - -Hullah murmured smoothly: “Ah, the same blunt-spoken, honest Tom that -was at Peterson’s! You remember Peterson’s and the old days, Tom?” - -“I’d let the old days drop if I was you. I thought you had done.” - -“So did I, Tom, so did I; but every breast has its troubles. You’ve -heard the expression, Tom, that there is no cupboard without its -skeleton?” - -“Keep your cupboards and skeletons to yourself.... Does the new bathroom -answer all right?” - -“Nicely, Tom, I thank you.... Did you know Peterson was back in -Maychester?” - -“Ho, is he? I expect he wants to talk over the old days with his friend -Hullah, same as you with me. Well, you was a precious pair o’ -rascals—though for myself, mark you, I like to see honour among such.” - -“Hush, Tom!... He’s back, and seeking you. He’d better be careful; it’s -twenty years, is that. But what I wanted to say, Tom, is that it would -save a lot of trouble—a lot of trouble—if you weren’t to see him.” - -“Ho!... Hullah, my man.” - -“Yes, Tom.” - -“Do you know what I think you are?” - -Hullah stammered. It was so hard to get a start in business—the -competition—he’d gone straight except for that once. - -“I think you’re the blackguardest, off-est scamp in the trade, and I -wouldn’t be found dead in a ditch with you. That’s juicy, coming from -me. _I’m_ no saint, but just a common-or-garden Tommy, with a defaulter -sheet it’s a sin to read; and _I_ say you’re a blackguard, and -dead-off.” - -Hullah cringed. He’d gone straight since—Peterson had already pushed him -for twice what he’d had out of it—it was hard to be persecuted like -this, hard. The cherub revolved in his mind phrases of elaborate and -over-done irony. - -Suddenly Hullah mentioned his wife, and the pink of the cherub’s face -deepened. - -“Come into the yard,” he said. - -Hullah followed him into a dusty plot, where hens scratched and cases -and barrels lay scattered everywhere. - -“What did you say?” the soldier demanded. - -The architect’s face was of an unwholesome white, and Hey spat. He saw -that Hullah feared he was going to strike him. - -“She’s been ill, Tom, and must be got away to the Mediterranean. -Peterson’s sucking me dry; he thinks I’m afraid of him. You used to be -fond of her, Tom.” - -All at once Private Hey’s wrath gave place to utter wretchedness, and he -began to stride up and down the yard. Tears rose into his eyes, and -presently rolled unchecked down his cheeks. He approached Hullah, and -said in a quavering voice: “A fortnight ago—was that?” - -“A boy,” Hullah murmured. - -“It’s a mercy he’s dead, if he’d ha’ been like you,” the cherub sobbed. - -And then he forgot all about Hullah. He forgot everything except that -little Mollie Westwood had been through an agony, was ill, must be got -away, and that he might help her. An ineffable, soft thrill stirred at -his heart; he, wicked Tom Hey, might help her. And presently he stood -before Hullah again, looking wistfully at him. - -“You ain’t lying, Hullah?” - -“Oh, Tom!” - -“And suppose—suppose I was to think Peterson’s as big a thief as you, -and treat him as such—treat him as such, if he dares to speak to me; you -understand, Hullah?” - -“Don’t put it that way, Tom ... then I may take it, Tom——?” - -“Oh, go, go! I want to me by myself!” the poor cherub moaned; and -Hullah, turning once to dart a hateful glance at him over his shoulder, -passed through the public-house. - - * * * * * - -“It’s Siberia for you this time, Tom,” the guard whispered, adjusting -his pipe-clayed belt; “what in thunder made you go and do it?” - -The cherub’s tunic was unbelted, and the colour had fled from his simple -face. He made no reply. - -“Was you drunk? Barker says you hadn’t been in the canteen. Anyway, the -chap’s in ’orspital. A blooming civilian, too!” - -He saluted stiffly; the major had passed on his way to the outbuilding -that had been furnished for a court-martial; and the barrack clock -struck eleven. - -Half a dozen officers in full uniform sat about a long trestle-table, -and the sunlight that came through the tall windows lay across the pens -and ink and pink blotting-paper that were spread before the Court. The -colonel, at the head of the table, talked to Warren, the regimental -surgeon. - -“I’m absurdly upset, Warren. It’s ridiculous, the faith I have in the -fellow. Moreover, I have reason to know that he hasn’t touched drink for -weeks.” - -“He’s been in the habit, and in such cases a sudden discontinuance -sometimes.... But the point isn’t whether he was drunk or not; it’s an -unprovoked attack on this fellow Peterson, or whatever his name is.” - -The colonel sighed. “Ah, well, I can’t overlook this. Are you ready, -gentlemen?” - -An orderly opened the door, and the prisoner was brought in between two -armed guards. He saluted the Court, and then stood at attention. The -guards fell back. Two or three witnesses sat on a bench within the door. - -The colonel did not once look at Private Hey, and the charge was read. -The principal witness lay in hospital, but sufficient evidence of the -fact of the assault would be produced, and the president desired the -prisoner to plead. The plea was scarcely audible, but it was understood -to be “Not guilty,” and the first witness was called. - -The cherub knew not in what queer way it hurt him that his colonel -refused to look at him. He didn’t much care what happened, but he would -have liked the colonel to think well of him. A witness was telling how -the prisoner had reeled, spoken thickly, offered his bayonet, and -finally flung the man down the steps of the turret of the South Bar. -Would the witness consider the prisoner to have been drunk? the Court -asked, and the witness replied that he should. The steps were old and -worn; might not the man have slipped? the Court suggested, and the -witness reminded the Court that the prisoner had staggered and offered -his bayonet. Had the injured man spoken to the prisoner? The witness -thought not; he had seemed to be on the point of speaking, but the -prisoner had cut him short, exclaiming: “I don’t want to talk to -dead-off’s—like you!” - -Asked if he had anything to say, the prisoner shook his head. “I wasn’t -drunk, sir,” he said. - -Other witnesses were called; the case went drowsily forward, and the -major yawned. The colonel was whispering to the doctor again, and then -for the first time he looked at the prisoner. - -“Do you know this Peterson?” - -“I worked for him when I was a civilian, sir,” the prisoner answered. - -“Have you any grudge against him?” - -“I didn’t want to talk to him, sir.” - -“But suppose he should speak to you again?” - -A brief gleam of satisfaction crossed the cherub’s mild blue eyes. “I -frightened him too bad for that, sir,” he said; and then, as the -colonel’s grave eyes did not cease to regard him, there came a quick -little break in his voice. - -“I wasn’t drunk, sir. I wouldn’t tell you a lie, sir, nor do nothing -that’s off—there’s marks against me a many, but not for things that’s -off; I ask you to believe I wasn’t drunk, sir——” - -“Clear the Court,” said the colonel. - -The guard, the prisoner, and the witnesses filed out and the door -closed, and the colonel leaned forward in his chair. He seemed -disproportionately moved. - -“Gentlemen,” he said, “if the prisoner is to be seriously punished, I -ask you to remember it’s dismissal and imprisonment. Let me make a -suggestion. It was a very hot day—he’s been in India—possibly an old -sunstroke——” - -“A bit discredited, that,” observed the doctor. - -“He would be punished, of course, but more leniently. It’s all I can put -forward. It rests with the Court.” - -He leaned back again, troubled. In the hum of consultation he heard -Warren’s slightly sarcastic laugh, and thought he heard the major say: -“Oh, let it go at that; Neville seems to want it.” - -“Very well, sir,” said the major by and by; “we are agreed.” - -And as the cherub, returning with the guard, received the milder -sentence, he looked humbly and gratefully at his colonel. He recognised -that there are things that a commanding officer cannot overlook, but -that a private gentleman, on occasion, may. - - - - - An Impossible Person - - _By_ W. B. Maxwell - - _Royal Fusiliers_ - - -Using the cant phrase, people often said that General Sir John Beckford -was a quite impossible person. A brave soldier, a true gentleman, a -splendid creature physically—just so, but rendering himself absurd and -futile by notions so old-fashioned that they had been universally -exploded before he was born. A man who obstinately refused to move with -the times, who in manner, costume, and every idea belonged, and seemed -proud to belong, to the past. - -Even his own relatives admitted the impossibility of him when, at the -age of sixty, he gave effect to the most old-fashioned of all -conceivable notions by marrying for love. If an elderly widower with a -little son of nine wants somebody to make a home and help to rear the -child, he should invite some middle-aged female cousin to come to his -assistance; but if he wants a charming, attractive girl to renounce the -joys and hopes of youth in order to soothe and gladden his dull remnant -of years—well, he _oughtn’t_ to want it, and really it is not quite nice -when he does. - -Lady Jane Armitage, an ancient aunt, put this thought into very plain -words and forced Sir John to listen to them. A mistake—not even a fair -bargain. What is Cynthia to get, on her side? A seat in a carriage, a -liberal dress allowance, perhaps a few more loose sovereigns than she -has been accustomed to carry in that silly little gold purse of hers! - -“The idea of money,” said Sir John gruffly, “has never entered Cynthia’s -head.” - -“Perhaps not. But what else can you offer her? To hold your landing-net -while you do your stupid fishing; to perform the duties of a -nursery-governess for Jack; to enjoy the privilege of playing hostess -when you entertain half a dozen other generals and their frumpish -wives.” - -Sir John echoed his aunt’s last adjective ironically. - -“Yes,” said Lady Jane, “but I’m different. I _know_ I’m a frump, and -your friends aren’t aware of their misfortune. No, John, I tell you -frankly, it isn’t a fair bargain.” - -Sir John bit his grey moustache, ran a strong hand through his shock of -grey hair, contracted his heavy brows, and then laughed and shrugged his -shoulders. - -“Inexplicable to you, eh, Aunt Jane? Well, let’s leave it at that. But -be kind to Cynthia all the same, won’t you? Save her from the _other_ -frumps,” and, ceasing to laugh, he stared at Lady Jane almost fiercely. - -He was one of those men who consider it beneath their dignity to betray -tender emotion, and who perhaps look sternest and most forbidding when -they are feeling unusually soft and gentle. At any rate, he would not -explain to his aunt that he believed the marriage to be an eminently -fair bargain—an old-fashioned exchange—love for love—as much love on the -girl’s side as on his. - -Lady Jane made no promise, but she proved very kind indeed to her new -niece; endeavouring to find innocent amusement for pretty Cynthia, -acting as her chaperon, watching over her, and growing fonder and fonder -of her. She said that the young Lady Beckford was a model wife and a -pattern stepmother. No one could have been more devoted to or wiser in -her training of Master Jack. - -Now, after five years, the boy was ready to go to a public school, and -during these long summer days a holiday tutor had been giving him final -preparation, ultimate crammed knowledge, and topmost polish of tone and -manners. August had been spent at the Beckfords’ country house in -Devonshire, and the early weeks of September at their flat in Victoria -Street. Lady Jane approved of everything that concerned these -arrangements, except one thing. She approved of the public school, of -the engaging of a holiday tutor, of all the care, devotion, and -forethought with which the little man was being launched from the home -circle; but she did not approve of the fact that Sir John had thrown the -whole burden on Cynthia’s slender shoulders, while he did his stupid -salmon-fishing four hundred miles away in Scotland. - -Not quite fair to Cynthia—leaving her all alone with a schoolboy and his -tutor. Lady Jane, at considerable inconvenience, ran down to Devonshire -to cheer and enliven her. Came back to London and at worse inconvenience -stayed there, so as to be handy to act as companion, chaperon, advisory -ally, whenever Cynthia wanted her. - -But Cynthia wanted her scarcely at all, and allowed poor Lady Jane to -perceive at last that uninvited companions are sometimes a tedium rather -than a solace. - - * * * * * - -It was the last night of the holidays. To-morrow Master Jack and his -tutor would disappear from Victoria Street. - -Dinner had been ordered at an early hour, and Jack was scampering -through his meal with excited swiftness. One last treat had been -arranged for him. He was to be dispatched to a theatre presently in -charge of George, the footman. - -“I wish you were coming,” said Jack, and as he turned to Mr. Ridsdale -his eyes expressed eloquently enough the hero-worship that is so easy to -kindle in young and ingenuous hearts. - -“It would be scarcely polite,” said Mr. Ridsdale, “for both of us to -desert Lady Beckford.” - -“No,” said Jack; “but I wish she’d come with us,” and he turned to his -stepmother. “Won’t you change your mind?” - -“I really don’t feel up to it, Jack. I’m tired—I’ve had a headache since -the day before yesterday.” - -“It might drive the headache away,” said Jack, eagerly. “They say it’s a -tip-top piece.” - -His stepmother and his tutor both smiled as they looked at his bright -and animated face. Lady Beckford’s smile was simply affectionate; Mr. -Ridsdale’s was indulgent and patronising. - -“A rousing melodrama, Jack! All noise and stamping.” - -“Yes,” cried Jack, enthusiastically. “Murder and sudden death—just what -I like.” - -“But not,” said Mr. Ridsdale, “exactly indicated as a cure for a -headache.” - -“Well, if I can’t persuade you——” and Jack turned to Yates, the butler. -“Has George changed his things?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Then I’ll be off.” Jack pushed his plate away with a gesture that -elegant Mr. Ridsdale could not approve of. It was too childish for a boy -of fourteen—a little more polish required, in spite of so much -polishing. “Good night,” and Jack kissed Lady Beckford. “I shan’t say -good night to you, Mr. Ridsdale, because you won’t have turned in before -I get back, will you?” - -“No; I’ll sit up for you,” and Mr. Ridsdale, smiling, spoke with rather -strained facetiousness. “I’ll be waiting to hear how the heroine was -extricated from her misfortunes, how the villain got scored off by the -funny man, and how virtue triumphed all round in the end. There! Cut -along. Your escort is waiting for you.” - -Master Jack hurried gaily from the dining-room, and his boyish voice -sounded for a few moments as he prattled to the footman. Then the hall -door of the flat opened and shut, and the two elders were left alone to -finish their dinner at leisure. - -“Ah!” Mr. Ridsdale drew in his breath with a little sigh, and, looking -at his hostess, spoke quietly and meditatively. “I know you often read -people’s thoughts, but I wonder if you could guess what I’m thinking -now?” - -“I’ll try, if you like. You were thinking that perhaps, after all, Jack -is too young still for the rough-and-tumble life of a big school.” - -“Oh, no,” said Mr. Ridsdale, carelessly. “Jack’ll do all right. They’ll -soon lick him into shape. No”—and his tone softened and deepened, though -he was speaking almost in a whisper—“no; I was thinking this is the last -night of my—my holidays; possibly the last time I shall ever sit in this -pleasant room, or see you wearing that beautiful dress, or hear you -playing classical music, that I don’t understand, but love to listen -to.” - -Truly it seemed a pleasant room, a remarkably pleasant room for a London -flat. The evening was just cold enough to justify a fire, and small logs -of wood in a basket grate sent dancing flames to light up the oak panels -of the walls; electric lamps flashed brightly on silver and glass; a -golden basket of peaches and another of grapes made the table appear a -symbolised announcement of ease, luxury, even of sumptuousness; the -butler, moving to and fro so promptly and yet so sedately, offered one -delicate food and stimulating wine. It was all very, very pleasant. - -Pretty things wherever one glanced—a mirror in a sculptured frame, some -blue and white china on a long shelf, and, seen faintly, with the -electric light just indicating their existence, rows of handsomely bound -books behind latticed glass; altogether what would be described in stage -language as a charming interior. - -Any tutor, accustomed to the hard seats and coarse fare of a school -hall, might feel regret at leaving such a room irrevocably, and might -long afterwards yearn to see again the pretty things that it contained. -But just now Mr. Ridsdale was looking only at his hostess, and he -repeated the compliment about her dress. - -“I admire you in that more than in any of the others,” he said, softly, -and rather sorrowfully. - -“Because it is black, I suppose. It’s quite old. But men always like -black dresses. My husband does.” - -The dress was made of velvet, with some silver decoration across the -front of the bodice, and it certainly appeared becoming. In it Cynthia -Beckford looked very slim and young; fair-haired, but dark-eyed, -naturally pale, but with a rapid flicker of colour; a person of frank, -kind outlook, a simple and truthful sort of person, and yet with -underlying depths of character or sensibility that proved astoundingly -interesting to the few people who had studied her closely. Frenchmen -would describe her beauty, such as it was, as belonging to the order -that slowly troubles rather than quickly fascinates. - -“But I’m not like the General,” said Mr. Ridsdale. “I admire _that_ -black dress, not _any_ black dress.” - -He said it with a perceptible insistence, quietly but obstinately; as if -conscious of subtle values in his own taste, and unwilling that it -should be confounded with the ordinary likes and dislikes of another -person—even though that person were as worthy and respectable as his -temporary employer. - -Mr. Ridsdale was a good-looking man of thirty, tall and thin, of easy -carriage and elegant manners. Boys, big and small, among whom he had -passed the better part of his life, always looked up to him, and -sometimes adored him, as a perfect type of school-trained manhood; and -girls, too, were frequently subjugated by his charms. He was the sort of -man who is not as a rule dreaded by other men as likely to prove a -dangerous rival; and yet one might well suppose that in certain -circumstances he would be dangerous—for instance, if paying slow and -unhindered court to a foolish and otherwise neglected woman. The dark -eyes, the smooth, silky voice, the insidious flattery of its softening -tones, might all be effective in a protracted attack on feminine -foolishness of a certain age. - -“To-morrow,” he said, dreamily; “to-morrow—almost to-day,” and he sighed -as he took a peach from the gold basket. - -Yates, the butler, had put cigarettes and matches on the table, and was -about to leave the room, when the outer bell rang shrilly and sharply. - -“Who can that be?” said Ridsdale, looking up. “A visitor! Oh, do tell -him to say you’re not at home.” - -The butler paused, waiting for instructions. - -“It can’t be a visitor,” said Cynthia Beckford. “Some tradesman’s -messenger!” - -“It may be old Lady Jane.” - -“She wouldn’t come so late as this.” - -“I don’t know,” said Ridsdale, eagerly. “She comes at all hours. With -your headache she would bore you to death.” He leaned forward in his -chair and spoke very softly. “And, remember, my last evening! You—you -promised that you would play to me.” - -Cynthia Beckford hesitated a moment, and then told the butler that she -was not at home. - -“Yes, my lady. Not at home to anybody?” - -“No.” - -The flicker of colour showed in her pale cheeks as she added -explanatorily to Ridsdale, “It can’t be anybody of importance.” - -Mr. Ridsdale sat listening. Then he got up, and spoke with an impatience -that he did not attempt to conceal. - -“That fool has let some one in—a man!” - -Yes, a man’s heavy footstep in the hall, and a man’s voice—loud and -assured, not making polite inquiries, but issuing curt directions. - -“I have left my tackle and luggage at Euston. Get a cab presently and go -and fetch it. Take this ticket.” - -“Yes, Sir John. Her ladyship is in the dining-room.” - -“Open the door, then.” - -Cynthia Beckford ran across the room to meet her husband; but, -encumbered with a hand-bag and a travelling-rug, he was not able at once -to accept her welcoming embrace. - -“Well, Cynthia, my dear! Ridsdale, my dear fellow, how are you? But -where’s Jack?” - -General Beckford put his hand-bag on a chair by the sideboard, dropped -his rug upon the floor, and, coming to the table, took Master Jack’s -vacated seat. - -“We have sent him to a theatre,” said Cynthia, “with George. I’d no idea -that you were coming home, of course.” - -“Oh, I see. Gone to the play—with George?” - -“We were all three going,” said Mr. Ridsdale, “but Lady Beckford had a -headache, so I strongly advised her to stay at home,” and he smiled. -“Rather fortunate—or you would have had a double disappointment.” - -“It would have been my own fault,” and the General smiled too. “I ought -to have sent you a telegram, Cynthia.” - -“What has brought you back so unexpectedly?” - -“Impulse.” - -“Fish not rising?” asked Ridsdale. - -“No. Wretchedly poor sport. So this morning I suddenly made up my mind -that I’d had enough of it, and that home, sweet home, was the place for -me. Well, well, what about the home news?” - -Cynthia Beckford was instructing Yates as to her husband’s dinner, but -the General declared that he had eaten all he wanted in the train. - -“I can’t call it dinner,” and he laughed good-humouredly. “But nothing -more, thank you—unless perhaps a biscuit and a whisky-and-soda. Now, sit -ye down. Don’t let me disturb you. Go on with your dessert, Ridsdale—and -then I’ll join you in a cigarette, if my lady permits us,” and he bowed -to his wife with the antiquated air of courtesy that always seems so odd -in these free-and-easy times. - -They sat together, talking of Jack’s health, his progress, his future -career; and Mr. Ridsdale was able to speak most favourably of his -pupil’s prospects. - -“Capital,” said the General. “I’m enormously indebted to you, Ridsdale. -You seem to have done wonders. But I knew you would; I knew the boy was -in good hands—— Seen much of Aunt Jane?” he asked his wife, abruptly. - -“Yes.” Cynthia was looking at the painted decoration on her -dessert-plate, and she answered slowly. “Yes; Aunt Jane was with us at -Lynton for a fortnight—quite a fortnight.” - -“I know; but I mean after that. She is in London, isn’t she?” - -Then Cynthia smilingly confessed that the long fortnight in Devonshire -had exhausted the attraction of Lady Jane’s society, and that she had -lately avoided it. - -“She is too kind for words, but”—Cynthia looked at her husband -deprecatingly—“dear Aunt Jane can be rather boring.” - -The General laughed tolerantly. - -“Ah, no companion for _you_. She belongs to another generation.” His -bushy eyebrows contracted and his voice became grave. “_My_ generation. -We old folk are poor companions.” - -“She doesn’t belong to your generation.” Cynthia flushed, and her lips -trembled. She put out her hand and laid it on her husband’s arm. “You -are the best of companions—a companion that I have missed dreadfully.” - -“There!” General Beckford laughed gaily. “Did you hear that, Ridsdale? -That’s the sort of thing we old chaps like—even if we aren’t vain enough -to think we deserve it. Leave that where it is, Yates.” - -Yates was about to remove the hand-bag and take it to his master’s room. - -“Very good, Sir John.” - -“And you can go to Euston now—no hurry. Take a bus.” - -“Yes, Sir John.” - -“Smoking permitted?” And the General bowed again to his wife. “Light -your cigarette, Ridsdale. No, I mustn’t have any coffee on top of whisky -and soda.” - -The little group at the table sat comfortably enough and talked lightly -and easily. But somehow the presence of General Beckford had destroyed -the graceful charm of the room. - -He looked too big, too rough and shaggy for his delicately pretty -surroundings. His grey hair was rumpled and unbrushed after the journey; -his coarse grey suit suggested wild moorlands and brawling streams; his -whole aspect was savagely picturesque rather than neatly refined. - -No contrast could have been greater than that offered by the smooth, -well-brushed, nicely polished young man who sat opposite to him on the -other side of the small round table. The electric light shone upon Mr. -Ridsdale’s black cloth and black silk, his stiff white shirt and soft -white waistcoat, his jewelled buttons, his pearl studs, his butterfly -tie, his white hand fingering a cigarette-tube, his smooth forehead, and -his sleek hair plastered and brushed back with studious art and infinite -care. He seemed elegant, shapely, even beautiful, when you compared him -with his travel-stained, unkempt host. - -All the charm had been banished by the new-comer. It was another room -now. And the ugly hand-bag on the distant chair seemed like an -aggressive symbol of proprietorship. It seemed to be saying that, -although one might wish the General at the deuce, one could not ask him -to go there, because in sober fact the room belonged to him. - -Yet, to an understanding eye, there was something noble and knightlike -about the man; the ruggedness seemed blended with a certain fine -simplicity, and even the old-fashioned tricks of manner and speech, by -removing him from the commonplace mode of the hour, served to stimulate -an effort to get at the man’s real character. Certainly no _poseur_—a -direct, straightforward creature. On reflection one might perhaps guess -that a young romantic girl, whose imagination had been fired by the -splendour of his fighting life, his deeds of daring, and so forth, could -quite conceivably be cajoled into giving her untried heart to him. - -“One more question, Cynthia.” The conversation had languished while the -General puffed at his second cigarette. “How’s the music? Have you been -assiduous in your practice?” - -“Yes; I’ve played nearly every evening.” - -Mr. Ridsdale was conscious of an irksome constraint. Two are company and -three are none. Deciding to leave the husband and wife together, he -pushed back his chair and got up. - -But the General would not let him go. - -“No, no,” he said. “Sit ye down, my dear fellow.” Then to his wife: “If -the headache isn’t too bad, play something this evening. Run over your -latest studies. Ridsdale and I will follow you directly.” - -Cynthia Beckford rose obediently and turned towards the drawing-room -door. Her husband reached the door before Mr. Ridsdale could get to it, -and he held it open for her, bowing low as she passed out. - -“There!” He had switched on the light in the other room, and he stood in -the doorway watching her. “Now delight our ears with your deft touch.” - -Lady Beckford seated herself at the piano and began to play a plaintive -and dreamy prelude by Bach. - -“Beautiful! Your hand has not lost its cunning. Now go on playing—and -don’t think me ungallant if for a few minutes I close the door. A word -or two with Ridsdale—on business. But we shall hear you, even through -the door.” Then he gently, and as if regretfully, shut the drawing-room -door and came back to the table. - -“Ridsdale”—and there was an apologetic tone in the General’s lowered -voice—“that wasn’t quite honest of me. A ruse! I asked her to play the -piano because I didn’t want her to disturb us—and I didn’t want her to -hear what we were saying.” - -“Oh, really?” Ridsdale smiled, and glanced at the closed door. - -“A confidence! I may trust you, mayn’t I?” - -“Of course.” - -“Implicitly, eh? But that goes without saying. I _have_ trusted you so -greatly already, haven’t I? The boy to consign him to your guidance. -Well, you know what he is to me. I couldn’t have better shown the faith -I had in you——” - -“You’re very kind, General. I—I’ve done my best with him.” - -“Exactly. But—well, this isn’t about the boy. It’s about myself. I am in -trouble.” - -“Really?” - -“I wasn’t honest, either, in my explanation of why I came hurrying home. -No, Ridsdale, it wasn’t a sudden caprice. I had serious reasons for -coming.” - -“Oh, had you?” - -“Yes. I am in great trouble.” And the General looked at Ridsdale keenly, -as if seeking in his impassive face some expression of sympathy or -encouragement; then he dropped his eyes and paused before he continued -speaking. “I wonder if I ought to tell you? Yes, I will. You are one of -ourselves. We have _made_ you one of ourselves—something more than an -acquaintance—a _friend_, eh? Yes, I’ll tell you the whole thing.” - -“I am all attention.” - -“Thank you.” - -From the other room came the sound of Cynthia’s plaintive melody, and, -half-consciously listening to it, the General seemed to have transferred -its wistful cadence to his own voice. His manner had changed completely. -He looked preternaturally grave and sad, as he sat frowning at the -tablecloth and tracing a small circle of its pattern with a strong brown -finger, while he murmured his story. - -“No, Ridsdale, what brought me home was a letter—a warning letter—about -my wife.” - -“Before you tell me any more, may I say this? As a schoolmaster I often -have to deal with anonymous letters, and my experience has convinced me -that the only thing to do with them is just to chuck them into the——” - -“Just so. But this wasn’t an anonymous letter.” - -“No?” - -“No. The writer is a tried friend—a person of my own blood. I have the -letter in my pocket here, but I won’t bother you to read it. The warning -conveyed was simple enough. It amounted to this: I was to guard my wife -carefully if I did not want to risk losing her—because a man was -attacking my peace and honour.” - -“Oh, I say”—Mr. Ridsdale spoke indignantly—“it would be an insult to -Lady Beckford not to treat such a communication with the absolute -contempt and——” - -“But, my dear Ridsdale,” said the General, sombrely, “it is the -communication that I have always prepared myself to receive, that I have -been expecting to receive at any hour in the last few years.” - -“Nothing,” said Mr. Ridsdale, firmly, “would persuade me to suspect Lady -Beckford of——” - -“No, no, of course not. Please leave her out of it. I’m not thinking of -her. I’m thinking only of myself—the attempted blow to _me_.” - -“You shouldn’t for one moment believe——” - -“Why not?” said the General, sadly. “One is vain, but there are limits -to one’s vanity. One hopes just at first, perhaps—but later one begins -to think and to understand. You know, with Cynthia and me, it was a -convenient marriage—although it wasn’t a marriage of convenience.” - -“Indeed, no—I know that well.” - -“Regard—and more than regard—entered into it. But there was the -difference of years. At my age one has not the adaptability of youth; -one cannot change one’s ways, even if one wishes to. So I foresaw that -with marriages of that sort a crisis sooner or later comes. Well, our -crisis has come.” - -“I—I am sure you are mistaken.” - -“You heard what she said about Lady Jane boring her. Well, _I_ bore her. -Recently she has shown it plainly. In fact, that is why I went away—not -to give myself, but to give her, a holiday.” - -“My good sir,” said Mr. Ridsdale, earnestly, almost irritably, “I can -assure you she has spoken of you every day in the most affectionate -terms—regretting your absence, saying how she missed you, and so on.” - -“Has she?” said the General, with a sigh. “That may have been from a -sense of duty—contrition—remorse. Pity for the old fogey whose presence -could but weary her.” - -He got up, went to the drawing-room door, and opened it. - -“Thank you, Cynthia. Charming! Don’t stop playing. Please go on,” and he -shut the door again. - -Ridsdale, rising from the table also, had gone to the fireplace. He -pulled out a cambric handkerchief, and rubbed the palms of his hands -with it. Then he put his hands in his pockets, and, standing with his -back to the fire, turned towards the General, politely attentive to, if -not cordially sympathetic with, the General’s doubts and fears. - -“Now, look here, Ridsdale, that’s all about it. I’ve given you the -facts, and I ask you to help me.” - -“Delighted. But how could I possibly——” - -“Help me to find the man.” - -“Why, I don’t believe he exists.” - -“Oh, yes, he does.” - -“Did your friend give you no hints—of any kind?” - -“None whatever.” - -“Ah, just what I thought! Believe me, it’s some ridiculous -misapprehension.” - -“No; my informant is not a fool, or a person who supposes that I am -lightly to be trifled with.” - -The General’s manner had changed again. The sadness had gone from his -eyes and the wistfulness from his voice. Pride was the note that sounded -now in the carefully suppressed voice. He squared his big shoulders, -threw back his massive head, and, indeed, looked somebody who would be -extremely unlikely to be trifled with, either by chance acquaintances or -old friends. - -“I am a soldier, and I think as soldiers used to think in the bygone -days, when we were taught that we ought to harden our thoughts until -they become as undeviating as instincts. If I’m called upon to guard and -defend something placed in my charge, the thought of what to do _is_ an -instinct—to go out and meet the danger half-way. The safest method of -defence is to deal promptly with the enemy that threatens. Now, where is -the enemy? Help me if you can. His name has been withheld from me—for -obvious reasons”—and the General snorted scornfully. “I am advised to be -moderate, to avoid a scandal. It was a woman who wrote to me. It was -Lady Jane”—and he gave another snort. “She didn’t want to make -mischief—as she calls it—and she implores me not to be old-fashioned. -But I _am_ old-fashioned—I’m not ashamed of it either—so old-fashioned -that when I have found my man I shall force him to give me -satisfaction.” - -“A duel?” - -“Yes.” - -Mr. Ridsdale laughed deprecatingly. - -“That’s all very well; but, really, Sir John, you can’t put back the -clock quite so far as that. This is 1912, not 1812, you know.” - -“I don’t care whether it is or it isn’t.” - -Though he did not raise his voice, the General spoke with so much -intensity that Ridsdale started. - -“That may be; but—ah—Sir John, you won’t easily get—ah—other people to -share your opinions.” - -“I’ll get _him_ to share them, and that’ll be enough for me. Ridsdale, -you’re not a woman—_you_ needn’t take your cue from Lady Jane and urge -moderation. At least you can guess at what I’m feeling.” - -“Yes; but I think without cause—quite without cause.” - -“This century or the last, it must be the same code when things dearer -than life are at stake. That’s how I feel. So you may guess if I’ll -follow the mode of 1912, and seek aid from a private detective office, -or ask for reparation in a court of law.” - -“No, I’d never suggest that you should. What I beg you—what your best -friend of either sex would beg you—is not to do anything rash, not to -excite yourself needlessly.” - -In truth, General Beckford was exciting himself. His voice vibrated -harshly; one could see the immense effort required to keep it at its low -pitch. He stared and glared, shook his shaggy hair, and looked -altogether like some grey old lion who had been brought to bay in a -cruel hunt, and was ready to spring upon his closest tormentors. - -“All right, Ridsdale. But help me, don’t preach to me. There, I swear -I’ll do nothing without thought. I _have_ thought. I have thought it all -out. Bring me face to face with my enemy. I answer for the rest. Now, -who is he? We don’t know so many people, she and I. Help me to run over -their names, or, better still, use your brains on my behalf. She has -been more or less under your observation lately. You must have seen her -comings and goings—the people she was in touch with. Have you observed -anything suspicious?” - -“No; nothing whatever.” - -“Some too attentive visitor?” - -“No.” - -“It doesn’t matter.” The General shook his grey mane and paced to and -fro. “I’ll find him unassisted,” and he stopped abruptly. “Ridsdale, so -surely as I stand here, I’ll find that man, and compel him to satisfy -me.” - -Ridsdale drew out the cambric handkerchief and passed it across his -forehead. Then he laughed lightly. “General, please forgive me for -laughing. But really when any one is so carried away by excitement—well, -you yourself will laugh to-morrow when you remember the wild things you -have said in your excitement.” - -“You think that the fellow perhaps isn’t a gentleman, and that he may -try to refuse?” - -“I think that, whether he is a gentleman or not, he will certainly -refuse to break the law of the land at your bidding.” - -“Yes; but I’m prepared.” And the General smiled grimly, and spoke with a -kind of sly triumph. “I shall ignore his refusal. I shall put a pistol -into his hand and _make_ him fight.” - -“I doubt it.” - -“An unloaded revolver! Ridsdale, don’t you see? I’ll give him an -unloaded revolver, with six cartridges. I’ll have the same myself—and -I’ll begin to load. When he sees me load he’ll know that he must do -something if he means to save his skin. When he sees me load my weapon, -_he’ll load his weapon too_. I shall watch him as a cat watches a mouse. -If he raises his arm, up goes mine. If he fires, I fire. We bang at each -other at the same moment.” - -“Impossible.” - -“Why impossible? If I get him alone he can’t help himself.” - -“He’d treat you as a madman—give you in charge to the nearest -policeman.” - -“Oh, no, he wouldn’t. I’d get between him and the door.” - -“Apart from the fact that it would be murder if you succeeded, you -wouldn’t succeed.” - -“I should. You don’t know how the pressure of immediate peril quickens -people’s movements. Point by point I’d press him down the line I meant -him to take. It’s so simple—not a weak spot in the infallible logic of -the thing. The clock would be put back as rapidly as if destiny moved -its hands.” - -Ridsdale laughed again, very lightly. - -“Look here,” said the General, eagerly, “try it. You don’t understand -what I mean. Let me show you what I mean. Act it with me.” - -“Act it? I—I don’t follow.” - -“Rehearse it. Let me show you how it works. We’ll go through it point by -point—and if you can show me a weak spot, I’ll thank you with all my -heart.” - -As he spoke, eagerly and enthusiastically, but still almost in a -whisper, the General had hurried across to the chair that held his ugly -leather bag. - -“See here!” He had opened his bag, and the electric light flashed upon -the bright metal of a pistol. “Here—another one,” and the light flashed -again. “A revolver for him and for me. Now help me to rehearse the -trick. Here. Take your weapon. You see it’s open at the breech.” - -He had come to the fireplace and was offering one of the two revolvers. - -Mr. Ridsdale hesitated about taking it. “Really, you know, General, I -doubt if I ought to encourage you in——” - -“Catch hold. You’re not afraid of firearms, are you?” And the General -smiled. - -“No, of course not.” - -Mr. Ridsdale took the pistol, and the General hurried across the room to -the door that led into the hall. - -“Watch me carefully,” he whispered. “I am locking this door.” - -For the second time the aspect of the pleasant, comfortable room had -altered; the prettiest things in it looked ungraceful, grim, forbidding; -its atmosphere—even the air one breathed—was different. What was -happening in the room seemed dream-like, grotesque, quite unreal; and -this sense of unreality involved one’s perception of the material, -unaltered world outside the room. The sounds of music floated towards -one as if from an immeasurable distance. - -But probably the queer notion of unsubstantiality in surrounding objects -was directly caused by the strangeness and oddness of the General’s -antics. He was no longer himself; he was a person acting a part—as it -would be acted on a brilliantly lighted stage. - -“See!” he whispered, as he came creeping back towards the leather bag. -“I have manœuvred you into the worst possible position. I have cut you -off from escape. That door is locked. This door I guard.” - -One could hear one’s heart beating above the far-off ripple of the -music. - -“Watch me,” said the General. “Never take your eyes off my hands. See! -Here are six cartridges—and I put them down, so—on your side of the -table.” He stepped back swiftly and cautiously. “See! Here are six -cartridges for me—on my side of the table.” And he sprang away, to his -old post in front of the drawing-room door. “It is all fair play. I give -as good a chance as I take myself. We stand at equal lengths from our -ammunition. You follow it all, don’t you? You catch my meaning?” - -Mr. Ridsdale, staring at his empty revolver, nodded. - -“Very well. Now, if you value your life, prepare to defend it. See! I am -going to load.” - -The General’s acting was rather good. Deriving stimulus from his natural -emotions, he achieved some fine artistic effects. His flushed face, his -bent brows, his fierce attitude and swift movements, indicated the -determination of implacable wrath. - -[Illustration: “‘The coward!’ she wailed. ‘The miserable coward!’” -(page 49).] - -And Ridsdale, too, represented his assumed character well enough. His -cheeks were livid, his breath came gaspingly, the hand that carried the -revolver shook perceptibly—altogether an excellent simulation of -surprise, apprehensive doubts, if not of craven fear. - -“One!” - -The General had crept to the table, taken a cartridge, and was slipping -it into the chamber. - -“There!” he whispered. “Automatically you have done it too. I told you -so. Wait! Lift your hand at your peril. My turn. Two!” - -Ridsdale, copying the General’s slightest movement, was loading as the -General loaded. - -“Three! That’s it. Three left. When you take the last, step back. I’ll -not raise my arm till you are back on the hearth. I swear it. Four!” - -The music had ceased, but neither of them noticed. In a silence broken -only by the sound of panting respirations, they loaded the fifth and -sixth cartridges, and simultaneously sprang away from the table. - -“Now!” The General had been the quicker. His arm was up. “Now answer -me.” The ferocity in the hissing words was terrible to hear. “Are you -the man?” - -“I—I—— Upon my word, I—don’t understand such folly.” - -“You blackguard! This is not acting.” The concentrated passion behind -the words seemed to send forth waves that struck one’s beating heart -with flame and ice. “Now answer me, or—so help me, God!—I’ll shoot you.” - -Then the drawing-room door opened. The General, instinctively dropping -his arm and turning, shouted at his wife: - -“Go back! Go back, I tell you!” - -There was a blaze as if all the electric lamps had exploded, and a crash -that seemed to shake the walls. Then again came the flash and the roar. -Mr. Ridsdale had fired twice. - -For a moment the room was full of smoke. Then the dusty cloud rose, grew -thin. The lamplight, shining unimpeded, showed General Beckford still -upon his feet, standing square and erect, with Cynthia desperately -clinging to his breast. - -“What’s this?” said the General, loudly and sternly. “Has the smoke -blinded you, Cynthia? Why have you come to me? Your place is not here. -Go to your lover’s arms.” - -But she clung to him closer. She was stretching her slender figure to -its fullest height, trying to cover his limbs with her limbs, his face -with her face, madly straining to make a shield of trembling flesh large -enough to protect him from danger. - -“The coward!” she wailed. “The miserable coward! He shot at you when you -weren’t looking. He tried to kill you!” - -“Then get out of the way,” said the General, “and let him try again. -Can’t you see how you’re hampering him? This is his chance and yours. -Don’t spoil it. Let him set you free.” - -But Cynthia only trembled, sobbed, and clung. - -“Very well,” and the General laughed harshly. “We have been interrupted, -and my opponent must kindly understand that his chance is gone. Cynthia, -do you hear? He won’t shoot again. Now, stop whimpering, and answer me.” - -“Yes, I want to tell you everything.” - -“Is this man your lover?” - -“No—no.” - -“But he has endeavoured to be?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then why has he remained here?” - -“I was afraid to send him away.” - -“Why? What were you afraid of?” - -“You. I thought if you knew you’d do something dreadful.” - -It was curious, but it seemed as if suddenly these two—the husband and -the wife—were quite alone. If the man they spoke of had been swept a -thousand miles from the room, they could not have disregarded him more -completely than they did now. Cynthia had linked her hands round the -General’s neck; she was looking up into his stern, unflinching eyes, her -voice was strong and clear as she answered each question. - -“When did he first insult you?” - -“Two days ago.” - -“But you knew what he meant before that?” - -“No, I didn’t. I knew he admired me—and I thought it rather amusing; but -I never dreamed he would dare. And then, when he did dare, I thought if -you heard or guessed it would be too dreadful. I blamed myself—yes, I -blamed myself. But I thought it was only two days, and then he’d be gone -for ever—with no fuss and no scandal. My darling, don’t you believe me?” - -“Is there nothing else to tell?” - -The General was glaring down into his wife’s eyes. - -“Before God, that is all. Oh, don’t you believe me?” - -“Before God, I do.” - -Very gently Sir John released himself from the clinging hands, held one -of them for a moment; then, bowing ceremoniously, kissed it. - -“Mr. Ridsdale!” His manner was perfectly calm as he turned to the -ignored guest, and he spoke quietly but heavily, with an old-fashioned -style of humour that was too pompous to be quite successful. “My wife -called you a coward just now; but, honestly, I could not apologise if -she had called you a fool as well. Those are blank cartridges that we -have been playing with. Oh, yes, it would have been dangerous otherwise. -But I’m always careful. In fact, when I have to deal with gentlemen of -your kidney, I’m almost as afraid of firearms as you are yourself. And, -à propos, the hall door is open I didn’t really lock it.” - -Mr. Ridsdale silently crossed the room. - -“Then good night to you. Yates will be back directly, and when he has -packed your things, where shall he take them?” - -“Ah—er—say, the St. Pancras Hotel.” - -“And I may send your cheque to that address? Thank you. Good night!” - - - - - _The_ Veil _of_ Flying Water - - _By_ Theodore Goodridge Roberts - - _1st Canadian Expeditionary Force_ - - - I - -In those days an active man could not keep on friendly terms with -everybody. If he acted honestly by his own clan, or his own village, he -was sure to be in bad odour with some other clan or tribe. So it was -with Walking Moose, a young chief of that clan of the Maliseets that had -a white salmon for its totem. - -This Walking Moose was chief of a sub-tribe that had its habitation and -hunting-grounds far to the west, within twenty miles of the source of -old Woolastook. Here the great river, beloved of Gluskap and his -children, which advances seaward so placidly throughout the latter half -of its course, dashes between walls of rock and gloomy curtains of -spruce-trees that cling with brown, exposed roots that suggest the -gripping fingers of giants. Rapids of twisting green and writhing white -clang and shout in its narrow valley. Here and there are amber pools and -green-black eddies; here and there a length of shallows that flashes -silver and gold at noon; and here is that roaring place where the river -leaps a sheer fall of thirty feet in one unbroken white curve—the Veil -of Flying Water. - -This is a rough country, full of shaggy forests and broken hills alive -with game, and swift water alive with fish; and in the days of Walking -Moose the Mohawks had their black lodges of undressed hides close to its -western borders. The Mohawks were the age-old enemies of the Maliseets. -Before Walking Moose grew to manhood and power, the peace-loving -Maliseets had been content to flee down river and seek the protection of -the larger villages whenever word came to them that the Mohawks -contemplated a raid. Walking Moose was not content to flee periodically -from his good hunting-grounds, however, and so the enmity of the raiders -became bitter against him. Walking Moose hemmed three sides of his -village with a tangle of fallen trees—the river kept the fourth -side—lopped the upper and outer branches of these prostrate trees to -within three or four feet of the trunks, and sharpened the ends and -hardened them with fire. Also, he dug pits and covered them with brush, -and set up many sharp posts in unexpected places. These things were -good, but Walking Moose was not satisfied. He brought twenty families -from one of the more sheltered villages, built lodges for them within -his defences, and gave them equal rights of hunting with the older -villagers. During that summer the Mohawks came three times, and three -times they went away without so much as a scalp or a back-load of smoked -salmon. During the winter Walking Moose’s men were busy at making -shields and weapons; and late in March, when the depths of snow were -covered with a tough crust, a war party of the people of the White -Salmon went swiftly to the westward and fell upon and destroyed a -village of the Mohawks. But the only men who died at the hands of the -victors were those who fell fighting. No prisoners were made on that -occasion. The women and children were not harmed, the lodges and -storehouses were spared. Only the weapons of the warriors were taken. - -“We do not want your food and furs,” said Walking Moose, “for we have -plenty of our own. We do not want your women, for we have better women -of our own.” - -Then he returned to his own country, with the victorious warriors at his -heels. Some of these warriors had to be drawn on toboggans; a few -remained behind, their spirits sped to even finer hunting-grounds than -those of their nativity. - -Walking Moose’s first raid into the land of the Mohawks made a deep -impression on that warlike people. History contained no record of any -previous outrage of the kind. In the old, old days Gluskap had smitten -the Mohawks on more than one occasion, so tradition said, but to be -smitten with magic by a god and victoriously invaded by Maliseets were -misfortunes of a very different nature. The warriors were furious, and -the insulting fact that Walking Moose had left their lodges standing, -their storehouses full, and their families beside them added to their -fury. They bandaged their wounds, put their dead away, and sent the only -uninjured man of the village to carry the outrageous news westward and -raise a war-party. But worse than this was planned. Hawk-in-the-Tree, -the daughter of the chief of the defeated village, brooded darkly over -the scornful words of Walking Moose. His gaze had been upon her face -when he had said, “We do not want your women, for we have better women -of our own.” Yes, his gaze had been fair upon the face of -Hawk-in-the-Tree, and she was the woman whom three great chiefs wanted -in marriage, many warriors had fought for, and Long Tongue had made -songs about. She sat in her father’s lodge and thought of the words of -the young Maliseet and recalled the look in his eyes. Her slim hands -were clasped tightly in her lap, her small, sleek head was bowed -demurely, and her beautiful eyes were upon the beaded hem of her skirt -of dressed moosehide. A tender pink shone in her dusky cheeks, her red -lips were parted in a faint smile, but there was no mirth in her vain -and angry heart. - -[Illustration: “He saw a girl’s face looking timidly out, and a pair of -dark eyes gazing shyly down upon him” (page 54).] - -Walking Moose was unmarried. All his thoughts were given to the pursuit -of power—of power for himself and his tribe. He was great in the chase, -and greater on the warpath. His mind and hand were at once subtle and -daring. Though he forgot the words he had said about the women of the -Mohawk village, he remembered everything else that he had said and done -on that expedition; and so he suspected that the enemy would strike back -before long, with all their strength and cunning. He sent swift runners -down river with word of his raid and victory. These returned after five -days with a band of daring young braves from the more sheltered villages -of the tribe—adventurous spirits who were attracted by the promise of -warfare against the Mohawks under a successful leader. Walking Moose -welcomed these reinforcements cordially. - -It was not until all the snow was gone from the hills and the ice from -the river that the Mohawks returned Walking Moose’s call. They had -planned their arrival for the dark hours between midnight and dawn, but -the sentries brought word of their approach to Walking Moose, and so it -happened that instead of their finding him in his own lodge, he found -them in a little valley two miles distant from the village. By dawn all -the invaders had vanished save those who had lost command of their legs. -And the Maliseets had vanished from the little valley also, on the trail -of the retreating Mohawks. They followed that trail all day and half the -night, and at last overtook and made an end to that war party. One young -man escaped, one whose lungs were stronger than his heart. He carried -word of the disaster throughout the Mohawk country. - -Spring passed and summer came. The village of which Walking Moose was -chief enjoyed quiet and security. The warriors of the White Salmon -carried on their fishing in all the swift brooks and rivers, but they -kept their shields and war clubs beside them, and far-sighted runners -were on guard in the hills, day and night. - -In the Mohawk country quiet reigned also. But it was a sinister, -brooding quiet. Big chiefs met and parted, only to meet again. Rage -gnawed them, but they were afraid to strike openly at the strong village -of the Maliseets. About this time, Hawk-in-the-Tree spoke to her father, -standing modestly before him with her glance cast down at her beaded -moccasins. - -“The strength of that village is all in the head and heart of Walking -Moose,” she said. - -“It is so,” replied the chief. - -“Then if death should find him——” - -“What death?” returned her father, testily. “The medicine-men have been -questioned in this matter. You are but a squaw, my child, and cannot see -the truth of these things.” - -“True, I am but a squaw,” returned Hawk-in-the-Tree, modestly. “But will -not my father tell me the words of the medicine-men?” - -So the chief told her what the wise ones of the nation had said about -Walking Moose. He did not know that, as usual, their wise words were -nothing more than a clever fiction to mystify the warriors and retain -the awe of the laity for the dark arts. To soothe the injured pride of -the chiefs they had said that the prowess of Walking Moose was due to -magic; that he could not be killed in battle, or by the spilling of -blood, or by fire; that starvation only could kill him, and that within -bowshot of his own village. It was a clever invention. No wonder the -chiefs and warriors were puzzled and impressed. - -“To be starved within bowshot of his own village?” repeated -Hawk-in-the-Tree, reflectively. “Then he must first be caught and -bound—then hidden in a place where his warriors cannot find him.” - -“It is so,” replied the chief. - -Hawk-in-the-Tree drew him into the lodge. The scornful words and -heedless glance of the Maliseet were hot and clear in her memory. She -talked to her father for a long time. He smiled sneeringly at first, but -after a while he began to nod his head. - - - II - -Walking Moose did not devote all his time in the summer months to the -catching and smoking of salmon and trout. He wandered about the country, -in seeming idleness, but in reality his brain was busy with ambitious -plans. And always his eyes were open and his ears alert. He did not -expect another attack from the Mohawks before the time of the hunter’s -moon, but he continued to place his outposts far and near, and to visit -them at unexpected moments. Though his village had doubled in size -within the year, and leapt into fame, he was not satisfied. He wanted to -drive the Mohawks far to the westward and break them so that they would -never again venture into the fringes of the Maliseet country, and he -dreamed of the day when all the scattered clans and villages of the -Maliseets would name him for their head chief. - -One morning in July he followed the edge of Woolastook’s rocky valley -for a distance of about five miles above the village, then clambered -down the bank and crossed the brawling stream—for at this point old -Woolastook, the father of Maliseet rivers, was no more than a lively -brook. Beneath the farther bank was a flat rock and an amber pool. He -laid aside his shield and bow, and reclined on the rock to dream his -ambitious dreams. So he lay for an hour, and the sunlight slanted in -upon him and gilded his dreams. - -Suddenly Walking Moose sprang to his feet and turned, his shield on his -left arm and his bow in his right hand. His glance flashed to the -overhanging fringe of spruce branches above his head. He saw a girl’s -face looking timidly out, and a pair of dark eyes gazing shyly down upon -him. He did not know the face. It was not that of any girl of his own -village. - -“What do you want?” he asked, watchful for some sight or sound to betray -the presence of some hidden menace. - -Hawk-in-the-Tree answered him in his own tongue, for she had learned it -from a prisoner when she was a child. Until recently, the Mohawks had -never lacked opportunity of acquiring the Maliseet language. - -“I sometimes fish in that pool, chief. But I will go away and fish -somewhere else,” she replied, modestly. - -“Do not go,” he said. “Come down and fish here if you want to. The pools -of the river are free to all honest Maliseets.” - -Without more ado, the girl crawled forward, turned, and slid down to the -flat rock beside Walking Moose. In her left hand she held a short coil -of transparent fish-line made from the intestines of some animal. Her -small face was flushed. She stood beside Walking Moose with downcast -eyes. The young man gazed at her with frank interest. - -“You are a stranger,” he said. “You do not belong to my village.” - -She met his glance for a second. - -“Have you ever seen me before, chief?” she asked. - -“I am not sure,” he replied, puckering his brows in reflection. “But I -know that you do not live in my village. You do not look like those -young women.” - -“They are more pleasant of appearance, perhaps?” - -He smiled at that. - -“Perhaps you say the truth, but I think your cheeks are pinker and your -eyes brighter than the young women I know.” - -The girl turned her face away from him. - -“I must fish,” she said, “else my poor old grandfather will go hungry.” - -Walking Moose, feeling an interest that was new to him, and prompted by -a little devil that had never troubled him before, dropped his bow and -put out his hand and took the coiled fish-line from the girl. Their -fingers touched—and he was astonished at the thrill which he felt. - -“You must tell me who you are, and where you come from,” he said, and -his voice had a foolish little break in it. This vocal tremor was not -lost on the girl. - -“I belong to a small village on the great river, three days’ journey -from here,” she said. “My old grandfather is my only friend. His name is -Never Sleep. Because of his sharp tongue he became disliked by the -people of the village, and so we journeyed to this place, and built a -little hidden lodge. Never Sleep is very old, and spends all his days in -brewing healing liquors from roots and barks. It is my work to keep the -pot boiling.” - -Walking Moose was impressed. - -“You are a good girl to take such care of your old grandfather,” he -said. “But why have you not brought him into my village to dwell?” - -“The noises of a village disturb him,” she replied. “And though his -heart is kind, his tongue is bitter. He fears no one when he is angered, -and rushes out of his lodge and calls people terrible names. He fears a -great chief no more than a giggling papoose.” - -The young man smiled. - -“Then it is well that he should continue to live in quiet,” he said. -“But you have not told me your name,” he added. - -She glanced at him swiftly, and as swiftly away again, and the glow -deepened in her cheeks. - -“My name is poor and unknown,” she said. “It is for mighty chieftains -such as Walking Moose to give names to their people.” - -At this Walking Moose, who planned greatness and fought battles without -disturbing a line of his thin face, looked delighted and slightly -confused. - -“Sit down,” he said, “while I catch some fish for you and your -grandfather; and while I am fishing I may think of a name for you.” - -The girl sat down, smiling demurely. Walking Moose uncoiled the -transparent line, placed a fat grasshopper on the hook, and cast it -lightly upon the surface of the pool. He stepped close to the edge of -the rock and, with his right hand advanced, flicked the kicking bait -artfully. The sun was in front of him, so his shadow did not fall upon -the pool. Suddenly there was a movement in the amber depths as swift as -light, and next instant the grasshopper vanished in a swirl of bubbling -water. The line, held taut, cut the surface of the pool in a half-circle -like a hissing knife-blade. The line was strong, and in those days men -fished for the pot and gave little thought to the sport. So Walking -Moose pulled strongly, to judge the resistance, then took a lower hold -with his right hand and gave a quick and mighty jerk on the line. The -big trout came up like a bird, described a graceful curve in the -sunlight, and descended smack upon the rock. He was dispatched in a -moment by a blow at the base of the head. - -“There is a fine trout for your cooking-pot,” said Walking Moose, -boyishly delighted with his success. “Now I’ll see if there is another -in the pool.” - -“But you have not made a name for me yet,” said the girl. - -“True,” replied the young man. “Catching fish is easier.” He looked -shyly at the girl, then very steadily at the gleaming dead trout. “You -are like a trout,” he said, with hesitation. “You are bright—and -slender—and the beads on your skirt are red and blue like the spots -along the trout’s sides. I might name you Beautiful Trout, or Little -Trout—but your eyes——” He paused and glanced at her uncertainly. - -She did not return his glance, but sat with her head bent and her hands -clasped loosely in her beaded lap. Her hair, in two dusky braids, was -drawn in front of her slender shoulders, and hung down her breast. - -“They are not like a trout’s,” he said. “No, they are not at all like -the eyes of a fish.” - -“What are they like?” she asked, her voice small and shy. - -Walking Moose fiddled with the line in his fingers and shuffled his feet -uneasily. “How should I know? I cannot see them.” - -“But you have seen them. Can’t you remember?” - -“I remember. They are like—like things that have never been seen by any -man alive, for they are like black stars.” - -The girl laughed, and the sound was like the music of thin water -flittering over small pebbles. - -“Is Walking Moose a poet as well as the conqueror of the Mohawks, that -he makes a fool of a poor young woman with talk of black stars?” she -asked, turning her gaze full upon him for a moment with a look of tender -mockery. - -His heart expanded, then twitched with a pang of doubt. This mention of -the Mohawks was grateful to his vanity, but it was disturbing too. Here -he had been talking to a girl and catching a trout, when his mind should -have been intent on plans against the enemy. He felt ashamed of himself. -What would be the end of his good fighting and great dreams if he spent -any more time in such foolishness? - -“I am not a poet,” he said. “A man who pushes his shield between the -lodges of the Mohawks has no time for the making of songs.” - -Already his air was preoccupied. Hawk-in-the-Tree noticed this. - -“Or for the making of names, chief,” she said. “I do not wonder that -your mind is uneasy and that fear tingles in your heart, for the Mohawks -are mighty enemies.” - -Walking Moose stared at her, then smiled. - -“Yes, they are mighty against those who run away,” he said. “The hare -that jumps from the fern strikes as much terror in my heart as all the -Mohawks who stand in moccasins.” He laughed softly, gazing down at the -amber water of the pool. “But I have a name for you,” he added. “Shining -Star is your name in my country.” - -Then he put the line into her hand, took up his bow and shield, and -crossed the stream. He climbed the short, steep ascent and forced his -way through the tangled branches. So he advanced for about ten yards, -making a good deal of stir. Then he halted, turned, and crawled -noiselessly back to the edge of the bank. He lay motionless for several -minutes, peering out between the drooping spruces. He had no suspicion -of the girl, but it was a part of his creed to look twice and carefully -at everything that was new to him. He watched her bait the hook and cast -it on the pool. She skipped it here and there across the calm surface; -and presently a fish rose and took it, and was deftly landed upon the -rock for his trouble. Walking Moose was satisfied that the girl had no -intentions against anything but the trout. He crawled noiselessly back -through the brush, then got to his feet, and returned to the bank -without any effort at concealment. She looked up as he appeared above -the stream. - -“I have come back,” he said, “to accompany you to your lodge. I must see -your grandfather, Never Sleep. It is my duty as chief to know all my -people and the whereabouts of every lodge.” - -The girl coiled the wet line and took up the two trout. Her head was -bowed, so the young man did not see the smile on her red lips. It was in -her thoughts that something more than a poor fish had risen to her hook; -but Walking Moose really thought that he was but doing his duty as chief -of the clan of the White Salmon. As this couple had come to his country -from the lower river, it was clearly his place to know something of -their position so that he might protect them in time of need. - -Walking Moose climbed the steep bank first and then reached down a -helping hand to the girl whom he had named Shining Star. This was an -unusual attention from a brave to a squaw. On reaching the top the girl -took the lead. She walked swiftly and gracefully, and the twigs and -branches that sprang into place behind her switched the warrior; but so -intent was he in following this Shining Star that he paid no attention -to the switchings. She led straight to the south, over hummocks, and -across open places and tangled valleys. So for about a mile; and then -she halted and turned a glowing face to her follower. - -“I must let Never Sleep know that I am bringing a stranger,” she said, -“or he will be in a terrible rage. He is not agreeable when he is angry. -If I whistle twice, he will know that I am not alone.” - -“He must be an unpleasant old man to live with,” said Walking Moose; and -because of the foolishness that was brewing in his heart he felt no -suspicion. He stood inert, gazing down at Shining Star’s glossy head, -while she gave vent to two long, shrill whistles. - -“That will let him know that a visitor is coming,” she said. “It will -give him time to get a pleasant smile on his face.” - -This appeared to Walking Moose as the most excellent wit. Again they -advanced, and soon they came to a little lodge of birchbark set in a -grove of young firs. A faint haze of smoke crawled up from the hole in -the roof. The door-flap of hide was fastened open, showing a shadowy -interior and the glow of a fallen fire. The girl laid her fish on the -moss beside the door, and peered into the lodge. - -“Walking Moose, the mighty chief, has come to see you,” she said. - -“Walking Moose is welcome to my poor lodge,” returned a feeble voice. -“Let him enter and speak face to face with old Never Sleep.” - -The girl drew back and nodded brightly to the chief. - -“You go first,” said he, his native caution flickering up for a moment. -“The lodge is so dark, that I am afraid that I might step upon the old -man.” - -She read the reason for his hesitation, and the blood tingled in her -cheeks, but she entered without a word. He paused at the door for long -enough to accustom his eyes to the dark within. He could see no one but -Shining Star, and a robed, stooped figure seated on the ground. He -stepped inside. - -“The thong of my moccasin became unfastened,” he said, by way of -explaining his hesitation at the door. - -A dry chuckle came from the robed figure. - -“He is a wise man who halts and sets his feet and eyes to rights at the -threshold of a strange lodge,” said the feeble voice of Never Sleep. - -Walking Moose felt absurdly young and transparent. He stood beside the -fire and stared over it at the old man. He could see little but the -living gleam of the face and a hint of two watchful eyes. - -“What do you want of me, great chief?” asked Never Sleep. - -“I met your granddaughter at the river, where she was fishing,” replied -the warrior. “She told me her story, and so I came home with her to mark -the position of your lodge. All who dwell in my country are in my care. -It is well for me to know where to find every one of my people, in case -of need.” - -“You will find me of small use to you in time of need,” returned the -other, “for I am old and weak, and my fighting days are over. Only in -one way can I serve you, chief. I brew potent liquors for the cure of -all bodily ills.” - -“It is well,” said Walking Moose, with a full recovery of his usual -manner. “But you twist the truth of my words. I do not ask for your -help, old man; but you and your granddaughter may need mine, some time. -Brew your liquor in peace—and in danger send word to Walking Moose.” - -With that he turned on his heel and left the lodge. - -Next morning found the chief of the people of the White Salmon again -reclined on the flat rock above the amber pool; and again his dreams of -ambition and plans of warfare were disturbed by the girl whom he had -named Shining Star. Again she slid down to the rock, with the coiled -fish-line in her hand. Again he took the line from her and caught a -trout for her dinner. So it happened for six days, and by that time the -dreams of Walking Moose were all of Shining Star instead of ambition. He -even made a song, and it seemed to please Shining Star. But of these -strangers he said nothing in the village. It would be time to speak of -them when he had won the prize. - -On the seventh morning the chief waited on the rock above the amber pool -for an hour. After that he spent another hour in walking up and down the -bed of the stream for a distance of several hundred yards each way. He -flushed hot and cold with anxiety. - -“Has something happened to her?” he asked of the lonely stream. “Or have -they both gone away as quietly as they came?” - -Unable to stand the torment of anxiety any longer, he ascended the bank -above the pool, and set off swiftly towards Never Sleep’s lodge. He -found the old man crouched before the door. - -“The girl has a fever,” said the old man. “But I have given her a potent -liquor that will drive it out of her blood.” - -Such fear gripped the young chief’s heart at these words as he had never -felt before. His staring face showed it to the sharp eyes of Never -Sleep. - -“She rests quietly now,” said the old man. “She must not be disturbed. -In the morning she will be well, I think. But, in the meantime, the pot -is empty.” - -So Walking Moose went into the forest to hunt for flesh for Never -Sleep’s cooking-pot. He walked slowly, for his feet felt as heavy as -stones when turned away from the lodge where Shining Star lay sick. His -eyes were dim, and the sunlight on the trees and the azure sky above -looked desolate and terrible to him. He stumbled as he walked. He -wandered aimlessly for more than an hour before the thought returned to -him that Never Sleep’s pot was empty, and that his mission was to fill -it. But the thought flashed away again as swiftly as it had returned, -and so he continued his aimless wanderings. - -“I love that girl—that Shining Star!” he murmured. “I must tell her of -it soon, in plain words—to-morrow, when the fever is gone from her.” - -It was close upon sunset when Walking Moose at last got back to the -lodge of Never Sleep. He carried two young ducks at his belt. The old -man came to the door of the lodge. - -“Has the fever gone?” whispered the chief. - -“She still sleeps,” replied the other. “The fever is passing. But you -are weary, my son. Drink this draught to refresh your sinews and lighten -your spirit. Then sleep, and when you awake you will find that the fever -has passed away from the girl.” - -Walking Moose took the stone cup in a trembling hand and swallowed the -bitter-sweet liquid it contained. Then he lay down on the warm moss -beside the lodge. How light his body felt! What beautiful, faint music -breathed in his ears! His lids slid down, but he raised them with an -effort. - -“I must sleep—for—a—little——” His voice trailed away to silence. Again -his lids fluttered down. - -Never Sleep stooped above him, but the face was no longer that of a -feeble old man, but of the Mohawk chief—the father of Hawk-in-the-Tree. - -“The liquor has done its work,” he said. - -Then the girl to whom Walking Moose had given the name of Shining Star -came out of the lodge. - - - III - -Walking Moose slept a deep and dreamless sleep. The Mohawk bound him at -ankles and wrists, and then lifted him to his massive shoulders. - -“Lead the way!” he commanded. - -The girl took up her father’s weapons and a long, tough rope of twisted -leather, and entered the forest behind the lodge. The big warrior, with -his limp burden, followed close upon her heels. They moved silently, -through deep coverts and shadowed valleys, by an unmarked, twisting way. -The sun slid down behind the western spruces and twilight deepened over -the wilderness. - -“For such a mighty chief he was wonderfully simple,” remarked the -Mohawk. - -Hawk-in-the-Tree did not reply. - -At last they came to the river above the fall that was called the Veil -of Flying Water. The twilight had thickened to darkness by now; but -these two required only a little light, for they had studied this part -of the river and the bellowing fall night after night. The man laid -Walking Moose on the ground and drew a small canoe from under a blanket -of moss and bushes. He made one end of the raw-hide rope fast to the -bars and gunnels of the canoe. He tied the other end strongly to a tree -at the edge of the bank. He felt no uncertainty as to the strength and -exact length of the rope. Everything had been tested; the whole amazing -deed had been done before, as far as that had been possible without the -presence of Walking Moose. - -Now the Mohawk placed the canoe at the very edge of the water and lifted -the drugged chief into it. He fastened one end of a shorter line around -his victim’s body just below the shoulders and under the arms. Then he -cut the thongs that bound wrists and ankles. - -“He will die of hunger within bowshot of his own village,” he muttered. - -With the slack of the long rope in his hand he edged the canoe into the -racing current, stepped aboard, and let it ease slowly down towards the -top of the sheer, out-leaping fury of white water. At the very brow of -the screaming slope the canoe hung for more than a minute. Then it came -slowly back to where the girl waited on the shore. The big Mohawk -stepped out of it, grinning broadly. Walking Moose had vanished. - -The Mohawk unfastened the rope and coiled it over his arm. With the -girl’s help he returned the canoe to the little hollow and covered it -with moss. Hawk-in-the-Tree stood behind him, trembling. This was her -father; but the young man who now lay with death above and below and on -every side—what of him? She had hated him at one time. But now—— - -[Illustration: “At 1.5 Andy announced that there was one infallible way -to start a refractory car” (page 64).] - -She held the shorter of the two ropes of leather in her hands. She made -a noose of it. Her father stooped before, spreading the moss over the -canoe. She crouched suddenly, gripped his ankles, and jerked his feet -backwards, from under him. He pitched headfirst into the hollow with -stunning force. - - - IV - -Cold spray flying over his face aroused Walking Moose at last from his -drugged sleep. For a little while he lay still, too shocked and -bewildered by the quaking of the wet rock on which he lay and the roar -and thunder in his ears, to think or move. He saw something pale, wide, -and alive close in front and curving above him. He put out his right -hand and felt cold, dripping rock behind him. He put out his left hand. -Here was more wet rock—and there the sharp edge of it—and space—within a -few inches of his side. He sat upright, and as he gazed he remembered -the liquor he had taken from the hands of Never Sleep. - -“This is the work of that old man!” he exclaimed. He stood up on the -narrow ledge and raised his hand to the dim-lit, flying arc. It was -struck down, and his face was dashed with bubbling water. Then horror -seized him, and he leaned weakly against the dripping rock—for he -realised that he was behind the Veil of Flying Water, hemmed in—in a -deathtrap. - -Walking Moose soon regained his usual composure. He stood with his back -to the dripping rock, his feet firmly set on the quaking ledge, and -gazed calmly at the roof and wall of thin, hissing water. He thought of -the girl to whom he had given the name of Shining Star; but in a second -he put that hateful vision from him. The spray came up from the boiling -cauldron under the ledge and drenched him. He stared with dull interest -at the arching water, and at last decided that the pale radiance that -lit it was that of the moon. So the time must be early night. Suddenly -he was aware of something foreign on the luminous front of his prison. -It was a slender line of blackness, sharply curved, that struck the -veil, vanished, and struck again on a level with his eyes. Spray flew -when it touched. He leaned forward and put out his right hand. The thing -was of twisted leather. - -He shot out his hand and gripped the line firmly. He pulled it towards -him. It came half-way, seeming to be slack only at one end; then it -began to straighten and draw strongly outward and upward. He advanced to -the very edge of the rocky shelf, still gripping the rope with his right -hand. He stood on tiptoe. Then he grasped the rope with both hands and -sprang through the roof of falling water. - -When Walking Moose felt the solid rocks under his feet he loosed the -grip of his fingers and fell forward, exhausted. Then the girl whom he -had named Shining Star knelt beside him and raised his head against her -shoulder. - -The Mohawk chief, recovered from his fall, looked out upon them from the -bushes. Then he turned and went back to his own country, cursing a magic -that had not been foretold by the medicine-men. - - - - - “Bill Bailey” - - _By_ Ian Hay - - _Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders_ - - - I - - THE COMING OF “BILL BAILEY” - -_FOR SALE.—A superb 3-seated Diablement-Odorant Touring Car, 12-15 - h.-p., 1907 model, with Cape-cart hood, speedometer, spare wheel, - fanfare horn, and lamps complete. Body French-grey picked out with - red. Cost £350. Will take——_ - -The sum which the vendor was prepared to take was so startling, that to -mention it would entirely spoil the symmetry of the foregoing paragraph. -It is therefore deleted. The advertisement concluded by remarking that -the car was as good as new, and added darkly that the owner was going -abroad. - -Such was the official title and description of the car. After making its -acquaintance we devised for ourselves other and shorter terms of -designation. I used to refer to it as My Bargain. Mr. Gootch, our local -cycle-agent and petrol-merchant, dismissed it gloomily as “one of them -owe-seven Oderongs.” My daughter (hereinafter termed The Gruffin) -christened it “Bill Bailey,” because it usually declined to come home; -and the title was adopted with singular enthusiasm and unanimity by -subsequent passengers. - -I may preface this narrative by stating that until I purchased Bill -Bailey my experience of motor mechanics had been limited to a -motor-bicycle of antique design, which had been sold me by a distant -relative of my wife’s. This stately but inanimate vehicle I rode -assiduously for something like two months, buoyed up by the not -unreasonable hope that one day, provided I pedalled long enough and hard -enough, the engine would start. I was doomed to disappointment; and -after removing the driving-belt and riding the thing for another month -or so as an ordinary bicycle, mortifying my flesh and enlarging my heart -in the process, I bartered my unresponsive steed—it turned the scale at -about two hundredweight—to Mr. Gootch, in exchange for a set of new -wheels for the perambulator. Teresa—we called it Teresa after our first -cook, who on receiving notice invariably declined to go—was immediately -put into working order by Mr. Gootch, who, I believe, still wins prizes -with her at reliability trials. - -To return to Bill Bailey. I had been coquetting with the idea of -purchasing a car for something like three months, and my wife had -definitely made up her mind upon the subject for something like three -years, when the advertisement already quoted caught my eye on the back -of an evening paper. The car was duly inspected by the family _en bloc_, -in its temporary abiding-place at a garage in distant Surbiton. What -chiefly attracted me was the price. My wife’s fancy was taken by the -French-grey body picked out with red, and the favourable consideration -of The Gruffin was secured by the idea of a speedometer reeling off its -mile per minute. The baby’s interest was chiefly centred in the fanfare -horn. - -My young friend, Andy Finch—one of those fortunate people who feel -competent to give advice upon any subject under the sun—obligingly -offered to overhaul the engine and bearings and report upon their -condition. His report was entirely favourable, and the bargain was -concluded. - -Next day, on returning home from the City, I found the new purchase -awaiting me in the coach-house. It was a two-seated affair, with a -precarious-looking arrangement like an iron camp-stool—known, I believe, -as a spider-seat—clamped on behind. A general survey of the car assured -me that the lamps, speedometer, spare wheel, and other extra fittings -had not been abstracted for the benefit of the gentleman who had gone -abroad; and I decided there and then to take a holiday next day and -indulge the family with an excursion. - - - II - - THE PROVING OF “BILL BAILEY” - -Where I made my initial error was in permitting Andy Finch to come round -next morning. Weakly deciding that I might possibly be able to extract a -grain or two of helpful information from the avalanche of advice which -would descend upon me, I agreed to his proposal that he should come and -assist me to “start her up.” - -Andy arrived in due course, and proceeded to run over the car’s points -in a manner which at first rather impressed me. Hitherto I had contented -myself with opening a sort of oven door in the dish-cover arrangement -which concealed the creature’s works from view, and peering in with an -air of intense wisdom, much as a diffident amateur inspects a horse’s -mouth. After that I usually felt the tyres, in search of spavins and -curbs. Andy began by removing the dish-cover bodily—I learned for the -first time that it was called the bonnet,—and then proceeded to tear up -the boards on the floor of the car. This done, a number of curious and -mysterious objects were exposed to view for the first time, with the -functions and shortcomings of each of which I was fated to become -severally and monotonously familiar. - -Having completed his observations, Andy suggested a run along the road. -I did not know then, as I know now, that his knowledge of automobilism -was about on a par with my own; otherwise I would not have listened with -such respect or permitted him to take any further liberties with the -mechanism. However, I knew no better, and this is what happened. - -I had better describe the results in tabular form:— - -12.15. Andy performs a feat which he describes as “tickling the -carburetter.” - -12.16-12.20. Andy turns the handle in front. - -12.20-12.25. I turn the handle in front. - -12.25-12.30. Andy turns the handle in front. - -12.30-12.45. Adjournment to the dining-room sideboard. - -12.45-12.50. Andy turns the handle in front. - -12.50-12.55. I turn the handle in front. - -12.55-1. Andy turns the handle in front and I tickle the carburetter. - -1-1.5. I turn the handle in front and Andy tickles the carburetter. - -At 1.5 Andy announced that there was one infallible way to start a -refractory car, and that was to let it run down hill under its own -momentum, and then suddenly let the clutch in. I need hardly say that my -residence lies in a hollow. However, with the assistance of The Gruffin, -we manfully trundled our superb 1907 Diablement-Odorant out of the -coach-house, and pushed it up the hill without mishap, if I except two -large dents in the back of the body, caused by the ignorance of my -daughter that what looks like solid timber may after all be only hollow -aluminium. - -We then turned the car, climbed on board, and proceeded to descend the -hill by the force of gravity. Bill Bailey I must say travelled -beautifully, despite my self-appointed chauffeur’s efforts to interfere -with his movements by stamping on pedals and manipulating levers. -Absorbed with these exercises, Andy failed to observe the imminence of -our destination, and we reached the foot of the hill at a good -twenty-five miles an hour, the back wheels locked fast by a belated but -whole-hearted application of the hand-brake. However, the collision with -the confines of my estate was comparatively gentle, and we soon -disentangled the head-light from the garden hedge. - -The engine still failed to exhibit any signs of life. - -At this point my wife, who had been patiently sitting in the hall -wearing a new motor-bonnet for the best part of two hours, came out and -suggested that we should proclaim a temporary truce and have lunch. - -At 2.30 we returned to the scene of operations. Having once more tickled -the now thoroughly depressed carburetter to the requisite pitch of -hilarity, Andy was on the point of resuming operations with the -starting-handle, when I drew his attention to a small stud-like affair -sliding across a groove in the dash-board. - -“I think,” I remarked, “that that is the only thing on the car which you -haven’t fiddled with as yet. Supposing I push it across?” - -Andy, I was pleased to observe, betrayed distinct signs of confusion. -Recovering quickly, he protested that the condemned thing was of no -particular use, but I could push it across if I liked. - -I did so. Next moment, after three deafening but encouraging backfires, -Bill Bailey’s engine came to life with a roar, and the car proceeded -rapidly backwards down the road, Andy, threaded through the spare wheel -like a camel in a needle’s eye, slapping down pedals with one hand and -clutching at the steering-gear with the other. - -“Who left the reverse in?” he panted, when the car had at length been -brought to a standstill and the engine stopped. - -No explanation was forthcoming, but I observed the scared and flushed -countenance of my daughter peering apprehensively round the coach-house -door, and drew my own conclusions. - -Since Bill Bailey was obviously prepared to atone for past inertia by -frenzied activity, our trial trip now came within the sphere of -possibility. My wife had by this time removed her bonnet, and flatly -declined to accompany us, alleging somewhat unkindly that she was -expecting friends to tennis at the end of the week. The Gruffin, -however, would not be parted from us, and presently Bill Bailey, with an -enthusiastic but incompetent chauffeur at the wheel, an apprehensive -proprietor holding on beside him, and a touzled long-legged hoyden of -twelve clinging grimly to the spider-seat behind, clanked majestically -out of the garden gate and breasted the slope leading to the main road. - -Victory at last! This was life! This was joy! I leaned back and took a -full breath. The Gruffin, protruding her unkempt head between mine and -Andy’s, shrieked out a hope that we might encounter a load of hay _en -route_. It was so lucky, she said. She was not disappointed. - -From the outset it was obvious that the money expended upon the fanfare -horn had been thrown away. No fanfare could have advertised Bill -Bailey’s approach more efficaciously than Bill himself. He was his own -trumpeter. Whenever we passed a roadside cottage we found frantic -mothers garnering stray children into doorways, what time the fauna of -the district hastily took refuge in ditches or behind hedges. - -Still, all went well, as they say in reporting railway disasters, until -we had travelled about four miles, when the near-side front wheel -settled down with a gentle sigh upon its rim, and the tyre assumed a -plane instead of a cylindrical surface. Ten minutes’ strenuous work with -a pump restored it to its former rotundity, and off we went again at -what can only be described as a rattling pace. - -After another mile or so I decided to take the helm myself, not because -I thought I could drive the car well, but because I could not conceive -how any one could drive it worse than Andy. - -I was wrong. - -Still, loads of hay are proverbially soft; and since the driver of this -one continued to slumber stertorously upon its summit even after the -shock of impact, we decided not to summon a fellow-creature from -dreamland for the express purpose of distressing him with unpleasant -tidings on the subject of the paint on his tail-board. So, cutting loose -from the wreck, we silently stole away, if the reader will pardon the -expression. - -It must have been about twenty minutes later, I fancy, that the gear-box -fell off. Personally I should never have noticed our bereavement, for -the din indigenous to Bill Bailey’s ordinary progress was quite -sufficient to allow a margin for such extra items of disturbance as the -sudden exposure of the gear-wheels. A few jets of a black and glutinous -compound, which I afterwards learned to recognise as gear-oil, began to -spout up through cracks in the flooring, but that was all. It was The -Gruffin who, from her retrospective coign of vantage in the spider-seat, -raised the alarm of a heavy metallic body overboard. We stopped the car, -and the gear-box was discovered in a disintegrated condition a few -hundred yards back; but as none of us was capable of restoring it to its -original position, and as Bill Bailey appeared perfectly prepared to do -without it altogether, we decided to go on _in statu quo_. - -The journey, I rejoice to say, was destined not to conclude without -witnessing the final humiliation and exposure of Andy Finch. We had -pumped up the leaky tyre three times in about seven miles, when Andy, -struck by a brilliant idea, exclaimed: - -“What mugs we are! What is the good of a Stepney wheel if you don’t use -it?” - -A trifle ashamed of our want of resource, we laboriously detached the -Stepney from its moorings and trundled it round to the proper side of -the car. I leaned it up against its future partner and then stepped back -and waited. So did Andy. The Gruffin, anxious to learn, edged up and did -the same. - -There was a long pause. - -“Go ahead,” I said encouragingly, as my young friend merely continued to -regard the wheel with a mixture of embarrassment and malevolence. “I -want to see how these things are put on.” - -“It’s quite easy,” said Andy desperately. “You just hold it up against -the wheel and clamp it on.” - -“Then do it,” said I. - -“Yes, do it!” said my loyal daughter ferociously. With me she was -determined not to spare the malefactor. - -A quarter of an hour later we brought out the pump, and I once more -inflated the leaky tyre, while Andy endeavoured to replace the Stepney -wheel in its original resting-place beside the driver’s seat. Even now -the tale of his incompetence was not complete. - -“This blamed Stepney won’t go back into its place,” he said plaintively. -“I fancy one of the clip things must have dropped off. It’s rather an -old-fashioned pattern, this of yours. I think we had better carry it -back loose. After all,” he added almost tearfully, evading my daughter’s -stony eye, “it doesn’t matter _how_ you carry the thing, so long——” - -He withered and collapsed. Ultimately we drove home with The Gruffin -wearing the Stepney wheel round her waist, lifebuoy fashion. On reaching -home I sent for Mr. Gootch to come and take Bill Bailey away and put him -into a state of efficiency. Then I explained to Andy, during a most -consoling ten minutes, exactly what I thought of him as a mechanic, a -chauffeur, and a fellow-creature. - - - III - - THE PASSING OF “BILL BAILEY” - -It is a favourite maxim of my wife’s that _any_ woman can manage _any_ -man, provided she takes the trouble to thoroughly _understand_ him. (The -italics and split infinitive are hers.) This formula, I soon found, is -capable of extension to the relations existing between a motor-car and -its owners. Bill Bailey and I soon got to understand one another -thoroughly. He was possessed of what can only be described as an impish -temperament. He seemed to know by instinct what particular idiosyncrasy -of his would prove most exasperating at a given moment, and he varied -his _répertoire_ accordingly. On the other hand, he never wasted his -energies upon an unprofitable occasion. For instance, he soon discovered -that I had not the slightest objection to his back-firing in a quiet -country road. Consequently he reserved that stunning performance for a -crowded street full of nervous horses. He nearly always broke down when -I took critical or expert friends for an outing; and the only occasions -which ever roused him to high speed were those upon which I was driving -alone, having dispatched the rest of the family by train to ensure their -safe arrival. - -Gradually I acquired a familiarity with most of the complaints from -which Bill Bailey suffered—and their name was legion, for they were -many—together with the symptoms which heralded their respective -recurrences. In this connection I should like to set down, for the -benefit of those who may at any time find themselves in a similar -position, a few of the commonest causes of cessation of activity in a -motor-car, gradual or instantaneous, temporary or permanent:— - - _A._ Breakdowns on the part of the engine. These may be due to— - - (1) Absence of petrol. (Usually discovered after the - entire car has been dismantled.) - - (2) Presence of a foreign body. _E.g._, a Teddy Bear in - the water-pump. (How it got there I cannot imagine. The animal - was a present from the superstitious Gruffin, and in the _rôle_ - of Mascot adorned the summit of the radiator. It must have felt - dusty or thirsty, and dropped in one day when the cap was off.) - - (3) Things in their wrong places. _E.g._, water in the - petrol-tank and petrol in the water-tank. This occurred on the - solitary occasion upon which I entrusted The Gruffin with the - preparation of the car for an afternoon’s run. - - (4) Loss of some essential portion of the mechanism. - (_E.g._, the carburetter.) A minute examination of the road for - a few hundred yards back will usually restore it. - - _B._ Intermediate troubles. - -By this I mean troubles connected with the complicated apparatus which -harnesses the engine to the car—the clutch, the gears, the -driving-shaft, etc. Of these it is sufficient to speak briefly. - - (1) The Clutch. This may either refuse to go in or - refuse to come out. In the first case the car cannot be started, - and in the second it cannot be stopped. The former contingency - is humiliating, the latter expensive. - - (2) The Gears. These have a habit of becoming - entangled with one another. Persons in search of a novel - sensation are recommended to try getting the live axle - connected simultaneously with the top speed forward and the - reverse. - - (3) The Driving-Shaft. The front end of this is - comparatively intelligible, but the tail is shrouded in mystery. - It merges into a thing called the Differential. I have no idea - what this is. It is kept securely concealed in a sort of - Bluebeard’s chamber attached to the back-axle. Inquiries of mine - as to its nature and purpose were always greeted by Mr. Gootch - with amused contempt or genuine alarm, according as I merely - displayed curiosity on the subject, or expressed a desire to - have the axle laid bare. - - _C._ Trouble with the car. (With which is incorporated trouble - with the brakes and steering apparatus.) - -It must not be imagined that the car will necessarily go because the -engine is running. One of the wheels may refuse to go round, possibly -because— - - (1) You have omitted to take the brake off. - - (2) Something has gone wrong with the differential. (I - have no further comment to offer on this head.) - - (3) It has just dropped off. (_N.B._ This only happened - once.) - -After a time, then, I was able not merely to foretell the coming of one -of Bill Bailey’s periods of rest from labour, but to diagnose the cause -and make up a prescription. - -If the car came to a standstill for no outwardly perceptible reason, I -removed the bonnet and took a rapid inventory of Bill’s most vital -organs, sending The Gruffin back along the road at the same time, with -instructions to retrieve anything of a metallic nature which she might -discover there. - -When Bill Bailey without previous warning suddenly charged a hedge or -passing pedestrian, or otherwise exhibited a preference for the footpath -as opposed to the roadway, I gathered that the steering-gear had gone -wrong again. The Gruffin, who had developed an aptness for applied -mechanics most unusual in her sex, immediately produced from beneath the -seat a suit of blue overalls of her own construction, of which she was -inordinately proud—I hope I shall be able to dress her as cheaply in ten -years’ time—and proceeded to squirm beneath the car. Here, happy as a -queen, she lay upon her back on the dusty road, with oil and petrol -dripping in about equal proportions into her wide grey eyes and open -mouth, adjusting a bit of chronically refractory worm-and-wheel gear -which I, from reasons of _embonpoint_ and advancing years, found myself -unable to reach. - -Finally, if my nose was assailed by a mingled odour of blistering paint, -melted indiarubber, and frizzling metal, I deduced that the cooling -apparatus had gone wrong, and that the cylinders were red-hot. The -petrol tap was hurriedly turned off, and The Gruffin and I retired -gracefully, but without undue waste of time, to a distance of about -fifty yards, where we sat down behind the highest and thickest wall -available, and waited for a fall of temperature, a conflagration, or an -explosion, as the case might be. - - * * * * * - -Bill Bailey remained in my possession for nearly two years. During that -time he covered three thousand miles, consumed more petrol and oil than -I should have thought possible, ran through two sets of tyres, and cost -a sum of money in repairs which would have purchased a small steam -yacht. - -There were moments when I loved him like a brother; others, more -frequent, when he was an offence to my vision. The Gruffin, on the other -hand, having fallen in love with him on sight, worshipped him with -increasing ardour and true feminine perversity the dingier and more -repulsive he grew. - -Not that we had not our great days. Once we overtook and inadvertently -ran over a hen—an achievement which, while it revolted my humanitarian -instincts and filled the radiator with feathers, struck me as dirt cheap -at half a crown. Again, there was the occasion upon which we were caught -in a police-trap. Never had I felt so proud of Bill Bailey as when I -stood in the dock listening to a policeman’s Homeric description of our -flight, over a measured quarter of a mile. At the end of the recital, -despite my certain knowledge that Bill’s limit was about twenty-three -miles an hour, I felt that I must in common fairness enter him at -Brooklands next season. The Gruffin, who came to see me through, -afterwards assured her mother that I thanked the Magistrate who fined me -and handed my accusing angel five shillings. - -But there was another side to the canvas. Many were the excursions upon -which we embarked, only to tramp home in the rain at the end of the day, -leaving word at Mr. Gootch’s to send out and tow Bill Bailey home. Many -a time, too, have Bill and I formed the nucleus of an interested crowd -in a village street, Bill inert and unresponsive, while I, perspiring -vigorously and studiously ignoring inquiries as to whether I could play -“The Merry Widow Waltz,” desolately turned the starting-handle, to evoke -nothing more than an inferior hurdy-gurdy melody syncopated by -explosions at irregular intervals. Once, too, when in a fit of -overweening presumption I essayed to drive across London, we broke down -finally and completely exactly opposite “The Angel” at Islington, where -Bill Bailey, with his back wheels locked fast in some new and -incomprehensible manner,—another vagary of the differential, I -suppose,—despite the urgent appeals of seven policemen, innumerable -errand-boys, and the drivers, conductors, and passengers of an -increasing line of London County Council electric tramcars, stood his -ground in the fairway for nearly a quarter of an hour. Finally, he was -lifted up and carried bodily, by a self-appointed Committee of Public -Safety, to the side of the road, to be conveyed home in a trolley. - -But all flesh is as grass. Bill Bailey’s days drew to an end. The -French-grey in his complexion was becoming indistinguishable from the -red; his joints rattled like dry bones; his fanfare horn was growing -asthmatic. Old age was upon him, and I, with the ingratitude of man to -the faithful servant who has outlived his period of usefulness, sold him -to Mr. Gootch for fifteen sovereigns and a small lady’s bicycle. - -Only The Gruffin mourned his passing. She said little, but accepted the -bicycle (which I had purchased for her consolation) with becoming -meekness. - -At ten o’clock on the night before Bill Bailey’s departure—he was to be -sent for early in the morning—the nurse announced with some concern that -Miss Alethea (The Gruffin) was not in her bed. She was ultimately -discovered in the coach-house, attired in a pink dressing-gown and bath -slippers. She was kneeling with her arms round as much of Bill Bailey as -they could encompass; her long hair flowed and rippled over his -scratched and dinted bonnet; and she was crying as if her very heart -would break. - - - IV - - “BILL BAILEY” COMES AGAIN - -A year later I bought a new car. It possessed four cylinders and an -innumerable quantity of claims to perfection. The engine would start at -the pressure of a button; the foot-brake and accelerator never became -involved in an unholy alliance; it could climb any hill; and outlying -portions of its anatomy adhered faithfully to the parent body. -Pedestrians and domestic animals no longer took refuge in ditches at our -approach. On the contrary, we charmed them like Orpheus with his lute; -for the sound of our engine never rose above a sleek and comfortable -purr, while the note of the horn suggested the first three bars of -“Onward, Christian Soldiers!” - -My wife christened the new arrival The Greyhound, but The Gruffin, -faithful to the memory of the late lamented Bill Bailey, never referred -to it as anything but The Egg-Boiler. This scornful denotation found -some justification in the car’s ornate nickel-plated radiator, whose -curving sides and domed top made up a far-away resemblance to the -heavily patented and highly explosive contrivance which daily terrorised -our breakfast-table. - -Of Bill Bailey’s fate we knew little, but since Mr. Gootch once informed -us with some bitterness that he had had to sell him to a Scotchman, we -gathered that, for once in his life, our esteemed friend had “bitten off -more than he could chew.” - -The Greyhound, though a sheer delight as a vehicle, was endowed with -somewhat complicated internal mechanism, and I was compelled in -consequence to retain the services of a skilled chauffeur, a Mr. -Richards, who very properly limited my dealings with the car to ordering -it round when I thought I should be likely to get it. Consequently my -connection with practical mechanics came to an end, and henceforth I -travelled with my friends in the back seat, The Gruffin keeping Mr. -Richards company in front, and goading that exclusive and haughty menial -to visible annoyance by her supercilious attitude towards the new car. - -Finally we decided on a motor trip to Scotland. There was a -luggage-carrier on the back of the car which was quite competent to -contain my wife’s trunk and my own suit-case. The Gruffin, who was not -yet of an age to trouble about her appearance, carried her _batterie de -toilette_ in a receptacle of her own, which shared the front seat with -its owner, and served the additional purpose of keeping The Gruffin’s -slim person more securely wedged therein. - -We joined the car at Carlisle, and drove the first day to Stirling. On -the second the weather broke down, and we ploughed our way through Perth -and the Pass of Killiecrankie to Inverness in a blinding Scotch mist. -The Greyhound behaved magnificently, and negotiated the Spittal of -Glenshee and other notorious nightmares of the bad hill-climber in a -manner which caused me to refer slightingly to what might have happened -had we entrusted our fortunes to Bill Bailey. The Gruffin tossed back to -me over her shoulder a recommendation to touch wood. - -Next day broke fine and clear, and we rose early, for we intended to run -right across Scotland. I ate a hearty breakfast, inwardly congratulating -myself upon not having to accelerate its assimilation by performing -calisthenic exercises upon a starting-handle directly afterwards. At ten -o’clock The Greyhound slid round to the hotel door, and we embarked upon -our journey. Infatuated by long immunity from disaster, I dispatched a -telegram to an hotel fifty miles away, ordering luncheon at a -meticulously definite hour, and another to our destination—a hospitable -shooting-box on the west coast—mentioning the exact moment at which we -might be expected. - -Certainly we were “asking for it,” as my Cassandra-like offspring did -not fail to remark. But for a while Fate answered us according to our -folly. We arrived at our luncheon hotel ten minutes before my advertised -time, an achievement which pleased me so much that I wasted some time in -exhibiting the engine to the courtly and venerable brigand who owned the -hotel, with the result that we got away half an hour late. But what was -half an hour to The Greyhound? - -Blithely we sped across the endless moor beneath the September sun. The -road, straight and undulating, ran ahead of us like a white tape laid -upon the heather. The engine purred contentedly, and Mr. Richards, -lolling back in his seat, took a patronising survey of the surrounding -landscape. Evidently he rejoiced, in his benign and lofty fashion, to -think how this glittering vision was brightening the dull lives of the -grouse and sheep. Certainly the appearance of The Greyhound did him -credit. Not a speck of mud defiled its body; soot and oil were nowhere -obtrusive. Bill Bailey had been wont, during periods of rest outside -friends’ front doors, to deposit a small puddle of some black and greasy -liquid upon the gravel. The Greyhound was guilty of no such untidiness. -Mr. Richards, to quote his own respectfully satirical words, preferred -using his oil to oil the car instead of gentlemen’s front drives. Under -his administration my expenditure on lubricants alone had shrunk to half -of what it had been in Bill Bailey’s time. - -But economy can be pushed to excess. Even as I dozed in the back seat, -sleepily observing The Gruffin’s flying mane and wondering whether we -ought not shortly to get out the Thermos containing our tea, there came -a grating, crackling sound. The Greyhound gave a swerve which nearly -deposited its occupants in a peat-hag; and after one or two zigzag and -epileptic gambols came to a full stop. - -“Steering-gear gone wrong, Richards?” I inquired. - -“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Mr. Richards easily. “Seems to me it -was a kind of a side sl—— Get out, sir! Get out, mum! The dam thing’s -afire!” - -We cooled the fervid glowing of the back-axle with a patent -fire-extinguisher, and sat down gloomily to survey the wreck. Economy is -the foundation of riches, but you must discriminate in your choice of -economies. Axle-grease should not be included in the list. Mr. Richards, -whether owing to a saving disposition or an æsthetic desire to avoid -untidy drippings, had omitted—so we afterwards discovered—to lubricate -the back-axle or differential for several weeks, with the result that -the bearings of the off-side back wheel had “seized,” and most of the -appurtenances thereof had fused into a solid immovable mass. - -We sat in the declining rays of the sun and regarded The Greyhound. The -brass-work still shone, and the engine was in beautiful running order; -but the incontrovertible and humiliating fact remained that we were ten -miles from the nearest dwelling and The Greyhound’s career as a medium -of transport was temporarily closed. Even the biting reminder of The -Gruffin that we could still employ it to boil eggs in failed to cheer -us. - -Restraining an impulse to give Mr. Richards a month’s warning on the -spot, I conferred with my wife and daughter. We might possibly be picked -up by a passing car, but the road was a lonely one and the contingency -unlikely. We must walk. Accordingly we sat down to a hasty tea, prepared -directly afterwards to tramp on towards our destination. - -The wind had dropped completely, and the silence that lay upon the -sleepy, sunny moor was almost uncanny. Imbued with a gentle melancholy, -my wife and I partook of refreshment in chastened silence. Suddenly, as -The Gruffin (considerably more cheerful than I had seen her for some -days) was passing up her cup for the third time, a faint and irregular -sound came pulsing and vibrating across the moor. It might have been the -roar of a battle far away. One could almost hear the popping of rifles, -the clash of steel, and the shrieks of the wounded. Presently the noise -increased in intensity and volume. It appeared to come from beyond a -steep rise in the long straight road behind us. We pricked up our ears. -I became conscious of a vague sense of familiarity with the phenomenon. -The air seemed charged with some sympathetic influence. - -“What is that noise, Richards?” I said. - -“I rather _think_, sir,” replied Mr. Richards, peering down the road, -“that it might be some kind of a——” - -Suddenly I was aware of a distinct rise of temperature in the -neighbourhood of my left foot. My daughter, with face flushed and lips -parted, was gazing feverishly down the road. An unheeded Thermos flask, -held limply in her hand, was directing a stream of scalding tea down my -leg. Before I could expostulate she wheeled round upon me, and I swear -there were tears in her eyes. - -“It’s _Bill_!” she shrieked. “Bill Bailey! _My_ Bill!” - -She was right. As she spoke a black object appeared upon the crown of -the hill, and, incredible to relate, Bill Bailey, puffing, snorting, -reeking, jingling, back-firing, came lumbering down the slope, in his -old hopeless but irresistible fashion, right upon our present -encampment. - -His lamps and Stepney wheel were gone, his back tyres were solid, and -his erstwhile body of French-grey was now decked out in a rather -blistered coat of that serviceable red pigment which adorns most of the -farmers’ carts in the Highlands. But his voice was still unmistakably -the voice of Bill Bailey. - -He was driven by a dirty-faced youth in a blue overall, who presented -the appearance of one who acts as general factotum in a country -establishment which supports two or three motors and generates its own -electric light. By his side sat a patriarchal old gentleman with a white -beard, in tweeds, hobnail boots, and a deerstalker cap—obviously a head -ghillie of high and ancient lineage. - -The spider-seat at the back was occupied, in the fullest sense of the -word, by a dead stag about the size of a horse, lashed to this, its -temporary catafalque, with innumerable ropes. - -The old gentleman was politeness itself, and on hearing of our plight -placed himself and Bill Bailey unreservedly at our disposal. His master, -The M‘Shin of Inversneishan, would be proud to house us for the night, -and the game-car should convey us to the hospitable walls of -Inversneishan forthwith. Tactfully worded doubts upon our part as to -Bill’s carrying capacity—we did not complicate matters by explaining -upon what good authority we spoke—were waved aside with a Highlander’s -indifference to mere detail. The car was a grand car, and the Castle was -no distance at all. Mr. Richards alone need be jettisoned. He could -remain with The Greyhound all night, and on the morrow succour should be -sent him. - -Mr. Richards, utterly demoralised by his recent fall from the summit of -autocracy, meekly assented, and presently Bill Bailey, packed like the -last ’bus on a Saturday night, staggered off upon his homeward way. My -wife and I shared the front seat with the oleaginous youth in the -overall, while the patriarchal ghillie hung on precariously behind, -locked in the embrace of the dead stag. How or where The Gruffin -travelled I do not know. She may have perched herself upon some outlying -portion of the stag, or she may have attached herself to Bill Bailey’s -back-axle by her hair and sash, and been towed home. Anyhow, when, two -hours later, Bill Bailey, swaying beneath his burden and roaring like a -Bull of Bashan, drew up with all standing at the portals of -Inversneishan Castle, it was The Gruffin who, unkempt, scarlet, but -triumphant, rang the bell and bearded the butler while my wife and I -uncoiled ourselves from intimate association with the chauffeur, the -ghillie, and the stag. - -Next morning, in returning thanks for the princely manner in which our -involuntary host had entertained us, I retailed to him the full story of -our previous acquaintance with Bill Bailey. I further added, with my -daughter’s hot hand squeezing mine in passionate approval, an intimation -that if ever Bill should again come into the market I thought I could -find a purchaser for him. - -He duly came back to us, at a cost of five pounds and his sea-passage, a -few months later, and we have had him ever since. - -Such is the tale of Bill Bailey. To-day he stands in a corner of my -coach-house, an occupier of valuable space, a stumbling-block to all and -sundry, and a lasting memorial to the omnipotence of human—especially -feminine—sentiment. - - - - - Life-Like - - _By_ Martin Swayne - - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - -Colonel Wedge was a quiet, genial bachelor. If there was anything that -seemed to distinguish him from the familiar type of retired officer, it -was his great breadth of shoulder. He was well over fifty, but still -vigorous and active. On the day after his arrival in Paris, whither he -had come on a week’s visit, he breakfasted at nine and spent the morning -in visiting some public places of interest. He lunched at a restaurant -near the Porte St. Martin, where he found himself in a typically -Parisian atmosphere, and after smoking a cigar began to stroll idly -along the streets. Chance directed his steps in a northerly direction, -and about three in the afternoon he found himself in the Montmartre -district. - -He walked along in a casual manner, his hands clasped behind his back, -watching everything with infinite relish. While passing up a side street -his eye fell on a flamboyant advertisement outside a cinematograph show. -The Colonel was not averse to cinematograph shows, and it struck him -that here, perhaps, he might see something out of the ordinary. The -poster was certainly lurid. It represented a man being attacked by -snakes, and Wedge understood enough French to read the statement -underneath that the representation was absolutely life-like, and that -the death-agony was a masterpiece of acting. - -“Rattlesnakes,” reflected the Colonel, eyeing the poster. “It’s -wonderful what they do in the way of films nowadays. Of course, they’ve -taken out the poison glands.” - -He stood for a short time studying the poster, which was extremely -realistic, and then decided to enter. He went up to the ticket-office, -which stood on the pavement, and paid the entrance fee. It was obvious -that the establishment was not of the first order. A couple of rickety -wine-shops flanked it one on either side, and the ticket-office was -apparently an old sentry-box with a hole cut in the back. - -Wedge took his ticket and glanced up the street. It was a day of -brilliant sunshine. At the far end of the narrow road there was a -glimpse of the white domes of the Sacré Cœur, standing on its rising -ground and looking like an Oriental palace. Only a few people were -about, and the wine-shops were empty. - -A shaft of sunlight fell on the poster of the man fighting with -rattlesnakes, and the Colonel looked at it again. It attracted him in -some mysterious way, probably because physical problems interested him. - -“Seems to be in a kind of pit,” he thought. “Otherwise he could run for -it. It is certainly life-like.” - -He turned away, ticket in hand. A man standing before a faded plush -curtain beckoned to him, and Wedge passed from the bright light of day -into the darkness behind the curtain. - -He could see nothing. Someone took his arm and led him forward. The -Colonel blinked, but the darkness was complete. Somewhere on his left he -could hear the familiar clicking of a cinematograph. - -The hand on his arm piloted him gently along, and he had the impression -of walking in a curve. But it seemed an intolerably long curve. Since he -could not speak French, he was unable to ask how much farther he had to -go. He felt vaguely that people were round him, close to him, and -naturally concluded he was passing down the room where the performance -was being held. - -_But where was the screen?_ - -He could not see a ray of light. Heavy, impenetrable darkness was before -him, and seemed to press on his eyelids like a cloth. Suddenly the hand -on his arm was lifted. Wedge stopped, blinking. - -“Look here,” he said, with a feeling of irritation, “where am I?” - -There was no answer. He waited, listening. He could hear nothing. The -clicking of the cinematograph was no longer audible. - -Deeply perplexed, he held out his arms before him and took a step -forward. His outstretched foot descended on—nothing. - -Wedge fell forward and downwards with a sharp cry. His fall was brief, -but it seemed endless to him. He landed, sprawling, on something soft. -Before he could move he was caught and held down with his face pressed -against the soft mass that felt like a heap of pillows. A suffocating, -pungent odour assailed his nostrils, and gradually consciousness slipped -away. - -When Colonel Wedge came to his senses he found himself in a small room -lit by an oil-lamp hung against the wall. He was lying on a heap of -mattresses, bound hand and foot. At first he stared vaguely upwards. -Directly overhead was a circular mark in the ceiling. The sound of -voices struck on his ears, and, looking round, he saw a group of men -talking at a table near by. - -With startling suddenness memory came back. He glanced up at the -ceiling. There was no doubt that the circular mark was the outline of -the trap-door through which he had fallen. He did not attempt to -struggle, but lay passively searching in his mind for some explanation -of his position. - -The men at the table were talking in loud voices, but they spoke in -French. He could not understand what they said. - -He looked round at them. Five of them—there were half a dozen—were -roughly dressed, with blue or red handkerchiefs knotted round their -throats; but one of them was of a different type, and looked like a -prosperous business man. He was the spokesman and leader of the group, -and Wedge noticed that he had a peculiarly evil, energetic type of face. -He spoke rapidly, occasionally nodding towards the heap of mattresses -and employing violent gestures. From time to time he thumped the table -before him. Finally he rose and crossed the room. - -“My name is Dance,” he said. He stuck the cigar he was smoking into the -corner of his mouth and went on speaking between his teeth. “I’m an -Englishman by birth, and wonderfully fond of my fellow-countrymen. -That’s why you are here. You’re just the man I was wanting, and when I -saw you looking at that poster I could have hugged myself. What did you -think of it? Good, eh? Sorry you didn’t see the film.” - -He chuckled to himself. - -Wedge looked at him steadily and made no reply. The other shrugged his -shoulders and turned away. Some further discussion followed, and then -all six left the room. - -Wedge waited until the sound of their footsteps had died away in the -passage without, and then raised himself. Owing to the way in which he -was bound he could not stand up. He looked around keenly. There was only -one door and no window. The walls were of rough brick, and it was clear -the place was a kind of cellar. Save for the table and chairs there was -no furniture. The stone floor was damp, and from one dark corner Wedge -could hear the trickling of water. After the first scrutiny of his -prison he lay back again on the mattresses and tried to think. He could -hear no sound of the traffic or footsteps from the road, and guessed -that it would be useless to shout. Save for the trickle of water and the -occasional hissing and spurting of the lamp, the place was absolutely -silent. - -The atmosphere was thick and close. The flame of the lamp grew smaller -and smaller, and finally expired. Wedge lay in the darkness, open-eyed, -listening to the beating of his heart. He was thirsty. His throat was -dry and his head ached, and the cords round his wrists and feet bit into -the flesh. He made several powerful attempts to burst them, but in vain. - -For what purpose did they want him? If it was simply a question of -robbery, why was he kept prisoner? An eternity seemed to pass. In -despair, he tried to sleep. But the question as to why he was in this -prison repeated itself and made sleep impossible. - -Wedge was a man of tried courage, but there was something sinister in -his position that caused disagreeable thrills to pass down his back. The -trap-door, the chloroform, the cords, the group of evil-looking men were -not reassuring incidents. Moreover, the isolation in complete darkness -with the monotonous trickling of water unnerved him. - -An hour went by, and he made another violent attempt to release himself. -His breath came in gasps. Before his shut eyes he saw sheets of red -flame. But his efforts were useless. Thoroughly exhausted he lay still -again, staring upwards. - -Owing to some trick of vision, possibly because the strong sunlight had -intensified the colouring of the poster while he was studying it, he saw -a shadowy picture of the man fighting for his life in the pit full of -rattlesnakes hovering before him in the darkness. He thought grimly that -it would be some time before he would have the pleasure of seeing the -representation of that film—perhaps never. The latter event was more -likely. It was not probable that they would let him go free, because his -freedom would mean their arrest. - -[Illustration: “Wedge, turning as it moved, always faced it” (page 81).] - -“They want me for some purpose,” he muttered. “But what it is, Heaven -knows. It can’t be simple robbery. There’s no point in murdering me. I’m -not a person of any importance, so I don’t see where the object of -kidnapping comes in. Their game beats me, unless they’ve mistaken me for -someone else.” - -A step outside interrupted his reflections. He heard the door open. -Something that sounded like a plate was put on the floor, and the steps -retreated down the passage. After a few minutes they became audible -again, and a light showed in the doorway. A man appeared holding a -candle. Colonel Wedge realised that it was the intention of his captors -that he should take some nourishment, and decided that to do so would be -the wisest course. There was no reason why he should weaken himself by -abstinence. - -He submitted to being fed by his jailer, and eagerly drank the harsh red -wine that was offered to him. When the meal was finished he was left -alone again, but the candle was put on the table. By watching its rate -of decrease in length Wedge gained some idea of the passage of time. By -a calculation based on the number of his heart-beats, which were -normally sixty to the minute, he deduced that the candle would last for -about four hours. As a matter of fact, Wedge’s deduction was wrong. The -candle burned for three hours. Wedge was unaware that his heart was -beating eighty to the minute. - -Months seemed to elapse before the candle shot up in a last flare. The -Colonel stared at the walls, at the rough, unfaced bricks, at the -trap-door in the ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He sat -up at intervals and looked round him. He rolled from one side to -another. But nothing helped to make the time pass more quickly, and when -he was left again in darkness he felt for the first time in his life how -easy it would be to go mad. - -The tramp of feet roused him from a drowsy, half-conscious condition. -The door was flung open and a lantern shone in Wedge’s eyes. The men who -had sat at the table had returned. Two of them cut the cords round his -ankles and pulled him on to his feet. He stood with difficulty, for his -legs were numb. - -The man Dance, who had previously spoken to him, whose evil face had -made an impression on the Colonel’s mind, sat down at the table, and -Wedge was placed before him. - -“Speak no French?” he inquired. - -“No.” - -The man nodded, and played with a thick gold ring on one of his fingers. -His eyes were fixed on the Colonel’s face. - -“What am I here for?” asked Wedge, quietly. - -“You’ll see soon.” - -“Do you want my money?” - -“We’ve taken that already.” - -They looked at each other steadily. The others in the cellar shuffled -uneasily. They did not seem to be so certain of themselves as the man at -the table. - -“You’re an English officer, aren’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“And you’ve seen some fighting?” - -The Colonel shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He refused to -submit to a cross-examination at the hands of this scoundrel. - -“All right,” said the other. “Don’t get angry. I promise you that you’ll -see some more fighting before you die.” - -Something in the man’s expression made Wedge take a quick step towards -the table. - -“What do you mean? Are you going to kill me?” - -There was no answer, but the silence was enough. Wedge relaxed his -attitude slowly. - -“Is it money you need?” he asked, after a pause. - -“What’s the good of offering us money? Once you got out of this place, -you would give us away to the police. Yes, we need money, but not from -you.” - -One thought dominated Wedge’s mind. It was clear that the situation did -not demand any unnecessary heroism. If anything could effect his escape -he was perfectly justified in making use of it. - -“I will give you a thousand pounds, and will promise not to put the -affair in the hands of the police,” he said. - -“He offers money, and gives his word of honour to say nothing to the -police!” exclaimed the other, looking at the men behind Wedge. - -There was an outburst of violent opposition. They were wildly excited. -They were all round Wedge, shouting and gesticulating and brandishing -their fists in his face. He stood impassively in the centre of them with -his hands bound. What was this riot? Why did the eyes of these men shine -so strangely? - -“Two thousand,” he said steadily. - -“Impossible!” The man at the table jumped up. “This is only a waste of -time.” - -He caught up the lantern and went out. The others, pushing Wedge before -them, followed. They passed through a long stone corridor, down some -narrow steps, and stopped before an iron door. Wedge heard the fumbling -of keys, the creak of a rusty lock, and the door swung open. The -interior was dark. - -Dance stood by the door, holding the lantern aloft. In obedience to a -brief command Wedge’s hands were released. - -“Hand him the club.” - -A stout cudgel of twisted wood, with a heavy nobbed end, was thrust into -his hands. But Wedge was a man of action, and he saw in a flash that if -he was to escape from his unknown fate the opportunity had come. They -were trying to push him through the door into the dark interior. - -“_Vite! Il est dangereux!_” exclaimed the man with the lantern. - -But Wedge was too quick. He swung the club swiftly round, and the -lantern fell, smashed to atoms. In a moment he was seized by half a -dozen hands. He fought powerfully, but they hung on to him grimly, and -little by little he was thrust forward. He had not enough space to use -the club. He dropped it and used his fists, and more than once struck -the stone walls in the confusion of the struggle in the dark. Then -someone got hold of his throat, while the others fastened on his arms, -and he was thrown backwards. He heard the clang of the iron door and lay -gasping on the floor. - -A blinding white light suddenly shone down on him. He staggered to his -feet and looked round, shading his eyes with his hands from the dazzling -glare. He was in a circular space bounded by smooth white walls. The -floor was sanded. Above him burned half a dozen arc-lamps, whose -brilliant rays were reflected directly downwards by polished metal -discs. The upper part of the place was in shadow, but he could make out -an iron balcony running partly round the wall, about fifteen feet above -the sanded floor. - -Colonel Wedge went to the wall and began to examine its surface. It was -smooth, and seemed made of painted iron. The outline of the door through -which he had been flung was visible on one side, but directly opposite -there was the outline of another door. He went towards it. It was also -made of iron like the surrounding structure, and apparently opened -outwards. He pushed at it, but it was shut. - -A sound of something falling on the floor made him turn. The wooden -cudgel had been thrown down from the iron platform above. Looking up, he -could dimly see a number of faces staring down at him, and also a couple -of box-like instruments, one at either end of the platform. It was -difficult to see clearly, for the light of the arc-lamps was intense. He -stared up, shielding his eyes, and then suddenly he saw what they were. -A couple of cinematograph machines were trained on the floor below! - -It was not until then that Wedge fully realised his position. The -picture of the man fighting the rattlesnakes was suddenly explained. He -remembered the pit. He walked to the centre and stood with clenched -fists. Here was the pit. _Extremely life-like!_ - -He stooped and picked up the cudgel. At any rate, whatever he had to -face, he would make a fight for it. - -Mechanically he found himself watching the second door. It was through -that door that the menace of death would come. - -Up on the platform they were whispering together. - -His brain was clear, and he felt calm. He knew that whatever came out -from behind that door would have the intention to kill. And he knew, -also, that it was not the wish of the onlookers that he should triumph. -It would not be a fair fight. In the moments of suspense he wondered in -a kind of deliberate, leisurely way what was coming. They would not -repeat the rattlesnake picture. That had already had its victim. In this -arena one man had acted the part of fear with marvellous realism—perhaps -others as well. - -Cudgel in hand, ready and braced, with his free hand at his moustache, -Colonel Wedge waited, his eyes fixed on the door. - -“Ah, I think you understand now,” said a voice out of the shadows above. -“We hope that this will make a fine film, the finest of this series that -we have done yet.” - -Wedge did not move a muscle. - -“We rely on you to do your best for us.” - -Somewhere at the bottom of his heart the Colonel registered a vow that -if he ever got out of that place alive he would kill Dance. - -A chuckle followed and then silence, except for the sizzling of the -arc-lamps. - -Then he heard a sound of clicking. The cinematograph machines had begun. - -“Ready?” - -Wedge took his breath slowly. The door was opening. - -He saw a gap of blackness widening in the white circular wall. The hand -that was at his moustache fell to his side. The cudgel rose a trifle, -and the muscles of his right arm stiffened. Inch by inch, without a -creak, the door swung outwards until it stood widely open. - -For a few seconds nothing appeared. The suspense was becoming -unendurable, and Wedge had just made up his mind to approach when he saw -an indistinct form moving in the background of the shadowy interior, and -next moment a big yellow beast slipped out and stood blinking in the -strong light. He recognised the flat diamond head and tufted ears in a -moment. The door clanged behind it. - -“Puma,” he muttered, with his eyes on the brute, and a spark of hope -glowed in his heart. There were worse brutes to face single-handed than -pumas, and he knew something of the capriciousness of the animal. It was -just possible—— - -His thoughts ceased abruptly. The beast was moving. It slunk on its -belly to the wall, and began to walk slowly round and round. Wedge, -turning as it moved, always faced it. It quickened its pace into a trot, -and as it ran it looked only occasionally at the man in the centre. It -seemed more interested in the wall. At times it stretched its head and -peered upwards. - -In its lean white jaw and yellow eyes there was no message of hatred for -the moment. Suddenly it stopped and listened. The clicking of the -cinematograph had attracted it. It stood up against the wall, clawing at -the paint. Then it squatted on its haunches, with its back to Wedge, and -blinked up at the platform overhead. - -The heavy fetid odour of the beast filled the air. Wedge relaxed himself -a little, but the puma heard the movement, for it looked round swiftly. -It behaved as if it had seen him for the first time, and began to pace -round and round again, eyeing him. It came to a halt near the door from -which it had emerged, and lay down flat, with its paws outstretched, -watching Wedge. He caught the sheen of its eyes. He remained still, for -at the slightest movement the brute quivered. - -As yet he could read nothing vindictive in its look, but he knew that at -any moment it might change into a raging, snarling demon and spring. -Being a believer in the idea that animals are in some way conscious of -the emotional state in others and act accordingly, he tried to banish -all sense of fear and all sense of ill-will from his mind, and look at -it calmly and indifferently. - -The puma, with its fore-paws extended on the sand and its head raised, -blinked lazily at him. It seemed half asleep by its attitude. Sometimes -the brilliant eyes were almost shut. - -“Mordieu!” said a voice above. “He wants rousing.” - -In a flash the animal was on its feet, rigid and glaring up. Apparently -the platform overhead roused its anger. Its tail began to whip from side -to side, and its lip lifted at one corner in a vicious snarl, uncovering -the white fang. - -A clamour of voices broke out. The whole aspect of the beast changed. -Its eyes blazed. It stooped on its belly, glaring upwards. Was it -possible it recognised an old enemy amongst the spectators? - -Wedge waited anxiously, and the sweat began to break out on his brow. - -With bared claws, the animal crouched, still looking upwards. It seemed -to have forgotten Wedge. The men were shouting at it and stamping with -their feet on the iron floor of the platform. The beast put one paw out -and crept forward. The muscles rippled and bulged under the skin. - -“It’s going to spring,” thought Wedge. “But it’s not looking at me.” - -Slowly step by step the beast advanced. It passed scarcely two feet away -from Wedge, and went on without looking at him. When it was almost -directly under the platform it stopped and snarled upwards. - -Then someone threw a lighted match on its back, and straightway it -became transformed into the devil-cat of tradition. - -Wedge was never quite clear as to its movements after that, for it -flashed round the arena like a streak of yellow lightning He raised his -club, but the brute was not after him. It went twice, and then a third -time, round the white walls, and stopped for an instant, taut and low on -the sandy floor. And then it shot up in a magnificent leap towards the -shadows above the arc-lamps. - -The shouts from the platform ceased suddenly, and then a wild hubbub -broke out. - -Wedge heard the rattling and scraping of the beast’s claws against the -railings above and a shriek of terror. There was a stampede of feet. A -loud series of snarls followed and the sound of a body falling heavily. - -Wedge stood for a moment dazed. Then he dashed across to the door -through which the beast had entered, and flung all his weight against -it. He tried again and again with all the weight of his powerful -shoulders. It yielded with a crash, and he fell flat into the cage on -the other side, amongst the foul straw. - -He was up in an instant. By the light of the arc-lamps in the arena he -could make out that the cage had an iron grating on one side closed by a -bolt. He thrust his hand through the bars and worked back the bolt. Next -moment he was out of the cage and running down a dark stone corridor, -cudgel in hand, and determined to brain anyone who stood in his path. At -the top of a flight of steps he came to a door barred from the inside. -He flung aside the fastenings and staggered out into the sweet night -air. - -When the police raided the cellars under the cinematograph show a few -hours later, led by Wedge, they found the puma asleep in its open cage, -and above, on the iron platform, all that was left of Mr. Dance, -inventor and producer of life-like films. - -It was not until daylight came that Wedge discovered they had blackened -his eyebrows and drawn disfiguring lines across his face. - - - - - Lame Dogs - - _By_ Cosmo Hamilton - - _Royal Naval Air Service_ - - -The sun fell straightly upon a great golden cornfield. Already the -sickle had been at work upon its edges, and tall bundles, among whose -feet the vermilion poppy peeped, stood head-to-head at regular -distances. Among the ripe heads of the uncut corn the intermittent puffs -of a soft August breeze whispered, offering congratulations and perhaps -condolences—congratulations mostly, because what is there more beautiful -and right in all the year’s usefulness than the glorious fulfilment of -the spring’s green promise? - -All the hours of a busy morning had been marked off melodiously by the -old clock of an older church which stood with maternal dignity among -gravestones several fields away. It wanted only a few moments to the -hour of one. A brawny son of the soil, tanned of face, neck, and arms, -who had been working in the angle of the field nearest the road, had -just laid down his sickle and his crooked stick. - -He was hot, but satisfied. He was also sharp-set, and very ready for the -dinner that awaited him, with beer, at his cottage on the outskirts of -the village. He sang, quietly and monotonously, in a typical burring -way, a song which was written in praise of boiled beef and carrots. And -while he sang he dabbed his face and neck with a startling handkerchief -of red and yellow. - -Swallows, flying high, skimmed the air playfully. Flocks of sparrows -moved quickly among the standing corn, no longer frightened by the tin -with stones in it, that was rattled by a slow-footed boy in the -distance. They were eager to get their fill of stolen fruits before -their natural enemies removed it from their beaks. The air was alive -with the glimmering heat, and the shadows of the trees were almost -straight. - -One sounded, and before the bell’s reverberations had blown away, a note -of discord in the delicious harmony was struck by the sudden appearance -of a man, who leaned on the white gate which divided the field from the -road. - -He was a short, slight, odd-looking creature, dressed in clothes that -were rather too smart, and a green dump hat a little the worse for wear. -His clean-shaven face, mobile and curiously lined, was pale and a little -pinched, and the whole limp appearance of the man showed that he was -only just recovering from an illness. Across one shoulder a knapsack was -slung, and behind his left ear there rested a cigarette. A pearl was -stuck in a rather loud tie, and there was a large ring on one of his -little fingers. - -There was something both comic and pathetic In the figure, and -everything that was peculiarly the very antithesis of the exquisite -rural surroundings. The initials “R. D.” were stencilled on the -knapsack, and they stood for Richard Danby, a name that was well known -in towns, but wholly unknown among cornfields and under the blue, -unsmoked sky. - -Danby, who had gladly leaned on the gate to rest, watched the big, -muscular man for a moment, with eyes in which there was admiration, and -listened to the unmusical rendering of a song which had trickled, note -by note, into the country from London, with amusement. He then adopted -an air of forced cheerfulness and clapped his hands. - -“Bravo!” he said. “Bravo!” - -Peter Pippard turned slowly, antagonistically. - -“Eh?” he said. - -The little man waved his ringed hand. - -“I said ’Bravo’—well rendered. What is it? An aria from _Faust_, or a -little thing of your own?” - -The big man was puzzled and surprised. - -“Eh?” he said again. - -Danby was not to be beaten. There was something in his manner which -showed that he was in the habit of addressing himself to audiences and -talking for effect. - -“How delightful,” he continued, with fluent insincerity, “to find a -peasant in song! A merry heart wags all the day. Who wouldn’t be happy -among the golden corn, in touch with Nature, with the field-bugs -gambolling over one’s back!” - -“Eh?” - -Danby laughed. - -“You find me a little flowery; I am flying too high for you. I am -indulging in aeroplanics. I’ll come down to the good red earth. Marnin’, -matey. How’s t’crops?” - -The imitation of the country accent was ridiculously exaggerated. The -farm-hand examined the town man searchingly and suspiciously. - -“Eh?” he said again. - -“Beat again!” said Danby, with a shriek of laughter. - -Pippard went closer, but slowly. - -“Want onythin’, mister?” he asked. - -“No. Oh Lord, no! I only want to get some other word out of you than -‘eh.’” - -“Oh,” said Pippard. - -“Thanks. Thanks most awfully. Now we’re moving.... Well, how’s the corn? -It looks fine and fat.” - -“Ah,” said Pippard, grinning broadly and affectionately. - -The little man bowed. He seemed to be saying things which would arouse -laughter among an invisible audience. - -“Again I thank you. Yes, very fine and fat. You’ve been punching out and -giving them thick ears. What?” - -The examination was continued. - -“You doan’t seem ter be talkin’ sense, mister.” - -Another shriek of laughter disturbed the characteristic peacefulness. - -“Congratulations! You’ve discovered me. How can I talk sense when I’m -trying to be sociable? You don’t object to a little bright conversation, -do you?” - -“Noa.” - -“Well, we’ll cut generalities and come to facts. How’s the twins?” - -“Ain’t got no twins.” - -“Nonsense! I don’t believe it. A great, big, brawny fellow like you. I -take it you’ve got some nippers?” - -Pippard chuckled. “Three girls and two boys.” - -“Ah, that’s something like! Again congratulations! It’s very kind of you -to ask me to come over. Since you’re so pressing, I think I will.” He -climbed over the gate a little painfully and walked jauntily into the -field. - -The farm-hand broke into a laugh. “Ah reckon as ’ow you’re a funny man, -ain’t you?” - -The little man became suddenly serious, so suddenly and so eagerly -serious, that if Pippard had been endowed with the first glimmerings of -psychology, he would have been startled and a little nervous. “Are you -joking, or do you mean it? Is it possible that I make you laugh? Is it -possible?” - -“The very sight o’ you gives me a ticklin’ inside,” was the reply. - -Danby seized the brawny and surprised hand and wrung it warmly. “God -bless you, dear old Hodge!” he said hoarsely. “God bless you!” Then he -laughed merrily. “You make me feel like an attack of bronchitis.” - -The feeble joke went home. Pippard roared. “There you goes agin,” he -said. “What _are_ yer, mister? A hartist?” - -“An artist? Oh, dear no. Oh, God bless me, no! I’m an artiste.” - -“What’s the difference, any’ow?” - -If the little man had asked for his cue, he could not have got it more -readily. “An artist earns his bread-and-butter by putting paint on -canvas, and an artiste gets an occasional dish of tripe and onions by -putting paint on his face.” - -“Ah reckon as ’ow you’re an artiste, mister, although Ah can’t see no -paint on yer face.” - -“I washed over twelve months ago,” said Danby sadly. “Oh, by the way, am -I trespassing?” - -“Well, it all depends on wot ye’re a-goin’ ter do.” - -“Eat, old boy. If you’ve no objection I’m going to spread out my _hors -d’œuvres_ and _pâté de foie gras_, and lunch al-fresco.” - -“Don’t onderstand a blame wurd,” said Pippard, grinning. - -“Putting it in plain English, I’m going to wrestle with half a loaf of -bread and two slices of cold ham. Will you join me? Do.” The invitation -was made eagerly. “Stay here and let me hear you laugh. It does me more -good than a whole side of streaky bacon.” - -Pippard scratched his head doubtfully. “Well, Ah told th’ old ’ooman as -’ow Ah’d be wome for dinner,” he said. - -“The old woman must not be disappointed. Do you pass a pub on your way -home?” - -“Can’t go anywhere from ’ere without passin’ a poob.” - -Danby squeezed a shilling into the great sun-tanned fist. - -“Well, call in and get a drink.” - -“Thankee, Ah doan’t mind if Ah do.” - -“Drink to my health. I don’t suppose you want a drink more than I want -health.” He walked round the farm-labourer admiringly. He looked like a -smooth-haired terrier who had suddenly met a St. Bernard. “My word, I’d -give something to be a man like you. What muscle, what bones, what a -back! What a hand! It’s as big as a leg of mutton. Do you ever get tired -of being healthy? Do you ever wake up in the morning and say: ‘O Lord, -I’m still as strong as an ox—why can’t I get a nice thumping headache to -keep me in bed?’” - -It was altogether too much for the man who rose with the sun and went to -bed with the sun and worked out in the fields all day long; the big, -simple, healthy, natural man, whose life was a series of seasons, to -whom there was no tragedy except bad weather, and a lack of work and -wages. This odd little creature, who said unexpected things as though he -meant them, and asked funny questions seriously, was “a comic”—such a -man as the clown who came with the circus twice a year, and played the -fool in the big tent which was pitched on the green and lighted with -flares of gas. Pippard laughed so loudly that he scared the eager -sparrows. - -“There you go,” he said. “Ah reckon as ’ow you was born funny.” - -Danby eyed him keenly and wistfully. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked. -“_Me?_” - -“Laffin’? Why, you’d make an old sow laff.” - -“You amaze me,” said Danby. He gave the man another shilling. “Get -further drinks on your way back. You’re—you’re a pink pill for pale -people, old boy.” - -“Ah _must_ go,” said Pippard reluctantly. - -“Yes, you trudge off to the old woman and get your dinner. I’ll drink -your health in a glass of water and a tabloid.” - -Pippard got into his coat and re-lit a short black clay. - -“Well, good day, and thankee.” - -“Good day, and thank _you_.” Danby held out his hand. It was thin and -pale. It was grasped and shaken monstrously. “That’s right—hurt it. Go -on; hurt it. You make me feel almost manly.... Good day and good luck! -My love to the old woman and the kids, and the rabbit, and the old dog, -and granny.” - -Laughing again, the big man marched off, made small work of the gate, -and trudged away. Danby followed him up to the gate, and stood watching -him curiously and admiringly, and as he watched he spoke his thoughts -aloud. - -“Good day, giant,” he said. “Good day, simple son of the soil, who eats -hearty, drinks like a fish, and digests everything. Good-bye, man who -knows nothing, and doesn’t want to know anything. I’d give ten years of -my life for five of yours any day. Well, well.” - -He turned with a sigh, took off his hat and hung it on a twig of the -hedge, and then divested himself of his knapsack. This he unstrapped, -and, taking out a napkin, spread it with a certain neatness on the -grass, and set upon it a loaf, a piece of Cheddar cheese, a lettuce, and -several slices of ham wrapped in paper, a knife and fork. To this not -unappetising meal he added a large green bottle of water. - -“Ah!” he said. A sudden thought struck him. He put his finger and thumb -into a waistcoat pocket, and brought out a small bottle of tabloids. He -swallowed one with many grimaces and much effort. He sighed again and -sat down. He looked with feigned interest at the eatables in front of -him for several minutes. He then shook his head and gave an expressive -gesture. “No,” he said aloud, in order that he might not feel quite so -lonely. “No, not hungry. Beautiful food, clean napkin, lettuce washed in -the brook, no appetite—not one faint semblance of a twist!” - -It appeared from the startled flight of a thrush from the hedge that R. -D. was not to be lonely after all. Another person bent over the gate, -and looked into the cornfield, seemed perfectly satisfied, and climbed -over. “This is all right,” she said. “Carlton, S.W. Oh!” - -The exclamation was involuntary. The girl caught sight of the man and -pulled up short. - -Danby sprang to his feet. The girl was pretty; and although her once -smart clothes were shabby, and her shoes very much the worse for wear, -she looked a nice, honest, frank creature, aglow with health and youth -and optimism. Danby caught up his hat, put it on, and took it off again -in his best society manner. - -“No intrusion,” he said. “Just a little al-fresco lunch, nothing more.” - -The girl smiled. Her teeth were very small and white and regular. “That -was my idea,” she said. “Not in the way, I hope?” - -“Oh, please,” replied Danby. “The sight of some one eating may inspire -me and give me the much-desired appetite.” - -A ringing laugh was caught up by the gentle breeze. - -“I should like to be able to eat enough to starve mine. Good morning!” - -“Good morning!” said Danby. He bowed again, and hung his hat back on the -twig. He was not a little disappointed. He had hoped for conversation -and companionship. He sat down, but with interested eyes watched the -girl unpack her luncheon quickly and deftly. She had no napkin. She -spread her bread and meat on a sheet of newspaper, and cleaned her knife -by thrusting it into the earth and wiping it on the grass. He noticed -that her shoes were very dusty, and came to the conclusion that she had -walked some distance. He was right. He caught her eye and looked away -quickly. - -“I beg pardon!” he said. - -“Granted, I’m sure.” Danby’s manners were excellent. - -“You haven’t got such a thing as a pinch of salt, I suppose?” - -“I can oblige you with all the condiments, including a little A1 sauce.” - -The girl laughed again. It was a charming laugh. “Oh, I can do without -that,” she said. - -Danby, only too glad of an excuse to be of use, scrambled to his feet -and made his way across the golden stubble to the girl’s side. In his -hand he held a small tobacco-tin. He opened it and held it out. - -“Navy-cut?” she said, with wide-eyed surprise. - -“An old ‘Dreadnought’ turned into a merchant ship. It’s quite clean.” - -“Oh, thanks most awfully!” She helped herself to salt. - -“Not at all,” said Danby. “Any little thing like that.... Good day!” - -“Good day!” she said. - -But Danby did not move. The girl’s kind heart was reflected in her blue -eyes. Never in his life had he needed sympathy and companionship so -desperately. He felt that even his long-lost appetite would return if -she were to invite him to eat with her. - -She too was lonely, although her indomitable courage did not permit her -to own it, even to herself. There was, too, something about the little -man that was very attractive, something which made her feel sorry for -him. She wished that he would ask her if he might join her and bring his -own food. What was it about him which reminded her of some one she had -seen before? - -“Rather nice here, isn’t it?” she said. - -He replied quickly, eagerly. - -“Charming!” he said. “So sylvan.” - -“So whater?” - -“Sylvan. French for rustic.” - -“Oh, French!” - -“Yes; I beg your pardon.” - -“Good day!” she said. - -“Good day!” he replied. - -He returned reluctantly to his pitch. He felt that he deserved his -dismissal. It was a very foolish thing to have shown that he was -something of a scholar. Evidently she considered that he was putting on -side. - -He sat down and made a sandwich. He felt that he could eat it with some -enjoyment if he were seated on the other side of her square of -newspaper. As it was.... - -The girl gave a short laugh. - -“I’m afraid I’m a great nuisance,” she began apologetically. - -“Not at all. Far from it.” There was another chance, then. - -“You haven’t got such a thing as a touch of mustard, I suppose?” - -“Oh yes, I have. Almost quite fresh.” - -He got up again, and carried a little cold-cream pot with him. - -“Oh, thank you!” She took the pot and gazed at its label, with raised -eyebrows. - -“It’s a has-been,” he said hastily. “I’m a bit of an engineer. -Everything comes in useful.” - -“Oh—thanks frightfully.” She helped herself. - -“Honoured and delighted.” He remained standing over her. - -She looked up. - -“Anything I can do for you, now?” - -“Yes, if you would. When you came here you said something about Carlton -Hotel.” - -“Oh, that was a poor attempt at wit.” - -Danby’s hand went up to his tie. It was extraordinary how nervous he -felt these days. - -“Don’t think me intrusive, but suppose we imagine that this is the -Carlton Hotel, and that all the tables are full except one.” - -“Well?” - -“Well, in that case, as you and I both wish to lunch, it would be very -natural for us to be put at the same table, wouldn’t it? Do you take -me?” - -The girl laughed heartily. - -“Come on, then. Two’s company.” - -“How kind you are!” said Danby. “It will give me an appetite for the -first time for months.” He hurried to his belongings and brought them -back. “I know this is very irregular, our not having been introduced, -but I don’t think under the circumstances it will cause a scandal in -high life.” - -“No, nor a paragraph in the weeklies.” - -Danby respread his napkin and arranged his things on it. A sudden -unexpected sensation of high spirits infected him. - -He adopted what he considered to be the manner of a man of the world. - -“Waitah, waitah!” he called, shooting his cuffs. “Great heaven, where’s -that waitah! I shall really have to lodge a complaint with the manager. -Hi! you in last week’s shirt, her ladyship and I have been waiting here -for five minutes and no one’s been near us. It’s a disgrace. Don’t stand -gaping there, sir, with a Swiss grin. Alley-vous ang. Gettey-vous gone -toute suite, and bringey moi le menu. Verfluchtes, geschweinhund!” He -waved the imaginary waiter away. “Pray pardon my heat, Lady Susan.” - -The girl was intensely amused. - -“Oh, certainly, Lord Edmund,” she replied, assuming an elaborately -refined accent. - -Danby kept it up. - -“Do you find the glare of the electric light too much for you? Shall I -complain about the orchestra?” - -“One must endure these things in these places, your lordship. Were you -riding in the Row this morning?” - -“Yaas.” Danby twirled an imaginary moustache. “I had a canter. My mare -cast a shoe—sixteen buttons. I rode her so hard that she strained her -hemlock. She’s a good little mare. Has fourteen hands, and plenty of -action. She’s a bit of a roarer, but then her mother was ridden by a -Cabinet Minister.” - -“You haven’t taken to a car, then?” - -“Oh, yes. I’ve got one Fit and two Damlers. The annoying thing is, I’ve -just lost my chauffeur.” - -“Oh, really? How?” - -“He dropped an oath into the petrol-tank and was seen no more.” - -“What an absurdly careless person!” - -Danby dropped acting, and eyed the girl keenly. - -“I say,” he exclaimed, “that was good!” - -“So’s that ham,” said the girl involuntarily. - -Instantly Danby’s fork prodded the best piece. - -“Have some. Do!” - -“Sure you can spare it?” - -“It would be a pity to waste it. I can’t tackle more than one slice.” - -The girl held out a slice of bread. - -“Haven’t seen ham for ten days,” she said simply. “It’s an awfully odd -thing.” - -“What? The ham?” - -“No; your face.” - -Danby laughed. - -“You’re not the first who’s thought so.” - -“And your voice is familiar, too,” said the girl. - -Danby pretended to misunderstand. She had provided him with a chance he -simply could not resist. - -“Familiar? Oh, don’t say that. I thought I was behaving like an -undoubted gentleman—one of the old régime.” - -The girl examined the little man with a sudden touch of excitement. - -“Look here,” she said. “Tell me the truth. Haven’t you been a -picture-postcard?” - -“Yes,” said Danby bitterly, “oh dear, yes! A year ago I was to be found -in all the shops, between Hackenschmidt and the German Emperor.” - -“I’ve got it!” she cried. “I know you.” - -“No, you don’t,” said Danby. - -“I do. I recognise you.” - -“I think not. No one could recognise _me_ now.” - -“But I do. You’re Dick Danby—_the_ Dick Danby. The famous Dick Danby. -The Dick Danby who used to set all London laughing, who played Widow -Twankey at Drury Lane, and topped the bill at the Tivoli and the Pav.” - -The little man’s thin pale hands went up to his face. - -“Oh, don’t!” he said, bursting into tears. “I can’t bear it.” - -For a moment the girl was not sure whether this unexpected emotion was -not part of the celebrated funny man’s comic method. She was about to -laugh, when she found that Danby’s shoulders were shaking with very real -and very terrible sobs. She was intensely surprised and upset and -touched. She had never seen a man cry before. She put a soft hand on his -arm. - -“Oh, Mr. Danby,” she said, “what is it—what’s the matter?” - -“Haven’t you heard? Dick Danby’s done for—gone under—gone _phut_. Dick -Danby that was; Dick Danby that is no more. Dick Danby, that used to -make ’em laugh, is a broken man. Oh, my God!” - -[Illustration: “He came forward with a life-like walk and smile. ‘Oh, -how do you do, my dear Mrs. Richmansworth?’ he said” (page 95).] - -“Oh, don’t go on like that!” said the girl brokenly. “You’ll make me cry -if you do. What’s happened, Mr. Danby?” - -The little man shook himself angrily. He was ashamed of himself. He -didn’t know that he had become so weak, so unstrung, so little master of -himself. - -“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never cried before. It was your recognising -me. I didn’t think any one could recognise me as I am now. It was -overwork, overstrain, three halls a night—I couldn’t stand it. I tried -to struggle on, but it was no use. I earned my living as a funny man. -Can you imagine what it means to a funny man to find that his jokes -don’t go? Can you imagine what it meant for me to stand waiting in the -wings for my number to go up, trembling all over with fear and fright, -and then to face the public that used to roar with delight, and get a -few scattered hands? Oh, those awful nights! The crowd, no longer my -friends, who struck matches and talked. The look of pity on the face of -the conductor, and the few words from the stage door when I crept away: -‘Never mind, Mr. Danby; can’t always expect to knock ’em, y’know.’ Do -you wonder that I fretted myself into an illness? Do you wonder that -I’ve been creeping about the country, afraid to face the managers? I’m -done. I’m a funny man gone unfunny. I’m the Dick Danby that can’t get -his laughs.” - -The girl listened to this painful confession with intense sympathy. She -too had earned a hard living on the music-hall stage. She too knew what -it was to fail in her anxious endeavour to win applause. She too was at -that moment tramping to London in search of work, with only a few -shillings between the lodging-house and the Salvation Army shelter. -There was something very different between her case and Richard Danby’s. -She was an insignificant member of a large army of music-hall artistes -whose place was always at the very beginning or the very end of the -programme. When she had the good fortune to be in work, her salary was a -bare living wage, and it was only by stinting herself of the few -luxuries of life that she could put by a few pounds for a rainy day. -Dick Danby’s case was utterly—almost ludicrously—different. His salary -for years had been large enough to take her breath away. He had earned -more in a week than she had earned in a year. His health had broken -down, and his nerves and confidence had left him, but, at any rate, he -was not faced, or likely to be faced, with starvation and the -Embankment, and other terrors that were unmentionable. - -“Don’t take it to heart, Mr. Danby,” she said cheerily. “You’ll get -better, never fear, and knock ’em again. And, until then, you can be a -country gentleman, and enjoy yourself. Think of all the money you’ve -made!” - -Danby gave a curious little laugh. - -“And spent,” he said. “Money? Oh, yes, I made money—money to burn—and I -burnt it—in the usual way. I thought my day would go on for ever, but, -like other thoughtless fools, I made a mistake. It came to a sudden -end.” - -“But—but you don’t mean to tell me that you haven’t saved, Mr. Danby?” - -“Saved?” Danby laughed again. “Have you ever heard that the word ‘save’ -isn’t in the dictionary of the men who earn their living behind the -footlights? I’ve got just enough left to keep me on the road till the -end of the summer.” - -“And then?” - -“And then—the workhouse or the prison.” - -“Never, never!” cried the girl. “Never!” - -A great thrill ran through the little man’s veins. The emphatic cry was -the best thing he had heard for many long, depressing months. The fact -that it came from a shabby girl who might be in a worse plight than -himself did not seem to matter. - -“But what am I to do?” he asked. - -The girl did not hesitate. - -“Go back to the halls with new and better turns,” she said strongly. - -Danby shuddered, and went back, snail-like, into his shell. - -“I couldn’t. I couldn’t face ’em. Who’d have me now?” - -“The Coliseum; the Hippodrome.” - -“They’d never look at me. _Me?_ They only want good stuff—first-rate -stuff—all stars.” - -“But you are a star!” - -“A fallen star. No; it’s the workhouse for me. I’m a ‘has-been,’ a -waster.” - -“Who will be again,” said the girl. “Mr. Danby, I know _you_, and what -you’re capable of. _I’ve_ been in the same bill with you, and you -haven’t _begun_ to show ’em what you can do yet.” - -Danby looked at this girl, whose young voice quivered with confidence, -with a new interest. - -“_You_ in the same bill with _me_!” - -“Yes. You’ve never heard of the Sisters Ives?” - -Danby wrinkled up his forehead. - -“The Sisters Ives? Fanny and Emily Ives?” - -“I’m Fanny. Emily’s dead. We did pretty well together, but somehow—I -dunno, I don’t seem to catch on alone. I’m tramping back to London.” She -was unable to keep her resolutely cheerful voice quite steady, or -prevent her smiling mouth from trembling. - -Danby bent forward and caught Fanny’s hand, and held it warmly. - -“Oh, my dear,” he said. “My dear.” - -There was no longer any need for society manners between these two, nor -introductions nor small-talk. They had become brother and sister—two -human beings on the same hard road. - -“So we’re both of us lame dogs, eh?” he said. - -“Yes,” said Fanny, “but not too lame to give each other a hand over the -stile. _I’m_ not going to give up barking, and you’re not, either.” - -“I’ve got no bark left in me,” said Danby sadly. “Not even a growl.” - -The girl sprang to her feet. Her young body seemed to be alight with -energy. - -“Don’t talk nonsense, Mr. Danby!” she said. “Cock up your tail, go -springy on your feet, and come back to London, and give ’em a bit of the -old. D’you mean to tell me that you can’t remember the knack you had of -doing the blear-eyed major?” - -Danby was beginning to feel horribly excited. His depression seemed to -be lifting like a mist. - -“I can remember nothing,” he said irritably. “I tell you I’m no good. -I’ve lost my pluck!” He said these things merely in the hope that they -might be denied. - -“Go on. Pluck! You only want a shove. I’m not going to have any of that -sort of thing, believe me. You’ve got to wake up, you have. You’ve got -to be brought in from grass and stuck into harness again. Now, no -nonsense. I’m the great B. P., I am, for the time being. Now, then, on -you come. The blear-eyed major, quick. We’ll take the song for sung. -Come to the patter!” - -Danby’s fingers twitched, and already he had flung out his chest and -squared his shoulders. - -“I—I can’t,” he said. - -“You shall!” said Fanny. - -“But—but what about make-up?” - -Fanny nearly gave a shout of triumph. It had got as far as make-up. She -was winning! - -“Make-up!” she scoffed. “A great artiste wants no make-up!” - -“But I must have a moustache. I never did the major without something to -twirl.” - -Fanny’s quick hands were up to her hair. - -“Here you are,” she said, holding out a curl. “Bit of my extra. Go on -now. Get it up.” - -Danby caught it, and laughed. He was shaking with excitement. - -“You—you inspire me,” he said. “You—fill me with new life. How can I -stick it on? I know. Mustard!” - -He rushed to the cold-cream pot, put his fingers into it, rubbed the -thick yellow stuff on his upper lip, and stuck on the curl. Then he -seized his hat, cocked it on at an angle of forty-five, buttoned up his -coat, and strutted about like an irascible bantam cock. - -“Armay? Armay? My dear lady, we have no Armay! It was taken over by a -lawyer as a hobby. It’s a joke, a bad joke, at which nobody laughs. When -you ask about the Armay you go back to the days of my youth, when I was -in the 45th—a deuce of a feller too, I give you my word. We officers of -Her Majesty’s British Armay were fine fellows, handsome dorgs, my dear -lady; and I think I may say I am the last of the fruitay old barkers who -could make love as well as they could fight. Oh, l’amour, l’amour! Do -you kiss?” - -There was in this rapidly touched-in sketch something of portraiture -which was not spoilt by the banality of the patter. It was, perhaps, the -portrait of the stage-major, but it was the portrait of a man who might -conceivably have lived even for the strong note of caricature. - -Fanny danced with delight, and clapped her hands until they smarted. - -“Hot stuff, Mr. Danby; very hot stuff!” - -“No; it’s rotten. Hopeless. You’d better give me up!” Danby, still -afraid to believe in himself, took off the impromptu moustache and -unbuttoned his coat. - -“Give you up! I’ll see you further. Now, then. The woman turn. Quick. -You were a scream as a woman, Mr. Danby dear.” - -“The woman! How can I?” He looked round for his properties—wig, bonnet, -dress, umbrella, little dog. His hands fluttered impotently. - -Fanny was ready for him—ready for anything. She was playing the angel, -the Florence Nightingale. She was bringing back a human being to life, -to a sense of responsibility, to a realisation of power, putting him on -his feet again. She intended to win. - -“Here you are,” she said. “Get into this.” - -With quick, deft fingers she undid her belt and some hooks, slipped her -skirt down, stepped out of it, and threw it at him. In her short, -striped petticoat she looked younger and prettier and more honest than -ever. - -Danby gave a gurgle of excitement. - -“Oh!” he said. “Oh, Miss Ives, you—you beat me, you——” He got into the -skirt. - -“That’s the notion,” she said. “Now get into this.” She had whipped off -her hat and held it out. - -Danby took it. If Pippard had caught sight of him as he stood among the -stubble in a skirt beneath his coat he would have fallen into what might -turn out to be a dangerous fit of laughter. - -“But how about hair?” asked Danby. “Oh, I know.” - -It was an inspiration. He darted to the nearest rick, plucked out a -handful of golden corn, twisted it into a sort of halo, put it on -turbanwise, and placed the hat on top. The effect was excellent; but it -was the expression of the little actor’s face which did more to put -before his audience of one the garrulous, spiteful, prying woman than -the skirt and hat put together. - -He came forward with a life-like walk and smile. - -“Oh, how do you do, my dear Mrs. Richmansworth?” he said. “I’m afraid -I’m a little late, but I only just remembered that it’s the third -Thursday. I see you’ve got a new knocker. It represents a gargoyle, or a -Chinese god, does it not? Or is it a fancy portrait of your husband? How -is dear Mr. Richmansworth? Better! Ah, I wish I could say the same for -mine. _My_ husband.... But there; the least said the soonest mended. I -see that you’ve been having some coal in to-day. Isn’t it dreadful how -coal has risen? I don’t call it coal now—I call it yeast. My husband.... -But let us talk of pleasant things. I see that you’ve lost your -next-door neighbour. She was a good woman, and a great personal friend -of mine; but I must say, in all fairness and in very truth, that she -won’t be missed, for her tongue was bitter and her words poison. No, -thank you! I will not take tea. I was foolish enough to drink a cup at -Mrs. Snodgrass’s; and although I don’t wish to go into details, I might -just as well have swallowed a cannon-ball. I’m that swollen, I could -hardly put my gloves on. I think it’s called gastritis.” - -Fanny roared with delight. The absurd patter was said with an -unmistakable touch of humour which would have appealed irresistibly to -any music-hall audience. - -“Good old Dick Danby!” she cried. “It’s a case of six weeks at the -Coliseum and fifteen on the road, with a star line on the bills. Give me -my skirt.” - -“I beg your pardon!” He got out of it quickly. “Oh, if only I dared! If -only I had the pluck to face my friends in front again! ‘Return of Mr. -Richard Danby,’ eh?” - -“That’s it! It’s a cert.! It’s fine! You’re up to your best form. You -only want a couple of good songs, and your face will gleam again in all -the shop windows.” - -Danby put his trembling hands on the girl’s shoulders. - -“Oh, Miss Ives! Oh, Fanny, you’re better than all the medicine. You’re a -lady doctor—a hospital of lady doctors. You’ve bucked me up. You’ve -given me back my pluck. Come on—to London—to London!” - -“Yes,” cried Fanny, “to London!” - -Danby ran to his knapsack and began to pack it feverishly. The colour -had returned to his face. His eyes were alight. He laughed as he packed. -They both laughed; and when, a few minutes later, they faced each other -again, ready for the road, they both looked as if a fairy had touched -them with her wand. - -“Your sister’s dead,” said Danby, “and you’re down on your luck. Join -forces with me, and we’ll do a turn together—_this_ turn, _this_ story, -just as we’ve done it here, and we’ll call it ‘Lame Dogs.’” - -Fanny’s tears started to her eyes. - -“Oh, Mr. Danby, do you mean that?” - -Danby almost shouted with excitement. - -“Mean it? I never meant anything so seriously in my life. Dick Danby and -Fanny Ives at ten o’clock nightly. That’s what I mean, my dear. You’ve -done it. You’ve helped a lame dog over a stile. In future, I won’t work -only for myself. I’ll work for you too. Little Dick Danby’s on his feet -again. Little Dick Danby’s believed in. He’s come face to face with Miss -Fanny Hope Faith Charity Ives, and he won’t let her go. Is it a -contract?” - -Fanny tried to take the outstretched hand. She tried to speak, and -failed. Danby bent down and put his lips on her sleeve. Then he led her -to the stile, helped her over, and together they took the road which led -to London. - - - - - The Silver Thaw - - _By_ R. E. Vernede - - _Rifle Brigade_ - - -A silver thaw had set in. The icy rain fell so suddenly and so quickly -that Masson felt his car skid on what had been a dry—almost a -dusty—high-road before he was well aware of the cause. Two minutes later -the imperative necessity of pulling up became apparent, and he came to a -stop at the end of a hundred yards’ slide. - -“If it had been downhill,” he thought to himself, “the depreciation on -this particular four and a half horse-power de Dion would have been -considerable. I suppose I’m in luck.” - -The luck, on second thoughts, was of a very dubious kind. A mist, -following on the break of the frost, had already obscured the beauty of -the night; the roadway seemed absolutely deserted, and the nearest -approach to a village was, as Masson guessed, some five miles off. His -lamps, shining upon what might have been a frozen canal between two high -hedges, showed that he could as well have been twenty miles from a -village for all chance he had of getting there either on foot or on -wheels. Pulling out his watch, he found the time to be ten o’clock. He -had been about half an hour on the road. Calculating that he had done -some twelve miles, and that there were fifty separating the place he had -dined at from the place he had intended to reach, he was still -thirty-eight miles from the latter. - -“No London for me to-night,” he said, turning up his coat-collar. “This -thaw may turn to rain and it may not. The point is, what am I to do if -it doesn’t?” He stood up in the car to prospect. - -An answer came in lights that glowed yellow through the mist, from some -house evidently that stood a little off the road to the left. They had -been hidden until that moment by the hedge, and seemed all the nearer -now for their suddenness. They meant shelter from that icy drip, -possibly a bed for the night. There was no resisting the prospect. -Masson climbed gingerly down, commended the car to Providence, and made -for a white gate in the hedge that seemed to indicate the entrance to -the drive. His fingers were so numbed that he could scarcely unlatch it. - -Any one who has tried the business of walking in what is -called—romantically enough—a silver thaw will know that romance is the -last thing that occupies the mind of a person so engaged. The constant -striving to remain perpendicular, the grovelling with unseizable earth -forced upon a man who has sat down upon it with an unexpectedness that -is outside all experience, the doubts as to whether any material -progress can be made except on all fours, combine to keep the attention -fixed upon practical things. Add the darkness of a clouded winter sky, a -gathering mist, and a path—if it could be called a path—at once barely -visible and totally unknown, and it will be clear that a man -encountering these difficulties will be justified in wishing romance to -the deuce. Masson wished it further before he had done with it that -night. - -The only warning that he had before he was plunged into it, willy-nilly, -was the sound of a whistle, as of some one expressing surprise, from the -high-road he had left. He imagined that it proceeded from some yokel who -had come upon the deserted de Dion, and he sincerely hoped that the -yokel would not have the time or inclination to overhaul its machinery. -For a moment, indeed, with some of the yearning instinct of the motorist -for his car, he thought of returning to it and warning the yokel off. -The very act of trying to come to a decision, however, made his heels go -from under him, and when he had got them under control again the -decision was formed. It was to reach the house—or congeal. - -Another five minutes’ skidding and he reached it. The back of it -apparently, for there was no door. The result of a polite hail was that -a window was opened from overhead, and a voice—a girl’s voice—said: - -“Is it you?” She said it in a whisper, only just audible. - -“Who?” returned Masson, a little surprised. - -It was not, perhaps, an intelligent question, but it did not seem to -justify what followed. The window was shut with a little shriek, and a -pair—or two pairs—of sturdy arms closed about Masson’s body. It did not -require so much force as was used to bring him to the ground, his -antagonist or antagonists on top of him. He explained as much with some -warmth as he lay there, but only had the satisfaction of hearing one of -the men say to the other—there were two, it seemed: “You tak’ un by the -lags, Mr. Board, and ef ’e tries kicken’, Ah’ll gi’e un a jog in the -belly.” - -“Right y’are, Jenkins.... Now, sir, gently, if you please.” - -The last words were addressed to Masson, and he guessed, from the tone -of reluctant respect, that the speaker was some house-servant. Probably -the butler. - -“All right,” he said. “Only, if you’re going to carry me, for Heaven’s -sake be careful. If you drop me, it’s murder, mind. You’ll be hanged for -it.” - -“No fear, sir,” said Mr. Board genially. “We won’t hurt you, never fear. -What the squire’ll do is another matter, sir, as I dessay you guess. -Ready, Jenkins?” - -“Ah,” said Jenkins, and moved forward with Masson’s head. Mr. Board -followed with his legs. In this manner, and with an unpleasant feeling -that one or other of them would certainly slip, Masson made his -untriumphal procession into the house. - -He was dumped, brutally by Jenkins, respectfully by Mr. Board, on the -Turkey-carpet of what—so far as he could see for the sudden glare of -lights—was the large and armoured hall of a manor-house. - -He lay for a moment on the Turkey-carpet with closed eyes. When he -looked up there was a tall and irascible old gentleman standing over him -with a heavy riding-whip. - -“Stand him on his feet, Jenkins, and you stand by the door, Board, and -see that he don’t make a rush. Now, sir”—the old gentleman addressed -himself to Masson with a most threatening countenance—“you’re going to -elope with my daughter—eh, what?” - -Masson stared. “Going to elope with your daughter? Might I ask—can you -explain to me what the meaning of this assault on me by your servants—I -presume they’re your servants—means?” - -“You might,” said the old gentleman caustically. “They had their orders, -sir, from me, to bring you in neck and crop, sir—neck and crop, by gad! -You didn’t expect _that_ when you came sneaking round here after my -daughter—eh, what?” He thrashed the air significantly. “Any excuse to -offer before——” - -Masson backed away a little towards a light but solid chair that stood -near. It might serve as a weapon if this old madman attacked. - -Mr. Board—a middle-aged man, unmistakably the butler—put his back -against the hall door and stood rubbing his hands. Jenkins, a gaitered -person, choked a guffaw. It seemed to Masson that, with three -able-bodied persons opposed to him, he had better try the discreet -before the valorous part. - -“It seems to me,” he said, raising his voice a little, “that the excuse -should be offered to me. I can only imagine you’re labouring under some -delusion——” - -“Ha!” said the old gentleman. - -“Which I am quite willing to help to clear, so far as I am concerned. I -haven’t the least idea what you mean by accusing me of sneaking round -after your daughter. I have never set eyes on your daughter. I don’t -know who she is or who you are. I came here off the high-road—perhaps I -ought to say I’m motoring to London—because the roads are so slippery I -couldn’t get on. Seeing your lights, I thought I could get some -assistance here.” - -“That’s why you went round to the back of the house, eh?” - -“My dear sir,” said Masson impatiently, “are you aware that it’s a -pitch-dark night, that the back and the front of your house are equally -strange to me, that the mistake I made in going to the back instead of -the front is the kind of mistake any stranger trying to get here would -make?” - -He spoke with a good deal of indignation, by no means soothed to hear -Jenkins snigger: “He, he! that’s a good un. Et was all along of a -mistake. He, he!” and the squire’s reply, snorted insultingly: - -“Look here, my young man, I knew you were a rogue. I didn’t know you -were a cur too. Likely story, ain’t it? Motoring, eh? Never seen my -daughter. What? Never seen John Clifton o’ the King’s Arms neither, I -dare say? Well, I have. John Clifton knows me, and he knows I’ve got him -in my pocket. So when you went and ordered a horse and trap for ten -o’clock to-night, mentioning—hang your impudence—that you might be -wanting it for a young lady you were going to elope with, John Clifton, -he came round to me. ‘He’ll be waiting about ten-thirty to-night, under -missy’s window. That’s the arrangement, squire.’ John Clifton told me -that. ‘Ten-thirty,’ said he, and, by gad, ten-thirty it is.” - -“I’ve never heard of John Clifton in my life,” said Masson soothingly. - -“Stick to your lie,” snorted the squire. - -“Stick to your mulish idiocy,” returned Masson, equally enraged; “only, -if you want to avoid making a drivelling fool of yourself, send for your -daughter. I imagine she’ll be able to inform you that you’ve made a -mistake, so far as I’m concerned.” - -Whether the squire, thus braved, would have proceeded at once to carry -out the intention his hands, twitching at the whip, suggested, Masson -hardly knew. At that moment an elderly lady opened a door at the far end -of the hall and entered. - -“Oh, Reginald!” she cried. - -“What is it?” asked the squire, turning at her. - -“Is this the young man?” - -“Is this the——” the squire choked. “No, it isn’t. This is the young man -who swears he isn’t the young man. That’s who this young man is. Wants -me to call Judith down to verify him. I’ll be——” - -“Merely in justice to the young lady,” said Masson scornfully, as the -squire stopped for breath. - -“Perhaps——” said the elderly lady, in a deprecating voice. “Possibly, -Reginald, it would be fairer. You have never seen the young man before, -have you? Judith——” - -“Judith’s a minx!” said the squire furiously. - -“But she has never told a lie,” said the elderly lady. - -“Call her!” The squire rumbled the order, and the elderly lady fled. -“Judith, my dear, Judith!” Masson could hear her twittering to her -charge as he leaned on the back of the chair which was to have served -him for a weapon in case the squire had proceeded to extremities. He -supposed the matter was now as good as ended, and could afford a smile -at the disappointed expression of Jenkins, who was evidently the -squire’s principal backer in the scheme of _force majeure_. Mr. Board, -indeed, had allowed a sigh, as of relief, to escape him at the new turn -of affairs, and was for leaving his post at the door. - -“Didn’t I tell you to stay there?” said the squire sharply; and, -observing Masson’s smile, “Don’t you imagine, my fine fellow, that -you’ve escaped your thrashing yet. Ha!” - -The last word was an acknowledgment of his daughter’s arrival under the -wing of the elderly lady. Masson looked at the girl with interest. She -was tall and slender—a pretty girl. There was, Masson judged, some -grounds for the squire’s suspicions, for she was dressed for out of -doors, in hat and furs, and seemed pale and upset. She avoided Masson’s -eyes. - -[Illustration: “Masson looked about him wildly.... ‘My name is Henry,’ -he explained—‘Henry Masson’” (page 101).] - -“You wanted me, father,” she said. - -“No, I didn’t; confound it!” said the squire rudely. “It was your aunt -wanted you. This rogue”—he indicated Masson with his riding-whip—“wants -to save his skin; says he isn’t your man. Ha! What do you say?” - -Masson waited in all serenity for her reply. She seemed to hesitate and -gulp for words. It was excusable, Masson thought. The old curmudgeon had -frightened the wits half out of her. - -“What do you say?” roared the squire, again. - -She twisted her hands together, took a step forward, and, in a trembling -voice, addressing Masson: - -“Oh, Dick!” she said fondly. - -Masson became aware that the dropping of a pin might have been audible -but for Mr. Board’s respectful sigh of dismay at the door. For a second -he doubted his full possession of his senses. - -“What did you say?” he stammered. - -“Oh, Dick! Why, why did you come? I wish——” she burst into gentle sobs. - -Masson looked about him wildly. He felt a mere fool. - -“My name is Henry,” he explained—“Henry Masson.” - -“Just so,” said the squire grimly. “Martha, take Judith upstairs! Send -her to bed. Quickly now; no talking. Now, sir” (to Masson as the door -closed upon the two ladies), “are you going to take your thrashing -standing up or lying down?” He had recovered his self-possession, and it -was Masson who felt his leaving him. Only for a moment, however. Then, -“Standing up,” he said, and gave Jenkins, as that individual advanced to -collar him, a kick that brought him to the ground. He seized the -momentary advantage to dodge the squire’s whip and to give a swing of -the chair into Mr. Board’s bread-basket. Mr. Board fell -back—unfortunately, against the hall door, which was against Masson’s -chance of escaping. It is probable that the next five minutes offered as -good an exhibition of rough-and-tumble fighting as the hall of the -manor-house had ever been privileged to witness. Only superior agility -enabled Masson to keep his end up, for, though Mr. Board’s attack was -reluctant, it was not devoid of cunning, and both the squire and Jenkins -were bulls for fierceness. Indeed, Masson, panting hard, was having his -chair wrenched from him by the latter, while he dodged the squire’s -attempts to clinch, when he felt the other door, through which the -ladies had vanished, scrape his back. It gave him an idea, and he acted -on it. Letting Jenkins have the chair at full grip, which sent him -staggering backwards, Masson butted the squire, turned the handle, and -was through. He hung on to the handle desperately, feeling for a key. -There was none. The opposition forces had got their hold, and were -forcing the door open. - -It was at this crisis that the elderly lady again made her appearance. -She came bustling into Masson’s back, crying aloud, “She’s gone! She’s -gone with the other young man! Oh, dear” (as she perceived Masson), -“what is happening? Where is my brother?” - -“In there,” said Masson, and let go. - -“Reginald!” she cried, as the squire came bouncing through. “Stop! It’s -not this young man. It’s another young man; and Judith’s gone. She got -out of her bedroom window, and they’re driving off now!” - -“What?” cried the squire. - -“Perhaps,” said Masson politely, “you will now believe what I said.” - -He might as well have addressed the walls for all the attention he -received. The squire had no sooner grasped the new situation than he was -foaming for the front door, giving directions at the top of his voice. - -“Put in the mare, Jenkins. Saddle Black Beauty. Tell the boy to ride for -the police. Drat and confound this——” - -Masson gathered that the squire’s broken sentences signified that he had -stepped out into the ice-paved night, with the inevitable results. -However, he must have picked himself up, for his halloaing grew fainter. - -“But how it will all end, Heaven only knows,” said the elderly lady to -Masson, in a despairing way. - -“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Masson. “Good evening, madam.” - -The hall door was open, his late antagonists had disappeared, but since -there was no knowing when they would return, or in what frame of mind, -it was not wise to lose an opportunity. Stepping out into the darkness, -Masson found that the silver thaw had turned to rain, and that the path, -though slippery in parts, was safety itself to what it had been. He -followed the winding drive until he came to the white gate and the road -beyond. There, unnoticed, it seemed, and untouched, stood his car by the -side of the road. He started it and moved on at a moderate pace. A -couple of minutes later he neared two figures going at a plodding canter -in the light of his lamps. The one that led was tall and large. “The -squire,” thought Masson, and hooted vigorously. - -“A hundred pounds if you’ll give me a lift,” cried the squire. “I want -to catch up a horse and trap—just ahead. Won’t take you three minutes. A -hundred pounds! Come!” - -“For mercy’s sake, sir, do!” said the other—Mr. Board, it was clear. -Neither of the two seemed to know whom they were addressing; or else -they had forgotten the events of the evening, which hardly seemed -possible. - -“I’m afraid—very sorry—but I can’t stop,” said Masson politely. He bore -them no grudge, on the whole; but, having witnessed the squire in the -fulness of his raging, he felt no desire to cumber himself with him any -more. It would be conniving at manslaughter. “Quite impossible,” he -repeated, as he whizzed by them. - -He put on speed, turned a bend of the highway a minute and a half later, -and pulled up just in time to avoid not mere connivance, but actual -committal of manslaughter. For there, in the very centre of the road, -was the horse and trap which the others were so anxious to come up with. -Only it was no longer a horse and trap united, but a horse and a trap -quite separate entities—of which, moreover, the trap lay on one side, -minus a wheel and with broken shafts. - -So much Masson’s lights showed him as he came to a stop just in time. A -little shriek that arose at the same moment from the bank at the side of -the road revealed more. - -“Oh, Dick, is it—father?” - -“No,” said Mr. Masson. With every wish to be neutral in this family -affair, he could not resist giving so much consolation. A young man, who -had, it seemed, been divided between soothing the author of the little -shriek and holding on to the frightened horse—not altogether a simple -division of labour—came forward at this. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to -Masson: “I don’t know who you are, but——” - -“Oh, Dick, it’s the other young man—Mr.—Mr. Henry.” The squire’s -daughter spoke from the bank. - -“Henry Masson,” said that gentleman; “not Dick! I should have been -obliged,” he continued, with a good deal of urbanity, “if you could have -mentioned that fact half an hour ago.” He bore the squire’s daughter no -grudge, on the whole, but he felt that he was entitled to that small -piece of irony at least. It was not altogether amusing to be “the other -young man.” - -The young man—the real Dick—had apparently received only a partial -account of the evening’s proceedings. - -“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said frankly. “I know something went -wrong up at the house—Judy was telling me just as our horse came -down—confound that ice thaw! The squire mistook you for me, didn’t he?” - -“Well,” said Masson, “the squire couldn’t very well help making the -mistake when——” A fierce bellowing not far in the rear interrupted him. -“That is the squire, I suppose,” he went on. “I passed him a couple of -minutes ago. He seemed anxious to come up with you.” - -“Good heavens!” said the young man. “Look here, sir. I don’t know if you -know the state of affairs. This lady and I wish to get married. You see -what’s happened? Cart smashed. If you could give us a lift——” - -He spoke very pleasantly and yet earnestly. Masson bore no grudge -against him. As he hesitated, the squire’s daughter came from the hedge -bank, where she had been sitting, into the light of his lamps. - -“You will forgive me, won’t you?” she said winningly. “It was my only -chance of getting away. I was frantic.” She looked very piteous and -pretty in the light of the lamps. “You will, won’t you?” she repeated. - -“Certainly,” said Masson; “there’s nothing to forgive. Pray get in. I -ought to think myself lucky to have been the young man, if it was only -for ten minutes.” - -“Come, Dick—quick!” cried the squire’s daughter. - -The young man let the horse go and climbed into the car. - -“Just in time, I think,” he said, as Masson backed a little and slipped -the car past the fallen trap to a loud chorus of “Stop, you rogue!” - -“Good night, squire!” they all cried, as they went ahead through the -thin, falling rain. - -Later on, when Masson accepted an invitation to be best man at the -wedding of Mr. Richard Castle with Miss Judith Trelawney, he realised -that he had not come so badly out of that silver thaw. He felt -magnanimous, in fact. - - - - - Carnage - - _By_ Compton Mackenzie - - _Royal Navy_ - - -I am not a man naturally fond of adventure, but on the contrary have -preserved from earliest youth an ambition to stay at home and watch from -a sunny window-seat the orderly course of humanity along an orderly -street. - -Fortune, however, by depriving my parents of everything except myself, -and myself of everything except a flute, made me a raggle-taggle -wanderer, dependent for my livelihood on the charms of music. - -Ignorant of luxury through the exigencies of a nomadic existence, I -owned nevertheless a very fastidious taste which often led me to despise -the miseries of my situation—so much so that I believe I would rather a -thousand times depend on the hard ground than sacrifice my sensibility -in the endurance of an uncongenial bedfellow. - -So much by way of explaining the following adventure, which was actually -produced by my inability to suffer a common hardship of the wanderer’s -lot. - -On a December dusk of the year 1753, I found myself, with apparently no -prospect of a lodging, on a bleak high-road in the middle of Cornwall. -What horrid impulse took me to that barbarous peninsula, I cannot now -recall exactly; but probably my journey was connected with some roadside -rumour of prosperity to be found in the West of England at the holiday -season. - -My first experience of Cornish hospitality was not happy; for, having -begun to flute merrily in the yard of an outlying farmhouse, the savage -owner loosed a pair of lean hounds, who followed me with a very odious -barking nearly half a mile along the road. I was determined to avoid -such places in future, and to keep my breath for a town, where the -amenity of a closer social intercourse might have evolved a more -generous spirit among the inhabitants. - -With gloomy thoughts I trudged on, without a glimpse of any village or -hamlet, or even of an isolated dwelling such as I had lately tried. - -The night was coming up fast behind me, and I was already pondering the -imminent extinction of my life’s flame in the wind-swept bogs on either -side of the path, when I came suddenly on a small inn, not visible -before on account of the road’s curve and a clump of firs shorn and -blistered by the prevailing wind. - -Here I asked for a bed; but on being informed that I must share it with -a degraded idiot whom I perceived slobbering in a corner of the taproom, -I scorned the accommodation and inquired the distance and direction of -the nearest village. - -“There’s no village for another five mile or more,” said the landlord. -“What’s your trade, master?” - -I did not wish to gratify the bumpkin’s curiosity; but reflecting that I -might hear of a junketing in the neighbourhood, told him I was a -musician. - -“Then why don’t ’ee make for Cannebrake?” he asked. - -“Cannebrake?” I exclaimed. “How on earth shall I make for a place of -whose existence I am only this moment aware?” - -“Never heard of Cannebrake o’ the Starlings?” he exclaimed. “Why, ’tis a -famous place here around, and the old lord he might be proud to listen -to a parcel o’ music. Come, I’ll show ’ee the road.” - -A burst of gibberish from the idiot made up my mind, and I hurried after -the landlord, who with much circumlocution described my route. I left -him by the inn door, and when I turned once or twice to wave a farewell, -saw him still standing there, a white patch in the fading light. - -I passed, according to his directions, a dry tree, a slab of granite -shaped like an elephant’s back, and a stretch of waste water stuck here -and there with withered reeds like an old brush, until I reached a tall -Celtic cross that leaned very forbiddingly towards the path. Here a side -track dipped down from the main road to a valley whose ample vegetation -contrasted strangely with the barren moors above. My path was soon -overarched with trees. A smell of damp woodland pervaded its gloom, and -my footsteps were muffled by the drift of wet leaves. Had it not been -for the deep ruts into which from time to time I slipped, I should have -concluded I had missed the path and was penetrating towards the heart of -a forest. - -I emerged from the avenue at last; though by now it was so dark that -only the fresher air and the rasping of my feet on stones told me I was -again in open country. But it was impossible to advance, and I was -beginning to regret the inn and rail at myself for objecting to the -idiot’s company, when I saw above a black hill-top the yellow rim of the -full moon, whose light, increasing every moment, was presently strong -enough to show me I was not fifty yards from the great gates of -Cannebrake. - -Yet I was half afraid to set them creaking in the silence, so menacing -were they between their tall stone pillars, so complete was the absence -of any welcome. - -I have often had occasion to visit the seats of the nobility and gentry -in more civilised corners of England, and the air of abandonment that -surrounded the entrance of Cannebrake did not seem to consort with the -traditions of any famous or honoured name. - -The very moonlight in that hollow was tainted with a miasma, setting no -clear contrasts of shadow and silver, robbing the pillars of all -solidity and giving the landscape the tremulous outlines of a -half-remembered dream. - -I had never before experienced the sensation of absolute decay. I had -been affected by the fall of autumn leaves from dripping branches, by -the melting of ice on warm winter mornings; but here dissolution was -silent, without a curlew’s cry or lisp of withered grass to mark its -accomplishment. - -At last, by an effort of common sense, I pushed the gates ajar, and the -creaking of them, as they swung back upon their hinges, followed me up -the moss-grown drive with a wailful indignation. - -The shrubbery planted round the gates did not extend far, and the drive -soon unfolded its direction, running straight and bare over a wide, -undulating grassland populated with the shadowy forms of cattle, to the -doors of Cannebrake—a long, low building of the undistinguished -architecture which I had already learned to associate with Cornish -houses. - -I stood awhile contemplating the mansion that seemed impalpable in the -webs of the moon. - -There was neither barking of dogs nor any sign of human life until I -observed the shadow of a man carrying from room to room of the second -story a circle of candlelight increasing and diminishing with each -entrance and exit. I supposed it to be a servant’s nightly round of -inspection, and, assured of the existence of life within, moved across -to the heavily nailed door. - -I would have pulled at once the great iron bell-chain, had it not been -for a strange disinclination to destroy the quiet with so wild a sound. -As it was, I stood there holding my breath, I believe, while I -deciphered the coat-of-arms above the door—a medley of Turks’ heads and -birds. - -Then, with the slight knowledge of French gleaned on my wanderings, I -fell to translating the motto of the family, “Aux amis l’amour, aux -ennemis la mort.” - -Notwithstanding the pledge of this sentiment in stone, I could not spur -myself into arousing the inmates; but as there was a rank growth of -grass between the drive and the house itself, I availed myself of its -quiet to crawl round and peer unheard into the windows on the ground -floor. - -On a closer view of the window to the right of the door, I saw glinting -on the darkness of heavy curtains a thin line of light. Without more ado -I pulled out my flute and started “Come, Lasses and Lads.” - -This harmless old air seemed to produce a most distressing effect upon -the inmates, for the curtains were immediately flung back and an elderly -gentleman, with wig all awry and hands tugging at his stock, stared out -into the night as if afraid of hell. - -I tapped gently with my flute upon the lattice, and in response to my -knocking, but with evident dismay, my listener was persuaded to throw it -open. - -Whether the sight of him pale and horror-struck had led me to expect a -timid inquiry as to my business, I do not know, but I doubt if I ever -heard so deep a voice from any human creature before. It rumbled like a -bull’s and, I vow, alarmed me more than the music of my instrument had -alarmed its owner. - -A horrid stream of blasphemies heralded his demand to know my business. - -“My name, my lord, is Tripconey—Peter Tripconey, a flute-player, and -your lordship’s very humble, obedient servant to command.” - -This frank avowal had the effect of slightly mitigating his wrath, and -he was pleased to ask me what I did in his park at such an ungodly hour. - -“Indeed, my lord, I was sent here.” - -“Sent here, you vagabond? By whom?” - -“By an inn-keeper who plies a poor trade on the desolate moors adjacent -to your lordship’s estate.” - -He seemed relieved by my information, and was gracious enough to ask if -I could play any sea-songs. I answered I could play and sing the “Ballad -of the Golden Vanity” and many more besides, as well as any man alive. - -“Hark ’ee, Cynthia,” he said, turning to address another inmate. -“There’s a musician outside. Shall we have him in, girl? Shall we have a -merry-making? The poor wretch looks as if a good supper would do him no -harm. Hi, sirrah, can you eat?” he asked, turning round again to me. - -I assured him I had a very tolerable appetite, and he bade me ring the -bell forthwith, vowing he would give me bed and board for a night’s -music. I made haste to obey his orders, and when I stepped into the -great hall, lighted by a score of candles and the blaze of a gigantic -fire roaring on the hearth, was glad I had done so. - -His lordship with much condescension presented me to his daughter, the -Honourable Miss Cynthia Starling, who received me with the courtesy it -delights a woman of rank to exercise. In the presence of this lovely -creature I threw off every evil foreboding, and made haste to entertain -the noble company with as much wit as I could command. I may say I was -very successful. - -His lordship laughed very heartily at all my sallies, and once or twice -I plainly detected a faint smile pass over the classic features of the -honourable and handsome young woman. - -His lordship excused himself from joining me at supper, pointing out -with much intelligence that, having already dined, a second meal so soon -after the other would be likely to injure his night’s rest. I cordially -agreed with him, and drank his health in a pint bumper of a very level -and solid old Burgundy. His lordship was pleased to acknowledge my -toast, and indeed went so far as to drink prosperity to the humble -flute-player sheltered by his hospitable roof. - -When I had eaten as much as I wanted, my host called out in his great -voice for the butler, whom I disliked at first sight. He was a tall, -thin man, with pouched eyes and an unnaturally sleek face the colour of -tallow. His hands were hairy, blue with gunpowder, and criss-crossed -with livid scars. - -However, I soon forgot him in racking my memory for the old sea-tunes -which his lordship wished to hear. The latter sat upright in the ingle, -beating time to the choruses with his ebony cane, or rather -crutched-stick, which he leaned upon very heavily in his walk, being, as -I supposed, a sufferer from the gout. The crutch itself was very massive -and bound with gold bands. - -I also played some polite melodies for the pleasure of her ladyship, -which she commended very earnestly; but when she had wished us a good -night and retired to her chamber, my Lord Cannebrake set out to curse -all love-songs and country dances, and bade me get back immediately to -the sea-tunes which he loved so well. - -Presently he called for the butler, Springle, and to my surprise, and I -may add profound vexation, invited him to take a chair by the fire and -join in the choruses. I was shocked to see the familiar way in which -this fellow treated his master, and, for my own part, was quick to put -the insolent rogue in his place as often as I could, thus showing him -very plainly how I esteemed his presumption. - -One or two of my hits went very well with his lordship; and though Mr. -Springle snarled at me from his chair, I was not at all afraid to bait -him whenever the circumstances of the conversation gave me an -opportunity. - -“Springle,” said his lordship after a round of tunes, “Mr. Tripconey -must whet his whistle. Bring in another bottle of Burgundy and warm me a -noggin of rum.” - -I was amazed to hear a nobleman favour the plebeian beverage of rum, and -still more deeply amazed to hear his butler answer him very saucily, -“Aye, aye,” without offering to move himself. - -“Get up, you impudent swab!” bellowed Lord Cannebrake. “What! Disobey -orders, would you, you dog! You whimpering, sneering, dirty ship’s -steward.” - -Mr. Springle, perceiving he had made too free with his master’s -affableness, rose at once and slunk from the hall. - -My Lord Cannebrake growled to himself awhile, and then sat moodily -silent, staring into the fire. - -I seized the occasion of the butler’s absence to ask him point blank why -the first sounds of my flute had alarmed him so violently. “For,” said -I, “there is nothing surprising at this jolly season of the year, when -waits and mummers are abroad, in hearing the sound of music by night.” - -“Did I look frightened, eh?” asked his lordship. “Hah, and I was -frightened, woundily frightened. I come, sir, of a plaguy old family, -and I live in a plaguy old house, and I’ve inherited very little else -but a plaguy crew of ghosts.” - -“And you mistook me for one of ’em?” I laughed. - -“We Starlings,” he went on, “like most old families, have our omens and -death cries and what not, and it has always been accounted very ill work -for a Starling to hear a starling’s whistle.” - -I was somewhat put about to learn that my playing had been mistaken for -a vulgar bird’s whistle, but, concealing my annoyance very genteely, -laughed the matter off. - -[Illustration: “‘Springle,’ his lordship gasped. ‘Springle, I’ve killed -him, ha’n’t I?’” (page 113).] - -“Indeed, my lord, I believe that is the first time that ever my flute -was taken for a bird.” - -“Yes,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, “yes, I heard that -whistle forty days out from Sierra Leone, and the next day we was -flinging half-cooked niggers into the sea and——” - -He stopped suddenly and looked me full in the face, but I thought his -mind was wandering and paid small attention to his wild words. - -“And I heard it again when we were careening in the Pearl Islands off -Panama just before I was took with Yellow Jack, but I’ve never heard it -since till to-night. Ecod, I don’t like being my Lord Cannebrake, with -ghosts thick as seagulls round about. I was happier before; I was -happier in the pleasant Isle of Thanet with the sea-wind singing day and -night round my cottage. I used to do nothing mostly, except sight the -craft beating round the Foreland, and think of ’em so white and handsome -in the Downs, a-stroking all the while my little daughter’s light-brown -hair. And now look at me, stuck in a low, dirty swamp ten miles from the -sound of breakers, wi’ nothing to think of but ghosts. That’s bad for a -man who, mark you, was a-seafaring once. But there came an ague and took -one; and another broke his neck out hunting; and the third, he fell into -the pool fishing for carp; and so I became Lord Cannebrake.” - -I was at a loss to know why this elderly nobleman honoured me with his -confidence, but ascribed it to the influence of the old sea-songs and my -own insignificance, for I doubt he never thought me a person of much -importance, and he went on with his monologue without seeming to expect -any comment from me. - -“Then there’s Cynthia. Cannebrake’s no place for a high-spirited young -woman. London’s the place for her, where she can meet women of quality -and learn the ways of fashion. She’s a sweet maid. I never knew a -sweeter. But what’s to become of her, buried alive, in a manner of -speaking, and like to grow into a mumbling, fumbling old maid with -nothing to watch all her life but the sun’s rise and set, and winter -coming in cold, and the spring-time rain, and a few flowers of summer?” - -Here I made bold to offer a suggestion that he should go back to the -Isle of Thanet. - -“Ah, why don’t I, Mr. Flute-player? I’ll tell you why,” and he leaned -over, whispering in my ear: - -“Because I dare not. Because I lived a vile, bad life when I was young, -and I’m afraid. That’s a terrible thing for you to ponder, Mr. -Tripconey—an old man living alone in a dip of these wild moors—afraid. -Listening to the clock tick-ticking, and all the time fast afraid. -You’ve seen me, white and shaking, when you tapped on the window: -me—Captain Starling—afraid.” - -Springle’s entrance with rum enough for half a dozen put an end to -further reminiscence. - -“Why, Conrad,” said his lordship, “why, Conrad, boy, I see you’ve set a -glass for yourself. That was thoughtful of you, Conrad.” - -Then suddenly the old man’s fury broke out—very terrible. - -“And so you’d make a nincompoop of me before my guests, would you? Below -deck, you swab!” he roared, and, picking up one of the heavy cut-glass -goblets, flung it between the butler’s legs as he hurried from the hall. -Lord Cannebrake laughed and made me fill up my glass, while he poured -out for himself an extra strong allowance of rum. - -“Master Springle thinks he can do as he likes because I give him a -moderate amount of freedom, seeing that we were shipmates once.” - -“It is indeed a condescension on your side, my lord, for which the -fellow shows himself monstrous ungrateful. I drink your lordship’s very -good health.” - -He acknowledged the compliment by draining his glass to me, and I could -not forbear my admiration to see how he poured the fiery liquor down his -throat at a single gulp. I myself, a timid drinker, could never have -survived the quarter of it sipped slowly. When he had put down his glass -I saw that he was sniffing the air as a stag sniffs for water. - -“Tell me,” he demanded, “can you smell sea-water?” - -So unusual a question put me in some confusion, for if I laughed it -aside I would have seemed to suspect him of drunkenness. I determined -therefore to humour his fancy, and told him very gravely that I could -not smell sea-water. - -“I doubt it’s my fancy,” he muttered. “Or rum. Rum more likely.” With -which he gulped down a second glass even stronger than the former. All -at once a horrid cry rang through the house. The long-drawn echo of it -froze my blood and set my glass clinking against the decanter in a -tumult of apprehension. - -“What’s that?” gasped his lordship. And here let me assure you, he -looked as much alarmed as myself. I threw a glance up to the gallery, -expecting to see her ladyship in bed-gown peering over the balustrade. -But there was nothing. - -Then Springle, his face as livid as the criss-cross scars on his hand, -burst into the hall. - -“Cap’n Starling! Cap’n Starling!” he cried. - -“Aye, aye,” muttered my lord in the dead voice of profoundest agitation. - -“Cap’n Starling!” moaned the butler. - -“Eh, what!” exclaimed his master. “Who the plague are you calling -’cap’n’? Ha’n’t you learned ’tis ‘my lord’ nowadays?” - -“To blazes wi’ lords,” chattered Springle. “Sea-lords and land-lords. -Here’s Cap’n Swall walking up the path to this house.” - -“Cap’n Swall?” repeated his lordship. “Cap’n Swall? Here, give me the -rum, my handsome.” - -He drained the glass a third time, which seemed to calm his excitement. - -“This ain’t a fancy of yours, Conrad?” - -“No fancy, my lord. I seed him quite plain and the stars a-shining -through his wicked bow legs as he come down the slope. But let him -come!” Springle almost screamed. “Let the swab come! We’re too many for -him, with pleasant talk of old ships and a knife that goes in easy and -quick like.” - -I confess I was amazed by the coolness with which the rascal proposed to -murder a fellow-creature, and was relieved to hear his lordship -discourage the notion. - -“None of that,” he commanded. “None of that. If ’tis Matthew Swall, ’tis -him; and maybe there’s a reckoning, and maybe there isn’t, but none of -that. If ’tis man to man, him and me, ’tis out in the moonlight with -ship’s cutlasses and you and Mr. Tripconey here to see fair play. So -drink the rum, you cowardly dog, and stand by.” - -Springle swallowed the spirit, and the three of us waited in silence -till there came a ringing peal from the great bell, a peal that echoed -jangling and clanging through Cannebrake of the Starlings. - -“Must I let him in, cap’n?” whispered Springle. - -There was a tap-tap on the lattice, but when we turned towards the sound -the curtains were close drawn and we knew the man outside could not see -us. - -“Let him in,” said his lordship, standing up very stern. - -Conrad moved sideways to the door, and what with the way he kept -twitching his hairy hands, and what with his chestnut-brown suit and his -manner of walking, I could not help comparing him to a large crab. - -Captain Swall followed the servant into his master’s presence. He was a -short, thickset, squab-nosed man, much weather-beaten, and wearing a -soiled blue coat trimmed with gold lace frayed and tarnished. In his -right hand he carried a cocked beaver hat, in the other a pistol. -Flinging down the hat, he went with outstretched palm right up to Lord -Cannebrake, saying: - -“Well, if this don’t beat pay-day. Messmate, how are ye? Lord Cannebrake -now, ain’t it? And here’s Conrad Springle and a bottle of rum and -Matthew Swall of the _Happy Return_, and—why, bless me,” he added, -catching sight of me, “here’s a strange face after all.” - -His lordship never offered to present me, but, coming sharp to the -point, said: - -“I thought you were dead, Matthew.” - -“I know ye did, Dicky. Nor more isn’t that very astonishing seeing as I -thought I were dead myself. It was a cunning move of yourn, Dicky, that -’ere sheering off in Jamestown. It was a clever trick, when you thought -you’d quit being a gentleman of fortune, to leave me laying low with -Yellow Jack, and not a single golden George to so much as spit on, not a -single golden George to get me clear of Virginia and the tobacco -planters. And I was took, Dicky. I was took all right and sold five -hundred miles up country, to a Frenchman whose throat I slit so as he -died quicker nor ever you’d think a man could die.” - -“Mr. Tripconey,” said his lordship to me, “I think you’ll find your -bedroom prepared. Springle, show Mr. Tripconey to his chamber.” - -The butler, with many a backward glance to where the two sea-captains -sat facing one another in the firelight, led me up the wide stairs and -parted from me by the door of my room without so much as a good night. - -Now whether the wicked flavour of Captain Swall’s conversation had -fascinated my imagination, or whether the Burgundy had fired my blood -with an inquisitiveness foreign to my nature, I do not know, but for the -life of me I could not help wondering how it fared with the party -downstairs. I resented being shut up out of sight and sound in this -gaunt bedchamber; and at last, no longer able to bear my ignorance, I -snuffed the candle and crept barefooted along the black corridor as far -as the opening to the hall. Here, by kneeling close to the wall and -peering through the balustrade, I could see and hear all that was -happening below. I ran but small risk of discovery; for, as I reasoned, -it would be easy to gain my room noiselessly while any one from below -was ascending the stairs. - -Lord Cannebrake and his visitor were still seated facing one another, -while Springle was standing, well out of the way of both, at the farther -end of the hall. - -“But I don’t want to fight, Dicky,” Captain Swall was saying. “I done -with fighting long ago. This here pop I holds in my hand so pretty, -that’s not for fighting; that’s for protection, Dicky, in case you was -to leave me once again on a lee-shore. No, I don’t want no revenge nor -nothing, Dicky. But seeing as how I’m tired of roaming, and finds it -dull at the _Prospect of Whitby_ down by Wapping Stairs, I’ve a mind to -sling my hammock in Cannebrake.” - -“So you think you’re going to live at my expense, do you?” asked his -lordship grimly. “But you’re not. I don’t feed ruffians like you, -Matthew Swall.” - -“Turned pious, have ye?” sneered the other. “Took to religion, maybe? -Changed the name of your ship? That’s a main unlucky thing to do, and -by——” He swore an abominable oath. “By—— it won’t go down with me, not -with old Matthew. Springle, my lad, it looks as if you was ship’s cook -aboard here. Let’s see the quality of your beef.” - -I could not help feeling greatly delighted by Mr. Springle’s -discomfiture as he stood there in a fine quandary. - -“What! Mutiny, Conrad?” the captain went on, as the butler made no offer -to move. “You was quicker at obeying orders in the old days, Conrad. You -was a long way more spry arter I sarved you with your six dozen lashes. -You become quite a handy lad arter that. Quick and handy with that ’ere -clasp-knife of yourn, Conrad, when you done for the crew of the _True -Love_ what was lying on their backs off Calabar a-waiting for you to -obey orders. Come, look alive, my lad, or you’ll find yourself in Bodmin -Gaol, and ’tis Cap’n Swall who says so.” - -Springle, cowed by the fierce intruder, gave up defiance and went to -fetch the victuals. - -“That’s a nice little place Conrad’s got himself,” continued Swall, with -one eye cocked very wickedly at Lord Cannebrake. - -“Do you want to be my butler?” demanded the latter. - -“No, I wouldn’t rob Conrad. There’s room for both of us. Maybe you’ve -got a snug little cabin somewhere between decks, a snug little berth -where you and me and Conrad ’ll be able to talk over old times and old -ships. Better you and I should talk over ’em quiet and comfortable and -snug like, with the rum going round as it ought to in a genelman’s -country house. Better nor talking over ’em at the Old Bailey. Why, -you’ve a darter, haven’t you, Dicky? What ’ud she say if she went for a -cruise down the river one lovely morning in the summer-time, and seed -her father, black as a crow, swinging in the wind at Execution Dock?” - -“You won’t blackmail me,” said my lord. - -“Blackmail, is it? By the Lord,” shouted Captain Swall, “Black Flag’s -more the lay.” - -“Be careful, Matthew. You know I’m a hot-blooded man. You know I won’t -stand too much.” - -“Aye, by the plague, and you know mine, Dick Starling, and it ain’t lost -nothing these twenty years of waiting. Look ’ee here, it comes to this. -You’ve got a darter. Well.” Again he swore that fearful oath. “If you -don’t give me your darter—for I won’t be put off with no fine words -after Jamestown, Dicky; I’ll have something of yours as you vally—I’ll -have your young maid, or you swing for piracy.” - -But even while he threatened, shaking the pistol, Lord Cannebrake struck -hard with his stick and Captain Swall fell forward among the glasses on -the table. - -“Springle,” his lordship gasped. “Springle, I’ve killed him, ha’n’t I?” - -Then I saw that the butler was standing in the corner, a plate of beef -in his hand. He came forward and, setting down the plate, shook the -sprawling figure. - -“Aye, aye, he’s dead as his beef,” said Springle. - -“We’ll bury the body quick, Conrad. Wait. I’ll see he has no friends -outside.” - -I could not help wondering at the old nobleman’s pluck as I saw him move -towards the door, and thought of him marching round that desolate house -with Heaven knows how many bloodthirsty enemies ambushed in the shadows. - -When his master had left the hall, Springle shook the body more roughly, -and to my horror, for I thought him stone dead, Captain Swall muttered -thickly: - -“Curse you, Dicky, you nearly done for me a second time, but you’ll -pay—you’ll pay.” - -“Look ’ee here, Cap’n Swall,” said Springle, turning the wounded man -over and staring into his eyes. “Two’s company at Cannebrake, but three -ain’t. You sent me off for beef. You had me flogged once. You’ve run -aground, Cap’n Swall.” - -Here the fiend caught his enemy by the throat, and, as he squeezed the -life out of the thickset man, spoke through clenched teeth: - -“You’re making port at last, Cap’n Swall. I’ll lay Davy Jones is about -signalling your sperrit now.” - -I suppose I should have interrupted the man’s villainy, but by this -time, between cramp and terror, I could do nothing but lie quaking on -the cold floor of the gallery. - -Lord Cannebrake came back in a minute or two. - -“He’s dead?” - -“Dead,” said the murderer. - -“And nobody will know,” said his lordship, with a sigh of relief. - -“Not if I don’t peach.” - -“What d’ye mean?” - -“Why, just this here, my lord. I’m tired of being butler. I wants -promotion. I reckon you’ll sign some sort of a parlez-vous as’ll ensure -my promotion.” - -Lord Cannebrake seemed stricken by his servant’s treachery. - -“Are you going to turn against me, Conrad?” - -“You’ve been a fool,” said the latter—“a fool for twenty years. Afraid -o’ what I might say about the _Jolly Roger_. What could I ha’ done, a -pore ignorant seaman? What was my word against Lord Cannebrake’s? You -might ha’ cut me adrift long ago. But now you can’t. Now things is -different. Here’s murder stepped in on my side.” - -“Aye, it has!” I shouted, springing up. “Black-hearted, cold murder; but -it’s you, Mr. Springle, that’s the murderer. My lord, my lord, he -strangled Captain Swall when you were outside. That villain there—that -ruffian——” - -In my bare feet, and waving my flute, I came dancing down the stairs—a -ludicrous figure, I dare swear, but jubilant at having outwitted the -butler. - -He had his knife out in a flash, and I owed my life to his lordship, -who, without a thought of the scandal, picked up the dead man’s pistol -and shot his servant through the back, so that he fell huddled at the -foot of the staircase. - -Then Lord Cannebrake and I looked at each other with two bodies between -us. - -“Her ladyship?” I said. - -“We’ll have to tell her.” - -I felt sorry for the old man who had kept his secret so many years. But -the hall was now running with Conrad’s blood, and I thought we should do -well enough to escape the law. - -Her ladyship came along the gallery, very pale and beautiful. - -“What is it, father? I heard a shot.” - -“A bad night’s work, my lady-love,” said the father gently. “But Mr. -Tripconey here has saved Cannebrake.” - -“And his lordship has saved me,” I cried. - -“Then we should all be grateful,” said my lady, very calm. - -I slept prodigious little that night, and blistered my hands so that I -couldn’t play my flute for a week; but I was always sure for many a year -of a hearty welcome at Cannebrake of the Starlings. - - - - - The Bronze Parrot - - _By_ R. Austin Freeman - - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - -The Reverend Deodatus Jawley had just sat down to the gate-legged table -on which lunch was spread and had knocked his knee, according to his -invariable custom, against the sharp corner of the seventh leg. - -“I wish you would endeavour to be more careful, Mr. Jawley,” said the -rector’s wife. “You nearly upset the mustard-pot, and these jars are -exceedingly bad for the leg.” - -“Oh, that’s of no consequence, Mrs. Bodley,” the curate replied -cheerfully. - -“I don’t agree with you at all,” was the stiff rejoinder. - -“It doesn’t matter, you know, so long as the skin isn’t broken,” Mr. -Jawley persisted with an ingratiating smile. - -“I was referring to the leg of the table,” Mrs. Bodley corrected -frostily. - -“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said the curate, and, blushing like a Dublin -Bay prawn, he abandoned himself in silence to the consideration of the -numerical ratios suggested by five mutton chops and three prospective -consumers. The problem thus presented was one of deep interest to Mr. -Jawley, who had a remarkably fine appetite for such an exceedingly small -man, and he awaited its solution with misgivings born of previous -disappointments. - -“I hope you are not very hungry, Mr. Jawley,” said the rector’s wife. - -“Er—no—er—not unusually so,” was the curate’s suave and casuistical -reply. The fact is that he was always hungry, excepting after the -monthly tea-meetings. - -“Because,” pursued Mrs. Bodley, “I see that Walker has only cooked five -chops; and yours looks rather a small one.” - -“Oh, it will be quite sufficient, thank you,” Mr. Jawley hastened to -declare; adding, a little unfortunately, perhaps: “Amply sufficient for -any moderate and temperate person.” - -The Reverend Augustus Bodley emerged from behind the _Church Times_ and -directed a suspicious glance at his curate; who, becoming suddenly -conscious of the ambiguity of his last remark, blushed crimson and cut -himself a colossal slice of bread. There was an uncomfortable silence -which lasted some minutes, and was eventually broken by Mrs. Bodley. - -“I want you to go into Dilbury this afternoon, Mr. Jawley, and execute a -few little commissions.” - -“Certainly, Mrs. Bodley. With pleasure,” said the curate. - -“I want you to call and see if Miss Gosse has finished my hat. If she -has, you had better bring it with you. She is so unreliable, and I want -to wear it at the Hawley-Jones’s garden party to-morrow. If it isn’t -finished, you must wait until it is. Don’t come away without it.” - -“No, Mrs. Bodley, I will not. I will be extremely firm.” - -“Mind you are. Then I want you to go to Minikin’s and get two reels of -whitey-brown thread, four balls of crochet cotton, and eight yards of -lace insertion—the same kind as I had last week. And Walker tells me -that she has run out of black-lead. You had better bring two packets; -and mind you don’t put them in the same pocket with the lace insertion. -Oh, and as you are going to the oil-shop, you may as well bring a jar of -mixed pickles. And then you are to go to Dumsole’s and order a fresh -haddock—perhaps you could bring that with you, too—and then to Barber’s -and tell them to send four pounds of dessert pears, and be sure they are -good ones and not over-ripe. You had better select them and see them -weighed yourself.” - -“I will. I will select them most carefully,” said the curate, inwardly -resolving not to trust to mere external appearances, which are often -deceptive. - -“Oh, and by the way, Jawley,” said the rector, “as you are going into -the town, you might as well take my shooting-boots with you, and tell -Crummell to put a small patch on the soles and set up the heels. It -won’t take him long. Perhaps he can get them done in time for you to -bring them back with you. Ask him to try.” - -“I will, Mr. Bodley,” said the curate. “I will urge him to make an -effort.” - -“And as you are going to Crummell’s,” said Mrs. Bodley, “I will give you -my walking shoes to take to him. They want soling and heeling, and tell -him he is to use better leather than he did last time.” - -Half an hour later Mr. Jawley passed through the playground appertaining -to the select boarding-academy maintained by the Reverend Augustus -Bodley. He carried a large and unshapely newspaper parcel, despite which -he walked with the springy gait of a released schoolboy. As he danced -across the desert expanse, his attention was arrested by a small crowd -of the pupils gathered significantly around two larger boys whose -attitudes suggested warlike intentions; indeed, even as he stopped to -observe them, one warrior delivered a tremendous blow which expended -itself on the air within a foot of the other combatant’s nose. - -“Oh! fie!” exclaimed the scandalised curate. “Joblett! Joblett! Do you -realise that you nearly struck Byles? That you might actually have hurt -him?” - -“I meant to hurt him,” said Joblett. - -“You meant to! Oh, but how wrong! How unkind! Let me beg you—let me -entreat you to desist from these discreditable acts of violence.” - -He stood awhile gazing with an expression of pained disapproval at the -combatants, who regarded him with sulky grins. Then, as the hostilities -seemed to be—temporarily—suspended, he walked slowly to the gate. He was -just pocketing the key when an extremely somnolent pear impinged on the -gate-post and sprinkled him with disintegrated fragments. He turned, -wiping his coat-skirt with his handkerchief, and addressed the -multitude, who all, oddly enough, happened to be looking in the opposite -direction. - -“That was very naughty of you. _Very_ naughty. Someone must have thrown -that pear. I won’t tempt you to prevarication by asking who? But pears -don’t fly of themselves—especially sleepy ones.” - -With this he went out of the gate, followed by an audible snigger which -swelled, as he walked away, into a yell of triumph. - -The curate tripped blithely down the village street, clasping his parcel -and scattering smiles of concentrated amiability broadcast among the -villagers. As he approached the stile that guarded the footpath to -Dilbury, his smile intensified from mere amiability to positive -affection. A small lady—a very small lady, in fact—was standing by the -stile, resting a disproportionate basket on the lower step; and we may -as well admit, at once and without circumlocution, that this lady was -none other than Miss Dorcas Shipton and the prospective Mrs. Jawley. - -The curate changed over his parcel to hold out a welcoming hand. - -“Dorcas, my dear!” he exclaimed. “What a lucky chance that you should -happen to come this way!” - -“It isn’t chance,” the little lady replied. “I heard Mrs. Bodley say -that she would ask you to go into Dilbury; so I determined to come and -speed you on your journey” (the distance to Dilbury was about three and -a half miles) “and see that you were properly equipped. Why did not you -bring your umbrella?” - -Mr. Jawley explained that the hat, the boots, the fresh haddock, and the -mixed pickles would fully occupy his available organs of prehension. - -“That is true,” said Dorcas. “But I hope you are wearing your -chest-protector and those cork soles that I gave you.” - -Mr. Jawley assured her that he had taken these necessary precautions. - -“And have you rubbed your heels well with soap?” - -“Yes,” replied the curate. “Thoroughly—most thoroughly. They are a -little sticky at present, but I shall feel the benefit as I go on. I -have obeyed your instructions to the letter.” - -“That is right, Deodatus,” said Miss Dorcas; “and as you have been so -good, you shall have a little reward.” - -She lifted the lid of the basket and took out a small paper bag, which -she handed to him with a fond smile. The curate opened the bag and -peered in expectantly. - -“Ha!” he exclaimed. “Bull’s-eyes! How nice! How good of you, Dorcas! And -how discriminating!” (Bull’s-eyes were his one dissipation.) “Won’t you -take one?” - -“No, thank you,” replied Dorcas. “I mustn’t go into the cottages -smelling of peppermint.” - -“Why not?” asked Deodatus. “I often do. I think the poor creatures -rather enjoy the aroma—especially the children.” - -But Dorcas was adamant; and after some further chirping and twittering, -the two little people exchanged primly affectionate farewells, and the -curate, having popped a bull’s-eye into his mouth, padded away along the -footpath, sucking joyously. - -It is needless to say that Mrs. Bodley’s hat was not finished. The -curate had unwisely executed all his other commissions before calling on -the milliner: had ordered the pears, and even tested the quality of one -or two samples; had directed the cobbler to send the rector’s boots to -the hat-shop; and had then collected the lace, black-lead, cotton, -pickles, and the fresh haddock, and borne them in triumph to the abode -of Miss Gosse. It appeared that the hat would not be ready until seven -o’clock in the evening. But it also appeared that tea would be ready in -a few minutes. Accordingly the curate remained to partake of that meal -in the workroom, in company with Miss Gosse and her “hands”; and having -been fed to bursting-point with French rolls and cake, left his various -belongings and went forth to while away the time and paint the town of -Dilbury—not exactly red, but a delicate and attenuated pink. - -After an hour or so of rambling about the town, the curate’s errant -footsteps carried him down to the docks, where he was delighted with the -spectacle of a military transport, just home from West Africa, -discharging her passengers. The khaki-clad warriors trooped down the -gang-planks and saluted him with cheerful greetings as he sat on a -bollard and watched them. One even inquired if his—Mr. Jawley’s—mother -knew he was out; which the curate thought very kind and attentive of -him. But what thrilled him most was the appearance of the chaplain; a -fine, portly churchman with an imposing, coppery nose, who was so -overjoyed at the sight of his native land that he sang aloud. Mr. Jawley -was deeply affected. - -When the soldiers had gone, he slowly retraced his steps towards the -gates; but he had hardly gone twenty yards when his eye was attracted by -a small object lying in the thick grass that grew between the irregular -paving-stones of the quay. He stooped to pick it up and uttered an -exclamation of delight. It was a tiny effigy of a parrot, quaintly -wrought in bronze and not more than two and a half inches high including -the pedestal on which it stood. A perforation through the eyes had -furnished the means of suspension, and a strand of silken thread yet -remained, to show, by its frayed ends, how the treasure had been lost. - -Mr. Jawley was charmed. It was such a dear little parrot, so quaint, so -naïve. He was a simple man, and small things gave him pleasure; and this -small thing pleased him especially. The better to examine his find, he -seated himself on a nice, clean white post and proceeded to polish the -little effigy with his handkerchief, having previously moistened the -latter with his tongue. The polishing improved its appearance -wonderfully, and he was inspecting it complacently when his eye lighted -on a chalked inscription on the pavement. The writing was upside-down as -he sat, but he had no difficulty in deciphering the words “Wet paint.” - -He rose hastily and examined the flat top of the post. There is no need -to go into details. Suffice it to say that anyone looking at that post -could have seen that some person had sat on it. Mr. Jawley moved away -with an angry exclamation. It was very annoying. But that did not -justify the expressions that he used; which were not only out of -character with his usual mild demeanour but unsuitable to his cloth, -even if that cloth happened to be—but again we say there is no need to -go into details. Still frowning irritably, he strode out through the -dock gates and up the High Street on his way to Miss Gosse’s -establishment. As he was passing the fruiterer’s shop, Mr. Barber, the -proprietor, ran out. - -“Good evening, Mr. Jawley. About those pears that you ordered of my -young man. You’d better not have those, sir. Let me send you another -kind.” - -“Why?” asked the curate. - -“Well, sir, those pears, to be quite candid, are not very good——” - -“I don’t care whether they are good or bad,” interrupted Mr. Jawley. “I -am not going to eat them,” and he stamped away up the High Street, -leaving the fruiterer in a state of stupefaction. But he did not proceed -directly to the milliner’s. Some errant fancy impelled him to turn up a -side-street and make his way towards the waterside portion of the town; -and it was, in fact, nearly eight o’clock when he approached Miss -Gosse’s premises (now closed for the night) and rang the bell. The -interval, however, had not been entirely uneventful. A blue mark under -the left eye and a somewhat battered and dusty condition of hat and -clothing seemed reminiscent of recent and thrilling experiences; and the -satisfied grin that he bestowed on the astonished caretaker suggested -that those experiences, if strenuous, had not been wholly unpleasurable. - -The shades of night had fallen on the village of Bobham when Mr. Jawley -appeared in the one and only street. He carried, balanced somewhat -unsteadily on his head, a large cardboard box, but was otherwise -unencumbered. The box had originally been of a cubical form, but now -presented a slightly irregular outline and from one corner a thin liquid -dripped on Mr. Jawley’s shoulder, diffusing an aroma of vinegar and -onions with an added savour that was delicate and fish-like. Up the -empty street the curate strode with a martial air, and having picked up -the box—for the thirteenth time—just outside the gate, entered the -rectory, deposited his burden on the drawing-room sofa, and went up to -his room. He required no supper. For once in a way he was not hungry. He -had, in fact, taken a little refreshment in town; and whelks are a very -satisfying food, if you only take enough of them. - -In his narrow and bumpy bed the curate lay wakeful and wrapped in -pleasing meditation. Now his thoughts strayed to the little bronze -parrot, which he had placed, after a final polish, on the mantelpiece; -and now, in delightful retrospection, he recalled the incidents of his -little jaunt. There was, for instance, the slightly intoxicated marine -with whom he had enjoyed a playful interview in Mermaid Street. -Gleefully he reconstituted the image of that warrior as he had last seen -him sitting in the gutter attending to his features with a reddened -handkerchief. And there was the overturned whelk-stall and the two -bluejackets outside the “Pope’s Head.” He grinned at the recollection. -And yet there were grumblers who actually complained of the dulness of -the clerical life! - -Again he recalled the pleasant walk home across the darkening fields, -the delightful rest by the wayside (on the cardboard box), and the -pleasantries that he had exchanged with a pair of rustic lovers—who had -told him that “he ought to be ashamed of himself; a gentleman and a -minister of religion, too!” He chuckled aloud as he thought of their -bucolic irritation and his own brilliant repartee. - -But at this moment his meditations were broken into by a very singular -interruption. From the neighbourhood of the mantelpiece there issued a -voice—a very strange voice, deep, buzzing, resonant, chanting a short -sentence, framed of yet more strange and unfamiliar words: - -“_Donköh e didi mä tūm. On esse?_” - -This astounding phrase rang out in the little room with a deep, booming -emphasis on the “tūm,” and an interrogative note on the two final words. -There followed an interval of intense silence, and then, from some -distance, as it seemed, came the tapping of drums, imitating, most -curiously, the sound and accent of the words; “tūm,” for instance, being -rendered by a large drum of deep, cavernous tone. - -Mr. Jawley listened with a pleased and interested smile. After a short -interval, the chant was repeated, and again, like a far-away echo, the -drums performed their curious mimicry of speech. Mr. Jawley was deeply -interested. After a dozen or so of repetitions, he found himself able to -repeat, with a fair accent, the mysterious sentence, and even to imitate -the tapping and booming of the drums. - -But after all you can have too much of a good thing; and when the chant -had continued to recur, at intervals of about ten seconds, for a quarter -of an hour, Mr. Jawley began to feel bored. - -“There!” said he, “that’ll do,” and he composed himself for slumber. But -the invisible chanter, ignoring his remark, continued the performance -_da capo_ and _ad lib._—in fact, _ad nauseam_. Then Mr. Jawley became -annoyed. First he sat up in bed and made what he considered appropriate -comments on the performance, with a few personal references to the -performer; and then, as the chant still continued with the relentless -persistence of a chapel bell, he sprang out and strode furiously over to -the mantelpiece. - -“Shut up!” he roared, shaking his fist at the invisible parrot; and, -strange to say, both the chant and the drumming ceased forthwith. There -are some forms of speech, it would seem, that require no interpreter. - -When Mr. Jawley entered the breakfast-room on the following morning, the -rector’s wife was in the act of helping her husband to a devilled -kidney, but she paused in the occupation to greet the curate with a -stony stare. Mr. Jawley sat down and knocked his knee as usual, but -commented on the circumstance in terms which were not at all usual. The -rector stared aghast and Mrs. Bodley exclaimed in shrill accents: “Mr. -Jawley, how dare——” - -At this point she paused, having caught the curate’s eye. A deathly -silence ensued, during which Mr. Jawley glared at a solitary boiled egg. -Suddenly he snatched up a knife, and with uncanny dexterity, decapitated -the egg with a single stroke. Then he peered curiously into the -disclosed cavity. Now if there was one thing that Mr. Jawley hated more -than another, it was an underdone egg; and as his eye encountered a -yellow spheroid floating in a clear liquid, he frowned ominously. - -“Raw, by Gosh!” he exclaimed hoarsely; and plucking the egg from its -calyx, he sent it hurtling across the room. For several seconds the -rector stared, silent and open-mouthed, at his curate; then, following -his wife’s gaze, he stared at the wall, on the chrysanthemum paper of -which appeared a new motive uncontemplated by the designer. And -meanwhile, Mr. Jawley reached across the table and stuck a fork into the -devilled kidney. - -When the rector looked round and discovered his loss, he essayed some -spluttered demands for an explanation. But since the organs of speech -are associated with the act of mastication, the curate was not in a -position to answer him. His eyes, however, were disengaged at the -moment, and some compelling quality in them caused the rector and his -wife to rise from their chairs and back cautiously towards the door. Mr. -Jawley nodded them out blandly; and being left in possession, proceeded -to fill himself a cup of tea, and another of coffee, cleared the dish, -emptied the toast-rack, and having disposed of these trifles, concluded -a Gargantuan repast by crunching up the contents of the sugar-basin. -Never had he enjoyed such a breakfast, and never had he felt so -satisfied and joyous. - -Having wiped his smiling lips on the table-cloth, he strolled out into -the playground, where the boys were waiting to be driven in to lessons. -At the moment of his appearance, Messrs. Joblett and Byles were in the -act of resuming adjourned hostilities. The curate strode through the -ring of spectators and beamed on the combatants with ferocious -benevolence. His arrival had produced a brief armistice, but as he -uttered no protests, the battle was resumed with a tentative prod on the -part of Joblett. - -The curate grinned savagely. “That isn’t the way, Joblett,” he -exclaimed. “Kick him, man. Kick him in the stomach.” - -“Beg pardon, sir,” said Joblett, regarding his preceptor with -saucer-eyes. “Did you say kick him?” - -“Yes,” roared the curate. “In the stomach. Like this!” - -He backed a few paces, and fixing a glittering eye on Byles’s abdomen, -rushed forward, and, flinging his right foot back until it was almost -visible over his shoulder, let out a tremendous kick. But Byles’s -stomach was not there. Neither was Byles, which, of course, follows. The -result was that Mr. Jawley’s foot, meeting with no resistance, flew into -space, carrying Mr. Jawley’s centre of gravity with it. - -When the curate scrambled to his feet and glared balefully around, the -playground was empty. A frantic crowd surged in through the open house -door, while stragglers hurriedly climbed over the walls. - -Mr. Jawley laughed hoarsely. It was time to open school, but at the -moment he was not studiously inclined. Letting himself out by the gate, -he strolled forth into the village and sauntered up the street. And here -it was, just opposite the little butcher’s shop, that he encountered the -village atheist. Now this philosopher—who, it is needless to say, was a -cobbler by profession—had a standing and perennial joke, which was to -greet the curate with the words: “How do, Jawley?” and thereby elicit a -gracious “Good morning, Mr. Pegg” and a polite touch of the hat. He -proceeded this morning to utter the invariable formula, cocking his eye -at the expectant butcher. But the anticipated response came not. -Instead, the curate turned on him suddenly and growled: - -“Say ‘sir,’ you vermin, when you speak to your betters.” - -The astounded cobbler was speechless for a moment. But only for a -moment. - -“What!” he exclaimed, “me say ‘sir’ to a sneakin’ little sky-pilot, -what——” - -Here Mr. Jawley turned and stepped lightly over to the shop. Reaching in -through the open front, he lifted a cleaver from its nail, and swinging -it high above his head, rushed with a loud yell at the offending -cobbler. But Mr. Pegg was not without presence of mind—which, in this -case, connoted absence of body. Before you could say “wax,” he had -darted into his house, bolted the door, and was looking down with -bulging eyes from the first-floor window on the crown of the curate’s -hat. - -Meanwhile the butcher had emerged angrily from his shop and approached -the curate from behind. - -“Here,” he exclaimed gruffly, “what are you doing with that chop——” Here -he paused suddenly as Mr. Jawley turned his head, and he continued with -infinite suavity: - -“Could you, sir, manage to spare that cleaver? If you would be so -kind——” - -Mr. Jawley uttered a sulky growl and thrust the great chopper into its -owner’s hands; then, as the butcher turned away, he gave a loud laugh, -on which the tradesman cleared his threshold at a single bound and -slammed the half-door behind him. But a terrified backward glance showed -him the curate’s face wreathed in smiles, and another glance made him -aware of the diminutive figure of Miss Dorcas Shipton approaching up the -street. - -The curate ran forward to meet her, beaming with affection. But he -didn’t merely beam. Not at all. The sound of his greeting was audible -even to Mr. Pegg, who leaned out of window, with eyes that bulged more -than ever. - -“Really, Deodatus!” exclaimed the scandalised Miss Dorcas. “What can you -be thinking about, in such a pub——” Her remonstrances were cut short at -this point by fresh demonstrations, which caused the butcher to wipe his -mouth with the back of his hand and Mr. Pegg to gasp with fresh -amazement. - -“Pray, pray remember yourself, Deodatus!” exclaimed the blushing Dorcas, -wriggling, at length, out of his too-affectionate grasp. “Besides,” she -added with a sudden strategic inspiration, “you surely ought to be in -school at this time.” - -“That is of no consequence, darling,” said Jawley, advancing on her with -open arms; “old Bod can look after the whelps.” - -“Oh, but you mustn’t neglect your duties, Deodatus,” said Miss Dorcas, -still backing away. “Won’t you go in, just to please me?” - -“Certainly, my love, if you wish it,” replied Jawley, with an amorous -leer. “I’ll go at once—but I _must_ have just one more,” and again the -village street rang with a sound as of the popping of a ginger-beer -cork. - -As he approached the school, Mr. Jawley became aware of the familiar and -distasteful roar of many voices. Standing in the doorway, he heard Mr. -Bodley declare with angry emphasis that he “would not have this -disgraceful noise,” and saw him slap the desk with his open hand; -whereupon nothing in particular happened excepting an apparently -preconcerted chorus as of many goats. Then Mr. Jawley entered and looked -round; and in a moment the place was wrapped in a silence like that of -an Egyptian tomb. - -Space does not allow of our recording in detail the history of the next -few days. We may, however, say in general terms that there grew up in -the village of Bobham a feeling of universal respect for the diminutive -curate, not entirely unmixed with superstitious awe. Rustics, hitherto -lax in their manners, pulled off their hats like clockwork at his -approach; Mr. Pegg, abandoning the village street, cultivated a taste -for footpaths, preferably remote and unobstructed by trees; the butcher -fell into the habit of sending gratuitous sweetbreads to the Rectory, -addressed to Mr. Jawley; and even the blacksmith, when he had recovered -from his black eye, adopted a suave and conciliatory demeanour. - -The rector’s wife alone cherished a secret resentment (though outwardly -attentive in the matter of devilled kidneys and streaky bacon), and -urged the rector to get rid of his fire-eating subordinate; but her -plans failed miserably. It is true that the rector did venture -tentatively to open the subject to the curate, who listened with a -lowering brow and sharpened a lead pencil with a colossal pocket-knife -that he had bought at a ship-chandler’s in Dilbury. But the conclusion -was never reached. Distracted, perhaps, by Mr. Jawley’s inscrutable -manner, the rector became confused, and, to his own surprise, found -himself urging the curate to accept an additional twenty pounds a -year—an offer which Mr. Jawley immediately insisted on having in -writing. - -The only person who did not share the universal awe was Miss Dorcas; for -she, like the sundial, “numbered only the sunny hours.” But she -respected him more than any, and, though dimly surprised at the rumours -of his doings, gloried in secret over his prowess. - -Thus the days rolled on, and Mr. Jawley put on flesh visibly. Then came -the eventful morning when, on scanning the rector’s _Times_, his eye -lighted on an advertisement in the Personal Column: - -“Ten Pounds Reward.—Lost: a small bronze effigy of a parrot on a square -pedestal; the whole two and a half inches high. The above Reward will be -paid on behalf of the owner by the Curator of the Ethnographical -Department of the British Museum, who has a photograph and description -of the object.” - -Now Mr. Jawley had become deeply attached to the parrot. But after all, -it was only a pretty trifle, and ten pounds was ten pounds. That very -afternoon, the Curator found himself confronted by a diminutive -clergyman of ferocious aspect, and hurriedly disgorged ten sovereigns -after verifying the description; and to this day he is wont to recount, -as an instance of the power of money, the remarkable change for the -better in the clergyman’s manners when the transaction was completed. - -It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Jawley reappeared in the village -of Bobham. He carried a gigantic paper parcel under one arm, and his -pockets bulged so that he appeared to suffer from some unclassified -deformity. At the stile, he suddenly encountered Mr. Pegg, who prepared -for instant flight and was literally stupefied when the curate lifted -his hat and graciously wished him “good evening.” But Mr. Pegg was even -more stupefied when, a few minutes later, he saw the curate seated on a -doorstep, with the open parcel on his knees, and a mob of children -gathered around him. For Mr. Jawley, with the sunniest of smiles, was -engaged in distributing dolls, peg-tops, skipping-ropes, and little -wooden horses to a running accompaniment of bull’s-eyes, brandy-balls, -and other delicacies, which he produced from inexhaustible pockets. He -even offered Mr. Pegg himself a sugar-stick, which the philosophic -cordwainer accepted with a polite bow and presently threw over a wall. -But he pondered deeply on this wonder, and is probably pondering still, -in common with the other inhabitants of Bobham. - -But though, from that moment, Mr. Jawley became once more the gentlest -and most amiable of men, the prestige of his former deeds remained; -reverential awe attended his footsteps abroad, devilled kidneys and -streaky bacon were his portion at home; until such time as Miss Dorcas -Shipton underwent a quieter metamorphosis and became Mrs. Deodatus -Jawley. And thereafter he walked, not only amidst reverence and awe, but -also amidst flowers and sunshine. - - * * * * * - -_Postscript._—The curious who would know more about the parrot may find -him on his appropriate shelf in the West African Section, and read the -large descriptive label which sets forth his history. - -“Bronze-gold weight in the form of a parrot. This object was formerly -the property of the great Ashanti war Chief, Amankwa Tia, whose clan -totem was a parrot. It was worn by him, attached to his wrist, as an -amulet or charm, and when on a campaign a larger copy of it, of gilded -wood, was carried by the chief herald, who preceded him and chanted his -official motto. It may be explained here that each of the Ashanti -generals had a distinguishing motto, consisting of a short sentence, -which was called out before him by his heralds when on the march, and -repeated, with remarkably close mimicry, by the message drums. Thus, -when several bodies of troops were marching through the dense forest, -their respective identities were made clear to one another by the sound -of the chant on the drums. Amankwa Tia’s motto was: ‘Donköh e didi mä -tūm. On esse?’ Which may be translated: ‘(Foreign) Slaves revile me. -Why?’ A somewhat meaningless sentence, but having, perhaps, a sinister -significance.” - - - - - The Forbidden Woman - - _By_ Warwick Deeping - - _Royal Army Medical Corps_ - - -Hilary Blake went down through the tangled shrubs of the garden that was -half a wilderness, and a strange, white awe was on his face. - -Twice he paused, turned, and looked back. She was still there on the -terrace, set high against the sunset—a strange, wet sunset, in which -streaks of opalescent blue showed dimly through a vaporous glow of -scarlet and gold. Queer, slate-coloured clouds sailed low down across -the sky. The far woods were the colour of amethyst. But Judith of the -terrace was outlined against a clear breadth of gold. She was watching -him, and he could imagine the provoking set of her head, and that -enigmatic smile of hers that made men wonder. - -She had been strangely kind to him that evening, and the fire of her -beauty was in his blood. - -How was it that she had been a young widow these five years, and that no -man had won her a second time? She was proud, with a vague, elusive -pride, a pride that baffled and kept men at a distance. And yet it had -seemed to him that there was a great sadness behind those eyes, a dread -of something, a loneliness that waxed impatient. Sudden silences would -fall on her. He had found her looking at him in a queer and tragic way, -as though she saw some shadow of fate falling between them. - -A spray of syringa brushed across his face as he walked on down the -tangled path. It was wet and fragrant, and, with sudden exultation, he -crushed it against his mouth. The smell of it was of June and of her. - -He went on, head in air, marvelling at all the tangle of chances that -had brought this great thing to him. A year ago he had been Captain -Blake, of the 7th Foot, leading redcoats by the Canadian lakes. He -remembered that letter coming to him, that letter that told him how two -deaths had made him Blake of Brackenhurst Manor. There had been that -wild dinner in that block-house by the lakes, when all the fine fellows -had drunk to Blake of Brackenhurst, and Red Eagle and his “braves” had -gone mad with fire-water and set the store-house alight by shooting into -the thatch. He had not seen Brackenhurst since he was a boy. He had come -to it a little elated, and he had discovered her. - -“Good evening, Captain Blake.” - -Hilary had just let the wicket-gate clash behind him. He turned sharply. - -An old yew threw a deep shade here, shutting off the sunset, and, -leaning against the fence under it, Hilary saw a big man in a long green -coat, buff riding-breeches and top boots. He wore a black, unpowdered -wig under his three-cornered hat, and this dark wig set off the sallow -and impassive breadth of a face that showed to the world a laconic -arrogance. He had a little book of fishing flies in his hands, and as he -played with it casually his eyes looked at Hilary Blake with an ironical -insolence that was but half veiled. - -Blake hardly knew the man, save by sight and reputation. He was Sir -Royce Severn, of Moor Hall, a man with a mystery round him and more -duels to his credit than his neighbours cared to mention. In fact, there -was a sort of dread of him dominating the neighbourhood. He lived -practically alone at Moor Hall, up yonder against the northern sky, a -grim, secretive sort of creature who rode, and shot, and fished alone. - -“Good evening to you,” and Blake’s eyes added, “What may you be doing -outside Judith Strange’s garden fence?” - -The man seemed to have been waiting for that challenging look in the -other’s eyes. He gave a queer and almost noiseless laugh, and put his -fly-book away in his pocket. A heavy hunting-crop hung on the fence. Sir -Royce Severn tucked it with a certain cynical ostentation under his arm. - -“I think we are strangers, Captain Blake.” - -“I think we are, sir.” - -“My way is your way for a mile or so. Do you take the path through the -park?” - -“I do.” - -He moved on, and the man in green set himself beside him. The sunset was -on their faces, and up yonder Judith of the Terrace still stood outlined -against a glow of gold. - -Blake saw his companion look steadily towards her, and there was -something in that look that made his blood simmer. - -“Mrs. Judith stays out late on so damp an evening.” - -“And what is it to you if she does, my friend,” said Blake’s eyes. - -The man in green laughed, that quiet, threatening laugh of his. - -“You come here very often, Captain Blake.” - -“I beg your pardon, sir.” - -“I said, you come here very often. You are new to these parts; I know -them better than you do.” - -A cold anger began to stir in Hilary Blake. - -“My business is my own, Sir Royce Severn. Pray leave it at that.” - -The other answered him sharply. - -“I deny that, Captain Blake; I deny that flatly. It is my business to -tell you that Judith Strange is a dangerous woman.” - -The path had reached a spot where great oaks were gathered together, -casting a half gloom over the grass. Under their canopies the stormy sky -showed yellow and red. - -Blake stopped dead and faced the man in green. - -“I think, sir, you are a little mad—or very insolent.” - -“I am neither the one nor the other.” - -“You will leave a certain name untouched in my presence.” - -He saw two like points of light shine out in the other’s eyes. - -“That is the language that all of them have used, Captain Blake. Your -good cousin talked like that, sir, though what right he had to mouth -such heroics only his own silly conceit could tell. I have heard a great -deal of such talk”—he shrugged and laughed—“it never moved me one iota.” - -Blake stared at him. - -“Moved you, sir! What cause was there for you to be moved—one way or the -other? Save that if you spoke lightly of a lady it was right that some -man should smite you on the mouth.” - -“That no man has ever done.” - -“Indeed!” - -“I speak of Judith Strange as I please.” - -“I think not, sir.” - -“Captain Blake, you have never seen me handle a sword or mark my man -with a pistol.” - -He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders; and his arrogant face was a -threat, a face that loomed big and white and fanatical under the gloom -of the trees. - -Blake’s eyes grew dangerous. - -“Come out into the open, sir. What is at the bottom of all this -boasting?” - -Sir Royce Severn bowed to him. - -“Captain Blake, let me suggest to you that you go no more to Judith -Strange’s house.” - -“Let me suggest, sir, that you mind your own business.” - -“Judith Strange is my business.” - -The younger man took a step forward, and his left arm went up. Severn’s -hunting-crop whirled suddenly, and struck Blake’s fist so that one of -the knucklebones cracked. The pain of it made Blake stride to and fro, -biting his lips. - -“You fiend!” - -Severn laughed. - -“You cannot hurt me, my friend. I never met a cock yet who could face me -in the pit. Judith Strange, Captain Blake, is to be my wife, and I have -a sort of jealousy in me that is dangerous to calves. I say what I -please about the woman I mean to marry.” - -Blake’s face had gone dead white, but not with physical pain. - -“I don’t take you, sir.” - -“Oh, come, sir, come. You appear to know very little about women. Judith -Strange would flirt on her wedding morning. But I, Captain Blake, want -no youngsters playing round the woman I mean to marry. If moths come to -my candle, _pff_, I snuff them out. Only twice, sir, have men dared to -fight with me. They did not need a second dose.” - -He tucked his hunting-crop under his arm, took off his hat ironically, -and left Blake standing. - -For the moment Hilary Blake’s anger had died out of him. He saw Sir -Royce Severn disappear among the trees, and felt himself a fool for -having ridden the high horse. The man had had the laugh of him. It was -all natural, and logical enough. - -Sir Royce Severn could be accused of neither madness nor insolence if he -resented another man paying court to the woman who was to be his wife. - -But Judith! And that wet sunset, and the walk upon the terrace, that -leave-taking, the brushing of the syringa across his mouth! A flare of -pain rushed through him. He thought of the exultation of an hour ago, of -the wonder of joy that had been in his heart. - -Had she been playing with him, fooling him? What was he to believe? - -He was lost in the chaos of his own emotions, of love, anger, scorn, -hate, shame, and savage regret. He would go back and hear the truth from -her own lips. But no, the laughter of a coquette would be too bitter for -him to bear. Great God! was she that heartless thing? Why should he -believe this man’s word against her, throw over all that was sacred -because of Severn’s confident sneers? - -Hilary turned, and began to walk back along the path, staring at the -ground in front of him, forgetting his bruised hand. The splendour was -dying in the west, and a blue twilight flowing into the valleys; the -hills looked black and cold. - -“Hilary!” - -She had come on him suddenly out of the twilight, and the red brocade -dress that she was wearing seemed to catch the last rays of the sunset, -and to glow amid the gloom. She was breathing fast as though she had -been running, and he could see the rising and falling of her breast. - -Hilary had stopped dead, his head held high. - -“Mrs. Judith!” - -But that haughty poise of his was no more than hoar frost on a sunny -morning. - -She came close to him till he saw the shine in her eyes, the proud rage -of her white throat, and the way that glowing red brocade swayed up and -down below a smother of white lace. Even the lover in him had guessed -her capable of great passion, but now that he saw the full flare thereof -he stood silent and astonished. - -“That brute was waiting for you. I had looked for it. That is why I -stayed upon the terrace. I knew that it must happen some day soon.” - -“Sir Royce Severn?” - -Her passion did not give him time to speak. - -“So, Hilary Blake, he has frozen or frightened you—after his fashion! -You hold your head high and look at me with haughty eyes! Must I defend -myself, I, who have never justified myself to any man? By Heaven, why -should I stoop to defend myself before any man? Why? Even before you!” - -[Illustration: “‘Judith, I will break this fate of yours.’ He drew -closer, but she put him back with her hands” (page 130).] - -Her whole figure seemed to glow in the twilight like metal at red heat, -but her face was a stark white, her eyes challenged him. - -He drew his breath in deeply, for this tempest of passion played upon -the half-smothered fire in him like the wind. - -“Judith, what have I said yet?” - -“Ah, say it; let us have it spoken. Then I, too, will speak.” - -He looked at her, and a sudden generous shame smote him. - -“No, by Heaven!” - -She beat her hands together. - -“Yes, by Heaven! But I can guess what Severn said: that I am to be his -wife, that I have played with men——” - -His silence answered her. - -“He lied. Do you hear, he lied. My God, how I hate that man!” - -She stood very still a moment, but it was the stillness of a wrath that -found nothing strong enough to carry it to self-expression. - -“Listen. For five years—ever since my husband died—this man has -persecuted me. ‘Judith, marry me,’ he has asked, month by month, but I -know that I hated him from the first, and I did not hide my hate. But he -is a devil, that man; he seemed to thrive on the ‘Nays’ I gave him, and -he came and quarrelled month by month, by way of making love. I forbade -him the house. He laughed, and said: ‘Be sure that I shall not let you -marry another man. I shall scare them away, or kill them if they refuse -to be scared.’ And he was as good as his word. Men sought me; I did not -seek them, nor did I love any of those who came to me to make love. What -did it matter? Each man dropped away in turn, and came no more. Three -were cowards; two fought Royce Severn and were wounded; he swore that he -would kill them the next time, and they took him at his word. Love was -not worth the risk! Then he would waylay me somewhere, and be smooth, -and courteous, and sneering. ‘Judith,’ he would say, ‘no man will put me -out of his path. You will marry me—or remain a widow.’ And when I -threatened to go away—marry, to spite him—he threatened in return. ‘My -dear, I shall follow you. And if you trick me, by marrying, you will be -a widow again within a month.’” - -Strange as the tale sounded, Blake knew that it was the truth, and a -fierce exultation woke in him. If she had not cared, would she have told -him this? - -“The man is mad!” - -“Mad, yes, but most accursedly logical in his madness. The Severns have -been like that. Sometimes I feel that I shall take his life, or that he -will take mine.” - -Blake took a step towards her. - -“Judith, am I no more than the other men, the cowards, and the two who -would not dare the uttermost?” - -“I shall not answer you.” - -“By Heaven, you must! Why, even if you have no love for me, shall I -slink away and not fight for the right to be near you! There is a devil -in me that can match the devil in Royce Severn.” - -She gave a queer, inarticulate cry, and the fire died out of her eyes. - -“No, no; that is why I followed you to-night. Hilary, I knew that you -were not like those others.” - -“You knew that! Then——” - -“No, no; listen. I have a feeling in me sometimes that I am a woman who -is fatal to men—fatal to those who love me. A month ago I might not have -cared, but now I care too much. Hilary, promise never to see me again.” - -He gave a grim yet exultant laugh. - -“That is impossible. Judith, I will break this fate of yours.” - -He drew closer, but she put him back with her hands. - -“No, no; have I not told you that this man is a devil? No one in these -parts would dare to cross him. He can shoot as no mortal man should -shoot, and they say that the best French swordsmen could not touch him. -It is death.” - -He drew himself up, and his eyes smiled suddenly. - -“If it be death, well, what of that! My love is greater than Severn’s -love. I, too, can use foil or pistol, and a cavalry sabre is like -neither of these. I shall fight this man.” - -She stood white and mute a moment, her hands hanging limply. Then -suddenly her hands were upon his shoulders, her passionate face looking -into his. - -“Hilary, oh, my dear! No, no; I cannot bear it. Go away, leave me. I -shall have your blood upon my hands, and then I think I shall go mad.” - -He caught her and held her. - -“Judith, I cannot leave you. So I must kill Severn.” - -“But he——” - -“Dear, the man is mortal. I say, I shall kill him.” - -“Yet, if you kill him——” - -He lifted her face to his. - -“Well, I might have to go over the water for a while. But I should come -back.” - -“Hilary!” - -He felt all the woman in her stirring in his arms. - -“Hilary, I should be with you then, not here. Oh, if it were possible!” - -“Dear, is this the truth?” - -“The uttermost truth, the very heart of my heart.” - -He looked at her, very dearly, and then kissed her upon the mouth. - -“So be it. Go back, my beloved. I have work to do.” - -He had to free himself, almost by force, for her dread returned. - -“No, no; I shall never see you again.” - -“I swear that you shall. Dear heart, let me go.” - -He put her hands aside very gently. - -“Judith, go home and wait. By morning I may have news for you.” - -In half an hour Blake was on the edge of the moor, walking as though for -a wager. A mere cart track led over the moor to Moor Hall, and on either -side of it were stretched masses of whin and heather. A moon was just -rising, and all the countryside was spread below, the distant cliffs -drawing a black outline about the glimmer of the sea. But Blake was -watching the cart track in front of him. - -He had cut an oak sapling with his clasp-knife in one of the park -plantations so that he should have something to match against Royce -Severn’s hunting-crop. - -Blake had guessed that he might catch his man on the homeward road, and -catch him he did, just where the track turned eastwards over the ridge -of the moor. Fifty paces ahead of him Blake saw a black figure rise -against the sky-line, almost between him and the rising moon. - -“Sir Royce Severn.” - -The black figure paused, and waited there against the steel-grey sky. - -“Who’s there?” - -The moonlight showed him Hilary Blake. - -“Ah, Captain Blake, come to apologise so soon!” - -“No, sir, only to tell you that you are a liar.” - -He could not see Severn’s face, for he had his back turned towards the -moon. - -“So you do not believe me, Captain Blake?” - -“No, I do not, sir; or I should not have turned so far out of my way to -call you a liar and a coward.” - -Both men felt that it had come, that they were like dogs doomed to be at -each other’s throats, but Severn strolled forward with a casual air, -flicking his hunting-crop to and fro as though he were beating time to a -piece of music. And that arrogant self-confidence of his fooled him. He -had to do with an athlete that night, a man who had matched himself to -run and leap against Indians, and not with some heavy squireling or town -gallant out of condition with drink and cards. For Blake took a standing -leap at Severn, covered ten foot of ground at the spring, and got such a -blow home as sent the big man sprawling. - -Blake was on him, and had wrenched the hunting-crop away. He broke it -across his knee, and threw the pieces into a furze bush. - -“If you want a broken fist, sir, I have an oak sapling that will wipe -out that blow you gave me two hours ago.” - -But Severn was up, in far too wild a rage for sticks or fisticuffs. - -“Fool, I should have warned you with a sword-prick through the arm, but -now, by the woman I mean to marry, I will kill you.” - -“Leave it at that!” - -“Choose your weapons. I’ll meet you with whatever you please.” - -Blake smiled over set teeth. - -“I claim cavalry sabres. I have two. You shall have your choice.” - -Severn snarled at him. - -“You prefer being slashed to pricked, eh? Very good. One second each -will serve. At six to-morrow morning.” - -“When you please.” - -Severn became suddenly and splendidly polite. - -“Captain Blake, it will be a pleasure. What do you say to that little -field at the back of the fir plantation on the main road down yonder? -You know it?” - -“Yes.” - -“At six, then. I have a friend at my house who will act for me. I shall -be happy to choose one of your sabres. I wish you a very good night.” - -His politeness had thinned to an ironical and sneering playfulness, but -Blake had been born with a stiff back. Yet he saw how Royce Severn had -trodden on the courage of those other men, and half cowed them before -they had crossed swords. - -“It is a pretty thing, a cavalry sabre, sir. May you, too, pass a good -night. I shall go home and get some sleep.” - -And so they parted. - -Hilary Blake turned back for Brackenhurst, and in half an hour found -himself standing in the brick porch of Colonel Maundrell’s house at the -end of Brackenhurst village. The colonel’s old soldier-servant answered -his knock. - -“Is your master in, Thomas?” - -“Sure, sir; he is in.” - -“And alone?” - -“And alone, sir.” - -Colonel Maundrell was sitting at the open window of his library that -looked towards the sea. - -Two candles in silver candlesticks stood on the oak table, and their -pale light seemed to mingle with the moonlight that streamed in at the -window. The old soldier with the hawk’s beak of a nose and the iron-grey -head had been sitting there thinking. - -Directly the door had closed and the sound of Thomas’s footsteps could -be heard departing, Blake told his business. - -“Colonel, I want you to second me. I fight Royce Severn at six to-morrow -morning.” - -The old soldier sat forward in his chair. Then, after a moment’s -silence, “Curse Royce Severn.” - -He rose, and drawing himself to his full height, looked searchingly at -Blake from under his straight grey eyebrows. - -“What has made you quarrel with Royce Severn?” - -“A love affair, sir.” - -Maundrell pulled out his tortoise-shell snuff-box and took snuff -vigorously. - -“So you want to marry Judith Strange. I know how Severn has persecuted -her. It is a pity someone has not shot the beast; I have thought of -doing it myself. But do you know what you are doing, Blake?” - -“I am going to marry Judith Strange.” - -“Yes, yes; all very well that. But this man Severn can shoot and fence -like the devil himself. He is the coolest and most deadly beast when -there is fighting afoot. Who has the choice of weapons?” - -“I have, sir; I have chosen cavalry sabres.” - -The colonel threw up his right hand with a stiff gesture of delight. - -“Sabres? excellent! Severn’s love is the foil. There are some men, -Blake, who can never take kindly to sabre play, just as some men would -rather be slashed than pinked through the liver. Sabres: excellent!” - -He walked up and down, limping slightly, from an old wound that he had -got at Fontenoy. - -“Where do we meet, lad?” - -“In the little meadow behind the fir plantation above Gaymer’s farm.” - -“At six?” - -“At six. I take the sabres. Severn has his choice. A friend is to second -him.” - -“I know that friend of his. A little brown beast of a French -fencing-master. Sabres: excellent! Look you, lad, speed is the great -thing against a man like Severn. Go at it, like a cavalry charge. I have -known good swordsmen knocked over by mere slashing boys in a cavalry -charge. It is no use playing the cunning game with Royce Severn.” - -“Thank you, sir. I am out to kill him in the first thirty seconds. I -know something about sabres.” - -The colonel came and tapped him on the shoulder. - -“Blake, you had better sleep here. Go up and get those sabres now it is -dark.” - -“That is an idea, sir. I want to pack a valise, and get all the money I -have in the house. I will ride my black horse down here and stable him -for the night.” - -“Lad, you don’t contemplate dying! That’s the spirit.” - -“If I have to go, sir, I’ll not leave Severn alive behind me. Judith -shall be free.” - -It was a cloudless June morning when Hilary Blake and Colonel Maundrell -got on their horses and took the lane that led round the back of the -village past the mill. - -Blake’s Canadian campaigning had hardened him, and he had slept for -three hours. He carried a leather valise strapped to his saddle. The -colonel had the sabres wrapped in a black cloth under his arm. Mists -still hung about the valleys, and they could not see the sea. - -They passed Gaymer’s farm and came to the fir plantation. It was black, -and still, and secret, and gloom hung within the crowded trunks like a -curtain. A rough gate opened through a ragged hedge. They dismounted, -and leading their horses, disappeared into the wood. - -Judith Strange had not slept, for a man had come riding late up the -drive between the old oaks, and had left a letter with the major domo, -and galloped away again as though fearful of being called back. The -letter had been sealed with red wax, and Judith had broken the seal and -read the letter by candle-light in the long parlour. - - “JUDITH,—I love you. I fight Severn to-morrow morning, and you - shall be free. Do not try to come between us, for you will - fail. - - “HILARY BLAKE.” - -She had turned the letter over in her hands, and her gaze had rested on -the red wax of the seal she had broken. The colour of blood! She had -been seized by a foreboding of evil, by the thought that this thing was -prophetic, that to-morrow the man who loved her might be dead. - -She fought against this dread in her own heart, but she did not sleep. -Her servants were a-bed; the candles had burnt out in the long parlour, -and the full moon shone over the sea. - -Judith had stepped through the open window on to the terrace, and she -walked to and fro there in the moonlight, feeling that she was helpless -to hinder the workings of her own fate. - -Then she rebelled, thrust her forebodings aside, and refused to believe -in her own fears. - -She returned to the house, found a little hand-lamp burning in the -panelled hall, and taking it went up the broad stairs to her room at the -end of the long gallery. There was a valise under the bed. She pulled it -out, and began to fill it with clothes, and to collect her jewellery and -store it away in a rosewood case bound with brass. Nor did she forget -the guineas she kept in the secret drawer of her bureau. - -Then she dressed herself as for a journey, with a kind of tenderness -towards herself and towards her love, putting on one of her red brocades -and a black beaver hat with black feather. She looked long at herself in -her glass, touching her black hair with her fingers, on which she had -thrust the most precious of her rings. Emeralds and rubies glittered in -the lamplight, and her eyes were almost as feverish as the precious -stones. - -She sat down in a chair by one of the windows and waited. Hours passed; -the dawn showed in the east; the lamp had burnt all its oil, and had -flickered out. The silence was utter. An anguish of restlessness -returned. - -A clock struck five. She rose, passed out of the room, down the dim -stairs, and through the long parlour on to the terrace. The freshness of -the dawn was there, and the birds were awake in the thickets. She began -to walk up and down, up and down over the stone flags, with the heavy -mists lying in the valleys below, and the sea hidden by a great grey -pall. - -The boom of a gun came from the sea. It was some fog-bound ship firing a -signal. - -The clock in the turret struck six. A gardener appeared upon the -terrace, saw Judith walking there, stared, and slunk away. She was -conscious of a strange oppression at the heart, a sudden spasmodic -quickening of her suspense. She could walk no longer, but sat down on -the dew-wet parapet and waited. - -Suddenly the mist lifted. The great trees in the park seemed to shake -themselves free of their white shrouds. The vapour drifted away like -smoke; the grass slopes and hollows showed a glittering greyish green. - -Judith stood up, her eyes dark and big in a pale face, for far away, -over yonder, something moved amid the trees. She pressed her hands over -her bosom and waited. And then she saw a galloping horse, and a man -bending forward in the saddle, a little figure, distant in the morning -light. - -Which was it? She strained her eyes, but could not satisfy her suspense. -Twice had Royce Severn ridden to her in just such a fashion, to make -mocking love to her and to tell her that he had left a rival cowed and -beaten. - -Suddenly her heart leapt in her. The man had galloped near; he had seen -the figure on the terrace; he waved his hat. - -She gave a strange cry, ran to the terrace steps and down them to the -path that led through the wilderness. - -They met where a climbing rose trailed in the branches of a half-dead -almond tree. Blake had left his horse at the wicket-gate. - -She saw the grim radiance of his face. - -“Hilary!” - -“I have killed Royce Severn.” - -She swayed forward, and he had her in his arms. - -“Oh, my beloved, you are as white as death.” - -“Dear, I have suffered.” - -He kissed her. - -“Judith, you are free. But this man’s blood——” - -She clung to him. - -“Let us go away, let us go away together. Yes, I have money, and my -jewels, and my valise packed. I will order the coach. They cannot harm -you, Hilary, for killing him, and yet——” - -He looked in her eyes and understood. - -“Dear, we will leave the thought of it behind us. Come, there is no time -to lose. We can make Rye town before noon.” - -They went up the terrace steps hand in hand. - - - - - Eliza _and the_ Special - - _By_ Barry Pain - - _Royal Naval Air Service_ - - -“Eliza!” I said, after we had retired to the drawing-room, as we almost -always do after our late dinner nowadays, unless of course the lighting -of an extra fire is involved, “Eliza, I have this afternoon come to -rather an important decision. I must ask you to remember the meaning of -the word decision. It means that a thing is decided. It may be perfectly -natural to you to beg me not to risk the exposure to the weather, and -the possible attacks by criminals or German spies, but where my -conscience has spoken I am, so to speak, adamant, (if you would kindly -cease playing with the cat, you would be able to pay more attention to -what I am saying). What I want you to realise is that no entreaties or -arguments can possibly move me. This nation is at present plunged——” - -“By the way,” said Eliza, “you don’t mind my interrupting, but I’ve just -thought of it. Miss Lakers says she can’t think why you don’t offer -yourself as a special, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t, either.” - -“This, Eliza,” I said, “is one of the most extraordinary coincidences -that have befallen me in the whole course of my life. If an author were -to put such a thing in a book, every reader would remark on its -improbability. But the fact remains—at the very moment when you spoke I -was on the point of telling you that I had decided to become a special -constable.” - -“That’s all right, then,” said Eliza. “I’ll tell Miss Lakers. Wonder you -didn’t think of it before. Anything in the evening paper to-night?” - -“You are hardly taking my decision in the way that might have been -expected,” I said. “However, we will let that pass. We must now take the -necessary steps.” - -“What do you mean?” said Eliza. “You just go to the station and——” - -“I was not thinking of that. There is this question of exposure to the -weather. A warm waistcoat—sufficiently low at the back to give -protection to the kidneys—is, I understand, essential. We must also -procure a flask.” - -“Well, I shouldn’t if I were you. If you take whiskey when you’re on -duty, and then anything happens, you only put yourself in the wrong.” - -[Illustration: “I had forgotten my cocoa flask” (page 139).] - -“My dear Eliza,” I said, “I was not dreaming of taking stimulants while -on duty. Afterwards, perhaps, in moderation, but not during. I was -referring to one of those flasks which keep soup or cocoa hot for a -considerable period. This question of exposure to the weather is rather -more serious than you seem to——” - -“Oh, that kind of flask! Well, that’s different. And do be more careful -when you’re uncrossing your legs. You as near as possible kicked the cat -that time.” - -As I told her, she had quite failed to grasp the situation or to take a -proper interest in it. Her reply, that I was too funny, simply had no -bearing on the subject. - - * * * * * - -I am not a snob. Far from it. But I do think that in the special -constabulary a little more regard might be paid to social status. I was -required for certain hours of the night to guard a small square building -connected with the waterworks. It was in a desperately lonely spot, -fully a hundred yards from the main road and approached by a footpath -across a desolate field. I make no complaint as to that. Unless a man -has pretty good nerves he had better not become a special constable. But -I do complain, and with good reason, that in this task I was associated -with Hopley. - -Hopley is a plumber, in quite a small way. Some ten or twelve years ago, -when I was merely an employee of the firm in which I am now a partner, I -gave Hopley some work. At the time of taking the order he called me -“sir,” and was most respectful. Later, he used very coarse language, and -said he should not leave my kitchen until the account had been settled. -I remember this because it was the last time that I had to pawn my -watch. - -Fortunately, Hopley seemed to have forgotten the incident and to have -forgotten me. On the other hand he seemed quite oblivious of the fact -that there was any social barrier between us. He always addressed me as -an equal, and even as an intimate friend. Making allowances for the -unusual circumstances, the nation being at war, I did not put him back -in his place. But after all, I ask myself, was it necessary? With a -little more organisation it would not have happened. - -I will admit that I found him useful at drill and generally tried to be -next him. He seemed to know about drill, and gave me the required pull -or push which makes so much difference. - -But when we two were guarding that building I found him most depressing. -He took a pessimistic view of the situation. He said that any special -who was put to guard a waterworks was practically sentenced to death, -because the Germans had got the position of every waterworks in the -kingdom charted, and the Zeppelins had their instructions. Then he -talked over the invasion of England, and the murder of a special -constable, and told ghost stories. By day I could see, almost before -Eliza pointed it out, that an incendiary bomb would do more active work -in a gasometer than in a reservoir. But in the darkness of the small -hours I am—well, distinctly less critical. - -And I may add that the only mistake we have made yet was entirely due to -Hopley. It was a nasty, foggy night and I saw a shadowy form -approaching. I immediately went round to the other side of the building -to report to Hopley, and he said that this was just the sort of night -the Germans would choose for some of their dirty work. It was he who -instructed me about taking cover and springing out at the last minute. -We sprang simultaneously, Hopley on one side and myself on the other, -and if it had been anybody but Eliza we should have made a smart job of -it. I had forgotten my cocoa flask and Eliza was bringing it to the -place where I was posted. This was unfortunate for Hopley, as she hit -him in the face with the flask. I think that I personally must have -slipped on a banana-skin, or it may have been due to the sudden surprise -at hearing Eliza’s voice. Eliza said she was sorry about Hopley’s nose, -but that we really ought not to play silly jokes like that when on duty, -because we might possibly frighten somebody. - -The other night I was discussing with Hopley the possibility of my being -made a sergeant. - -“Not a chance,” he said. “No absolute earthly, old sport.” And then he -passed his hand in a reflective way over his nose. “But if only your -missus could have joined,” he said, “she’d have been an inspector by -now.” - - - - - The Probation _of_ Jimmy Baker - - _By_ Albert Kinross - - _Army Service Corps_ - - - I - -The bank was in the High Street, a broad, leafy place of stone houses -and regularly planted trees. The most of Seacombe, however, is neither -broad nor leafy nor regular. Old Town—so they call it—a picturesque -welter of thatched and cream-washed cottages, climbs the hills and -clusters round the harbour; New Town, with its bank and High Street and -electric light and things, was added when the railway came. Into this -bank, one bright September morning, stepped Miss Mamie Stuart Berridge, -of Lansing, in the State of Michigan. From Lansing, in the State of -Michigan, to Seacombe, in the county of Somerset, is a far and distant -cry, and the transition requires money for its satisfactory -accomplishment. Miss Mamie had money, a diminishing wad that folded up -in a neat black leather case. She stepped into the bank, unfolded her -wad, and handed an American Express Company’s cheque across the counter. -The young man who did duty there reminded her that she must sign it. -“That’s the second time I’ve forgotten,” said Mamie, and wrote her name -in the appointed space. - -“All gold, or would you like a note?” inquired the young man. - -Miss Mamie thought that she would like a note; and then she altered her -mind and exchanged the note for gold; and then she altered her mind once -more and took the note. The young man smiled amiably and blushed a -little; for the transaction was fast becoming confidential, and he was -told that the note would “do for Mrs. Bilson.” He knew Mrs. Bilson as a -party who let lodgings. - -“Are you comfortable there?” he ventured. - -“As comfortable as one can be in this old England of yours.” - -A laugh, a snapping of her handbag, a swish of skirt, and she was gone. -Other and duller customers engaged the young man till four o’clock. Once -or twice that day he thought of Mamie, and wondered whether she was ever -coming back again. - -The next afternoon he caught a glimpse of her, seated high on a -char-à-banc, and just returned from an excursion. “She’s been to Porlock -Weir,” he said, and then went off to play tennis, a game that invariably -occupied his leisure hours of daylight. After the bank had closed there -was little else to do in Seacombe. The next day he met her face to face, -and he blushed a deep pink, for she had recognised him. She gave him a -bright little bow; he stopped; she inquired whether he had anything to -do; and “Nothing at all,” was his answer. The tennis club could go hang -was an inward ejaculation that escaped Miss Mamie Stuart Berridge. - -They bought things for her supper and her breakfast, and she also wanted -a new pair of gloves, and asked the young man where she could get them. -He did his best for her and carried the parcels, and explained that a -florin was not the same as half a crown. She had given up Mrs. Bilson, -who had overcharged her, and was now doing her own catering. “Just like -you English,” she added gaily, and led the way to a shop where they sold -Devonshire cream. This latter delicacy, it appeared, was “just lovely,” -and not to be had at all in the United States. - -“Won’t you come in?” she asked, when at last they reached her door. - -The young man hesitated. - -“Isn’t it proper?” inquired Miss Mamie. - -The young man smiled. - -“Well, I guess we’ll just be improper.” - -The young man followed her into a sitting-room that overlooked the -street. - -Indoors, Mamie tucked up her sleeves and made a salad, and the young man -sat on the sofa and watched her. “What’s your name?” she asked. - -“Baker—James Baker.” - -“Always been at that old bank?” - -“Since I left school.” - -“Like it?” - -“Not very much.” - -“Why do you stay there?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“Got put there, and here in England people stay where they’re put?” - -“I suppose so.” - -“Any prospects?” - -“I may be a manager some day—get a branch office like this.” - -“When you’re pie-faced and bald?” - -Her frankness was alarming, but Jimmy Baker rather liked it. “When I’m -forty or so,” he admitted. - -“How old are you now?” She asked the question without looking up from -her salad. - -“Twenty-three.” - -“I’m twenty-two,” said she. “Uncle Walter died and left me a thousand, -and so I thought I’d come to England and have a good time. I’m going to -be a school teacher when it’s over. I’ve been to college. When you’ve -been to college you can do without a chaperon, and I’d nobody to go with -me and nobody to ask. Father’s married again, and I don’t remember -mother. I was a baby when she died. You got any folks?” - -Baker had everything and everybody. His father farmed near Bideford; his -mother and sisters looked after the dairy; his brothers were at school -or in positions similar to his own. - -“What do they give you at the bank?” she asked. - -He named the figure of his meagre salary. - -“My! you’re not going on working for that!” - -“I have to,” he answered. - -“Well, it’s no business of mine;” and now she rang for the landlady and -introduced Mr. Baker as a guest who was staying to supper. - - - II - -Miss Mamie Stuart Berridge had explored Exmoor and Dunster and Porlock, -and the other wonderful and romantic places that are within walking or -driving distance of the little town. She had, perhaps, just scratched -the surface; yet, for all that, it was ecstatic to take tea in the -shadow of age-old castles, or wander through villages that looked as -though they had come straight out of a picture-book. Till she met Jimmy -Baker, however, one thing had been lacking in this romance—the final -touch. She saw it at last, and clearly too; it had not been so very -prominent before. Jimmy’s ingenuous face brought it home to her. She -wanted a companion. Doing England and having “a good time” was all very -well; but without a companion it was only half the good time it might -have been. And there was Jimmy, free to go a-roaming every evening after -five, or even earlier. So she annexed him, and such of Seacombe as knew -Jimmy whispered that this annexation was not entirely one-sided. - -He was twenty-three and she was twenty-two, and it was the month of the -harvest moon and all the year’s stored tenderness. They climbed the -winding paths that led to the church; close together on a bench they -rested and found the sea; through narrow lanes they strolled, and thence -upward to purple heather and the misty hills. And there Mamie discovered -that she had not been mistaken. The final touch was a hand laid on hers, -and an inward wound like that which comes when music is too sweet, too -magical. The night she gave her lips to him obliterated America, and -especially Lansing, in the State of Michigan. She wanted to stay here -for ever, in his arms, and the moon poised above Dunkery Beacon. This -place was no longer England; it had become the Land of Heart’s Desire. - -“Let me look and look,” she cried; “I shall never see anything like this -again!” And with his arm on her neck, and cheek against cheek, they sat -there, awed by a world bathed in moonlight, themselves transfigured, -smitten and silenced by the great mystery of first-awakened love. It -seemed to Mamie that she had been born anew, been here admitted into -some strange, all-satisfying faith. - -Baker’s holiday, an annual fortnight wherein he might refresh himself as -best he could, was due next Monday. He had been saving up for it. During -fifty weeks of the year he was a bank clerk, the other two he was -permitted to be a man. By a predestinate coincidence—or so they deemed -it—Mamie’s trip expired on the same date. A fortnight from the Monday -she must go to Liverpool, and thence return to Lansing, in the State of -Michigan. She had her berth on the steamboat; all was paid for and -arranged. Thus two weeks and some odd days remained to them before she -sailed.... It was on the Saturday that they made up their minds to get -married. - -Which of the two first jumped to that decision is hard to say, and does -not matter specially. That they jumped to it is enough. The Saturday -found them at Grabbist, above Dunster, and the inspiration came during a -pause. It seemed as simple as the line of Dunkery Beacon, that great -hill whose monstrous bulk is so precise. Next day, in the smoke-room of -the Pier Hotel, they consulted reference books. They could go to London -to-morrow, and be married on the Tuesday, it said, provided they paid -the fees. They clubbed their money together and went. - -From then onward unseen hands seemed to guide them; first to their -lodgings, thence to the office of the Vicar-General, where they bought a -licence—Mamie had stayed in London, and had a residential qualification, -it appeared—and next day to the church where they were married. They -came out into the street again, and no one knew their secret. They -shared the memory of a sacrament taken in the wilderness, where the -droning curate and paid witnesses were of small account beside the flame -that had fused them into man and wife.... The golden sunlight of that -exquisite hour when, hand-in-hand, they faced London was as though made -for them; the old heart of the giant city could still rejoice, it -seemed, and was ready to crown true lovers, and fold them in mantles of -shimmering tissue and cloth of gold. They wandered through leafy -squares, and a man stopped them and asked them the way to Bell Yard. -Neither of them knew. Had he inquired the road to Paradise they could -have told.... They grew hungry at last. Their wedding breakfast was -eaten in a restaurant off Hatton Garden. The regular customers of the -place, Jews for the most part, and dealers in the staple article of that -quarter, smiled the racial smile of genial incredulity as these two -entered and found room. But neither Jim nor Mamie had a doubt; for in -their eyes that met across the narrow table shone a light more precious -and more enduring than that emitted by all the diamonds, rubies, and -emeralds of Hatton Garden.... The night found them in Rye, a southern -place that Mamie had chosen—she had so often longed to see it. - - - III - -The boy and girl shared everything in those two weeks—pain and bliss, -the joy of early morning, the wistfulness of twilight and the first -white star. Their money was in one purse; they spent it together, -choosing things to eat and drink, or little gifts that would remind them -when their hour was come. Over their young heads hung the shadow; they -had the courage to outface it; to-morrow was yet distant, and when it -dawned they would praise God for what had been, and could never be -removed.... They knew all there was to know; and a strange pride -thrilled them, a tenderness that neither had foreseen. Love was even -greater than their dreams of it and their foreknowledge. The sea’s -strength and the land’s strength had tested soul and body, had blessed -these two with infinite renewals, an unassailable virginity. - -From Rye and Winchelsea they had wandered to Hythe along that coastline, -avoiding Dungeness, and pausing at Lydd, New Romney, and Dymchurch with -its sands. Each morning they had bathed, and often at sunset; these old -places fascinated them, and especially Mamie, who came from Lansing, in -the State of Michigan. - -“What a lot you know!” he said one day, amazed at her book learning. - -“I’m going to be a school teacher,” she laughed back, “and besides, I -like it. No, it’s not the history—the dates and things—that fascinates -me; but I seem to have been here before,” she explained, adding: “Lots -of us Americans feel that way about it—as though—as though——” - -“You’d come from here?” he helped her. - -“That’s right—as though we’d come from here. And perhaps we have,” she -added gaily, finishing with “Our name’s Berridge, so we must have done.” - -“I never look upon you as a foreigner,” said he; “at least, I haven’t -since——” and he hesitated. - -“Since?” she inquired. - -“Since I first wanted to kiss you.” - -“Do it again!” - -Jimmy was quite prepared to take up the challenge, but she had fled. He -caught her behind the plump Martello Tower where she was hiding, and did -it again. After that they returned to firmer ground, sitting on the -beach and looking out over the Channel. - -“You must leave that old bank,” began Mamie; “it’s served its purpose.” - -“It brought us together.” - -“Yes, that’s just it. And now it’s brought us together——” - -“We can drop it?” He had seen her point. - -“I don’t want you to go on working for them,” she pursued; “I want you -to work for us—for me.” - -Jimmy nodded. “I’ve thought of that as well,” he answered. - -“They give you a wretched salary, and when you’re an old Gazook and -nobody wants you, they say, ‘Perhaps it’s time he got married,’ and put -you in charge of a little office like that at Seacombe.” - -“That’s it,” said Jimmy. - -“Banking’s no good in this old country unless you’re somebody’s son, or -rich on your own account. But I know what,” she added, brightening. - -Jimmy sat up. - -“You must get into some regular article like woollens or cottons or -manufactured things—a good salesman’s always got a chance.” - -“D’you know, I’ve thought of that as well?” cried young Baker. “My -brother Tom travels with wholesale groceries, and he’s doing well.” - -“If you haven’t got money, you’ve got to make business, and then the -firm’s _bound_ to pay you—it can’t help itself. My old uncle was always -saying that.” - -And so it was resolved that, when Mamie went back to America, Jim should -quit the bank and get hold of a “regular article.” Only that way could -they two come together again, unless they wished to wait till he had -become the “old Gazook” of Mamie’s prophecy. - -[Illustration: “Through narrow lanes they strolled, and thence upward to -purple heather and the misty hills” (page 142).] - - - IV - -The day of parting came. He stood on the quay at Liverpool and watched -the great boat out of sight. A mist filled his eyes; but when, at -last, he turned on his heel and faced reality once more, a courage -rose within him, and he resolved to conquer or to perish. He would -conquer—conquer—conquer. All the way to London the train seemed to be -repeating that burden, seemed to be branding it, stamping it in -deep-bitten letters on his heart of hearts. And with that repetition -mingled an ineffaceable memory of her and her fine courage. They had -kissed good-bye that morning in the room of their hotel, and again in -the tiny cabin where there was scarce room to swing a cat. “Believe in -me,” he had whispered, her slim body close pressed to his own; and -once more “Believe in me, believe in me!”... “If I didn’t believe in -you,” she had answered, “I would just drop overboard, and no more -said.”... “And if there’s anything else, when you get over there, -you’ll tell me?” She had understood him.... “I’ll tell, of course I’ll -tell;” and then: “It’s no fun being a woman, is it, Jim?” she had -added, with a little laugh.... Now in the train he fed on those last -moments, and he would conquer or perish. “Conquer—conquer—conquer,” -echoed the on-rushing train. - -He was in Seacombe that night, and had given notice next morning. “Got -another job?” asked the manager; and “Yes, in London,” answered young -Baker. The other seemed to envy him his chance of escape. A month from -then, armed with a first-class character and seven pounds in gold, Jimmy -set out for the metropolis. He had told his father as much as he dared -tell that unromantic old man. He hadn’t been home for his holiday this -year, he said, because he wanted to get away somewhere quiet and think -about his future. Now he had come to a decision. Unless one had capital -or influence, banking was no good; for a poor man it was best to learn -about some staple article like woollens or cotton or coal, and stick to -that. His father said: “We’ll see,” and the rest of that week-end passed -much as usual.... “D’you know, I think you’re right?” said the old man -on the Monday morning; “I never thought much of that banking, but your -mother says it’s a genteel trade, almost like parsoning or being a -lawyer.” - -Jim Baker went up to London, and these West-Country folk being a sturdy -stock, no one at home, or even at Seacombe, had any doubt but that he -would find a living. Mamie, meanwhile, had removed to Buffalo, New York, -and had there begun her school teaching. Letters came and went; at first -by every post, then not quite so often, and at last it was agreed that, -when there was nothing of any consequence to say, a post-card would be -enough. “I don’t want you to be _worried_ by all this,” wrote Mamie; -“you’ve got your work to do, and I guess I’ve got mine.” Sometimes to -the romantic youth she seemed the least bit hard-hearted. He mustn’t let -the thought of her hinder him, she insisted; yet often she wrote two -letters to his one. - -Baker’s business hours were spent in looking for the staple article. He -tried several before he dropped on to his feet; cocoa to begin with, -then clocks and watches, and, finally, leather. He resolved to stick to -leather—firstly, because everybody used it; and, secondly, because he -felt instinctively that the man who had engaged him was of the sort who -would give a fellow a chance. This gentleman, a middle-aged Scotsman, -Campbell by name, had a warehouse in Bermondsey, and to him young Baker -went as invoice clerk. Now he wrote leather to Mamie, who answered for a -while on cards. A suspicion flashed across him during this fancied -period of neglect; but she had said no word about _that_—and she had -promised. The suspicion died down with her first long letter. She had -removed to Cleveland, where she had taken a new position. That explained -it all, and Mamie was forgiven. - -The next year he spoke French and German after a fashion of his own, and -could attend to foreign customers. In the autumn he was promoted to the -warehouse and allowed to sell. One day he went out and came back with a -contract running into four figures; and then, instead of an increase of -salary, he stipulated for a small commission. His employer made no -opposition; indeed, Mr. Campbell rather preferred this new arrangement. -Baker was beginning to put by money. And from across the ocean came an -answering whoop, shouts and ecstasies of triumph, as, step by step, -these two drew nearer to the Promised Land. Her letters had now become a -spur, a call—never a goad, never a lash; but there they were, egging him -on, a challenge and yet a support, a martial music playing him into -battle. In the night he blessed her; often he lay awake, groping for the -memory of that sweet slim body.... So passed the years till he had made -a home for her. - -The long-awaited day had dawned at last. His commissions had reached the -sum they had agreed; with his savings he had taken a modest house and -furnished it. She had only to walk inside. He told his chief, now become -his friend; he took him into his confidence and unfolded their whole -story. - -“So that’s what put the devil inside you!” cried Campbell, and slapped -him on the back. “Go you off to Liverpool,” he added, “and don’t come -back till you’re wanted. Make it a week, Baker; for you’re not -indispensable, though you think you are. And tell the dear girl I sent -you, and that I want to shake hands with her—she’s given me the best -salesman in all Bermondsey, d’ye hear that?” - -Jimmy heard it and laughed; and there was a pride in his laughter as -well as a deep joy. Few men had a wife like his, he knew—scarce one in -all he had run across these six hot years. Arrived home that night, he -found the last letter she had posted from the other side. - -“Husband and lover,” she wrote, “hold on to something tight. I have a -dear surprise for you. I am bringing your boy to his father. I never -told you before, because I wanted you to be free, because I wanted you -to go ahead and not bother about me and about us. He was born in the -spring, when I only sent post-cards. That was why I only sent -post-cards, and that was why I removed to Cleveland afterwards. I had my -marriage paper to show, so it didn’t matter much, and I let out and -worked for the two of us; and now he’s close on six years old. He’s just -like you, Jim: the same sturdy limbs, the same clear forehead, and good -blue eyes. With him I have been able to bear all this separation. He -knows you and loves you, and to-day he is mad with joy, because, at -last, we are going to live with father. Forgive me for hiding this from -you; but I didn’t want to be a drag upon you. I wanted you to have a -clear road and go the shortest way. When you meet us at Liverpool, -you’ll tell me whether I did right.” - -“My God,” cried Jimmy Baker, “my God, I’ve got a son as well! And it was -like her, too—like her to say nothing and stand aside for me!” - - - V - -In Liverpool Baker met them, and the boy was just as she had described -him, with his father’s eyes and forehead, and strength of chest and -limb. That subtle something which makes blood know its own blood, flesh -its own flesh, united these two on the landing-stage. Mamie stood aside -holding in her tears, as father and son hugged one another for the first -time. He had kissed her before the child, and she was glad of that. His -quick embrace, his look of pride, had been a reassurance, a reward, that -wiped out in one stroke the pain of those long years, their doubts, -their fears, suspenses, and privations. From a slip of a girl she had -grown into splendid womanhood; and he, the lad that she remembered, was -standing there—a man. - -They left the boy with grandparents and aunts, a whole cloud of new -relations; and then alone they stole off to Seacombe and Dunster, and -the shadow of Dunkery Beacon. - -It was May. Earth, sea, and sky were tender with their own tenderness; -in the youth of all things green, new fledged, or bursting into flower, -they found echo and symbol of their own renewal. Lovers they had been -here, when he had served in “that old bank”; and lovers they were once -more, now that steadfastness and self-mastery had brought them a far -deeper passion. - -“Would you go through it all over again?” he asked her, knowing her -answer ere he spoke. - -“Over and over again, if it had to be—but God is merciful to lovers,” -she replied. “I have learnt that thinking—thinking how it all happened.” - -“I too,” he said. Few things there were that these two had not thought -together, though time and ocean rolled between. - -London claimed them, and work and their new home. Mr. Campbell invited -himself to supper on the evening of their arrival. - -“The living image of you, Baker,” he said, when Jimmy, junior, was -introduced, “the living image!” And then, “I want you to stay on with us -in Bermondsey; you can have a share—call it ‘Campbell & Baker,’ shall -we, Mamie?” For the old ruffian had insisted on addressing Mamie by her -Christian name. - -The offer was accepted, and in parting, “Only one man in a thousand -could have done what you have done,” said Mr. Campbell; “and only one -woman in a hundred thousand, Mamie. You’ve done the impossible; you’re -geniuses,” he ended, laughing at them; and, as an afterthought, “If my -boy ever gets married on the quiet and plays the fool, I’ll break his -blethering neck for him!” - - - - - The Ghost _that_ Failed - - _By_ Desmond Coke - - _Loyal North Lancashire Regiment_ - - -The Blue Lady wailed disconsolately in the panelled room. - -In her mortal life, four hundred years before, she had always been -somewhat behind the times; and now she was in arrears by the space of a -whole Silly Season. She was grappling with the stale problem, “Do we -Believe?” - -The Blue Lady concluded, emphatically, that we did not believe; and -hence her wailing. She had seen the age of scepticism coming. For more -than three hundred glad years men had crossed themselves and shuddered -when she went moaning through the sombre rooms of Yewcroft Hall. Secure -in her reputation, she had been content once only in the evening to -interrupt the revelry, and then, conscious that all eyes had been upon -her stately progress, to seek contentedly her spectral couch. But with -the growth of science had risen also disbelief. Once stage-coaches were -discarded, and people came to Yewcroft by a steam-drawn train, she felt -that any other marvel must lose caste. She did not fail to observe that, -as she passed along the rooms, there were those who, though they -trembled, would not turn, and made pretence of not observing her. Then -came the hideous day on which the Hall harboured a deputation from a -Society of Research, who loaded themselves with cameras, dull books, and -revolvers, before spending a night in the Panelled Room. The Blue Lady, -as became a self-respecting ghost, slept elsewhere, and would not show -herself to these ill-mannered creatures; so that next day the Press -declared the famous Yewcroft ghost to be a myth. This was terrible; but -far worse was to come. - -The family who had held Yewcroft since feudal times, the Blue Lady’s own -family, showed with old age a preference for sleep, and inasmuch as an -ungrateful populace refused to pay them for this function, reduced means -led to the abandonment of Yewcroft. It was taken by Lord Silthirsk, who -had made tinned meat and a million by methods equally ambiguous. He -turned the moss-hung chapel into a garage, and fitted electric light -throughout the Hall. - -The Blue Lady, struck in every vulnerable part, resolved to drive the -Silthirsks out. For the first three days of their residence she missed -no chance of floating in on Lady Silthirsk at moments likely to -embarrass her. Her Ladyship showed no symptoms of annoyance or of fear, -though sometimes, if not alone, she would look up and say, “Oh, here’s -that blue one again,” in tones which the blue one took to be of terror -cleverly concealed. On the fourth day the Silthirsks had a niece to -stay, and the Blue Lady embraced this as a chance to learn what real -impression she had made. Waiting till dessert was on the table, so that -her Ladyship might not think it necessary to hide her fear before the -servants, she swept into the dining-room and passed close beside the -niece. - -Elfrida shuddered. “What was that?” she cried. - -“What’s what?” asked her aunt; while her uncle said “Banana,” and fell -to his dessert again. - -“No—something cold: it made me shudder, just as if something had gone -by.” - -The Blue Lady, ambushed behind a vast tooled-leather screen, gloated -over her success. - -“Oh, _that_!” said Lady Silthirsk: “that’s one of the fixtures—a spook. -We rather like her—it’s so picturesque and old-world, ain’t it? Some -people can see her—_I_ always can. She’s blue—quite an inoffensive mauvy -blue. Oh, I distinctly like her. She’s a novelty, ye know: and she’ll be -_so_ cooling in the summer!” - -But even she started at the ghastly groan which issued from behind the -leather screen. - -For some weeks the Blue Lady did not deign to show herself, until Lady -Silthirsk began to find fault. The landlord, she implied, had swindled -her. It became clear to the spectre that all hopes of driving out these -upstarts by terror had been idle dreams. - -And now, on Christmas Eve, the night dedicate of old to her compatriots, -she had given herself up to despair. She did not even care to walk. She -wailed disconsolately in the Panelled Room. - -It was thus that the Gaunt Baron found her. The Gaunt Baron did not -belong to Yewcroft, but was attached to a neighbouring house, now empty. -With nobody to terrify at home, he found visits to the Blue Lady a not -unpleasing variant of the monotony. Except that she was several -centuries his junior, he felt for her an emotion which went to a -dangerous degree beyond respect. He was pained to find her wailing. - -“What, wailing!” he cried, coming on her through the oaken panels, “and -nobody to hear you?” - -The Blue Lady raised a tortured face towards him. “Who would not wail? -And who should hear me? Fools! They _can_ not hear me. Many of them do -not even see me. Bah! They have no sense, except the sense of taste: -with truffles before them, they see nothing else.” - -“To-night is Christmas Eve.” - -The Gaunt Baron made the suggestion in a mild, kindly way, but the Blue -Lady turned upon him almost angrily, as though he had been the culprit. - -“Yes! To-night is Christmas Eve. And what are they doing? Where is the -Yule-log? Where is the wassail? Where the dim light of glowing embers? -They’ll sit in the glare of this new light—a big party—and play what -they call Bridge; and if they feel a mystic chill, will draw the -curtains or turn the hot-air pipes full on.... What do these fools know -about Romance? The word is dead. I saw some of their novels while the -house was shut. Love? Gallantry? Nowhere in the volume. A knock-kneed -weakling making love to his friend’s wife, or two infants puling of -passion like mere vulgar serfs.... Love, for these people, ends with -Marriage, to begin again after Divorce.” - -[Illustration: “‘Do a cake-walk, now!’ ‘Encore!’” (page 153).] - -“You are bitter.” The Gaunt Baron held his head beneath his arm—a fact -which gave to all his utterances something of the tone of a -ventriloquist. - -“Bitter! So would you be bitter! It’s all very well for you, with the -Manor empty;—but me, with these vulgarians!... Baron, these mortals are -beating us: we’re pretty well played out. ‘Played out!’ Look at our very -speech: they’ve ruined that. Do I speak like a woman of the day of Good -Queen Bess? Do you speak like a baron of—of King—like an ancient baron?” - -“You do not,—and it was Stephen,” said the Baron quietly. - -“Mark me, Baron, we are near the end. Either Lady Silthirsk or myself -leaves Yewcroft. There is no room here for a self-respecting spectre. -They use the headsman’s block for mounting on their horses. If I cannot -drive them out, I go,—and where? Well, if I cannot leave the earth—oh, -why was I ever murdered?—then I must sleep beneath the hedges, till I -find an empty house. Baron, that time is near. I have tried everything, -and nothing seems to frighten them. Lady Silthirsk serves liqueurs in -the old Banquet Hall at midnight, and as I don’t appear,—as though I -should!—she says the theatre, is closed for alterations and repairs. Oh, -it is unbearable, unbearable!” - -“Dear lady,” answered the Gaunt Baron, “do not despair. I managed to -say, some minutes ago, that it was Christmas Eve. Let me explain. It is -now close upon the hour of midnight—the time and day on which we ghosts -are thought by men to have our greatest power. Even those who don’t -believe in us are a little influenced by the tradition. As twelve -strikes every one is half expectant. That is your moment. Burst upon -them, wailing and raving. They are sure to see. Some of the guests will -insist on leaving Yewcroft, and the Silthirsks will not like a house -where parties are impossible. Quick! There is the gurgle that preludes -the hall-clock’s striking. In three minutes midnight will be here. -Hasten, sweet dame, hasten! I will be at hand to watch you.” - - * * * * * - -Downstairs, during this dialogue, Lady Silthirsk had been talking to her -niece. “Elfrida, dear, in a few minutes they’ll all be here for the -midnight _séance_; and I have something that I want to tell you first.” - -“Why, what is it, auntie?” asked Elfrida: “you look terribly serious.” - -“I am serious, darling girl. Let me be frank. I think it is time that -you were married—not only, understand, because of your poor parents, but -also for your own happiness. And when I see a man who can make you both -rich and happy, well——” - -“But who?” interrupted Elfrida. - -“_Who?_ My dear girl, are you blind! Why, Bobby!” - -“Lord Bancourt?” - -“Yes, ‘Lord Bancourt’! Don’t look as though I had shot you! Why, you -silly dear thing, you must know Bobby is madly in love with you. All -this week he has followed you about like an obedient dog, and all the -week you’ve ignored him as though he were a naughty mongrel!” - -“Why, I’m sure I’ve treated him just like anybody else. I never——” - -“My dear Elfrida, you will be the death of me! Do you think he wants no -more of you? Are you living in the Middle Ages, or is this the Twentieth -century? Do you expect him to come and steal you away by night and -force? Nowadays the girl must do her part. Bobby is a splendid fellow, -an old friend of mine, rich, young, passably good-looking——” - -“I think he’s handsome, decidedly,” Elfrida said, without a thought, and -then blushed scarlet. - -Her aunt laughed. “And _I_ think you’re in love with him,” she said. “I -know he only wants a little encouragement—not quite so much ice to the -square inch, my dear! Won’t you try, for my sake?” - -“I’ll try, auntie, yes: I could be very, very happy with him—if he asked -me: but I don’t think I could—it’s so hard——” - -Lady Silthirsk kissed her. “I don’t ask anything, you little goose, -except that you should be just humanly kind to poor Bobby—I think he’ll -do the rest!” - -“I’ll _try_,” said Elfrida dubiously. - -Her aunt, she reflected, was not of a nature to see how terrible it -would be if people should believe her to be “angling” for Lord Bancourt. -Better that he should choose some one else than that he should marry her -on such a rumour! - -“Oh, here they are!” cried Lady Silthirsk, as her husband brought his -flock into the room, shouting: - -“I’ve collected every one, gamblers and all, for the _séance_—except -Bobby. Can’t find him.” - -“Oh, I wish he were here—the Lady will surely walk on Christmas Eve,” -said the hostess. “If she doesn’t, I mean to demand my money back! Oh, -there’s the hour! Sit quiet, every one.... Blue Lady forward, please! -There, look!—there!” - -She pointed excitedly at the old gallery, once for minstrels, now -arrogated by a pianola organ. Behind its oaken pillars passed a vague -female figure, dressed in blue, moaning horribly, and waving distraught -arms above her flowing hair. - -Immediately cries of every sort rose from the watchers. - -“I can’t see her.” “It’s a cinematograph!” “What ho, Lord Bobby!” “Gad, -she’s gone slick through the music-stool.” “I still can’t see her.” “No, -there’s nothing there.” “Do a cakewalk, now!” “Encore!” - -As she vanished some one clapped his hands, and with a laugh the whole -party joined in the applause. - -The scene had not been very impressive. From a theatrical point of view -the ghost’s entrance had been ruined by the number and the temper of its -audience. Those who had not seen it scoffed; those who had, till -reminded of the music-stool seen dimly through the figure, half-believed -the Blue Lady to be an _alias_ of Lord Bancourt. Then, as one by one -they realised that what had passed was in very truth a ghost, the guests -hushed their laughter, until the babel sank almost into silence. - -It was in such a lull that Bobby entered. “Why, what a stony _séance_!” -he exclaimed. “Missing me? or seen a ghost?” - -“Yes—so delightful! The Blue Lady actually came,” said Lady Silthirsk, -who alone seemed totally unruffled. - -Bobby laughed—the unforced laugh of healthy youth. “Oh-ho! I see why you -were silent. But you can’t green me, thanks: I’m not quite so verdant—oh -no, not at all!” - -“We have seen it—really,” one or two guests hastened to assure him. - -Lord Bancourt laughed more heartily than ever. “Why, I believe you’ve -honestly deceived yourselves! This is glorious! You really think you saw -the ghost!” - -“Who could doubt?” asked a plump dowager, who intended henceforth to -adopt a pose intensely spiritual. “What doubt exists, when the great -After lifts its veil? Have _you_ ever seen a ghost, Lord Bancourt?” - -Bobby tried to hide his smiles. “I’m afraid—and glad—I haven’t. If I -did, I should go off my nut, I think. But I don’t think I ever shall!” - -With these words he moved towards the circle of ghost-seers, and chose, -with unerring aim, of all the vacant chairs, that next Elfrida. - -Lady Silthirsk beamed contentedly. - -“I seem to have missed a lot,” said the irrepressible Bobby, as he sat -down, and added impudently, “but I hope that I’ve been missed a lot?” - -Elfrida remembered her aunt’s warning, but she also fancied (as the -self-conscious will) that all the gathering, still somewhat silent, had -heard the question, and would hear the answer. She could fancy their -scorn at her “scheming tactics.” - -Bobby looked expectantly towards her. - -“It was certainly a unique experience,” she said stiffly. - -Bobby’s face fell. - -Lady Silthirsk shrugged her shoulders. - - * * * * * - -“There!” exclaimed the Blue Lady, safe within the Panelled Room, “I knew -how your mad scheme would work. You heard: they catcalled, they encored -me, asked for some new dance. They gave me a round of applause when I -went off. I can stay here no longer, to be insulted.” - -“Always impetuous!” said the Gaunt Baron quietly. “You rushed off after -the applause: I waited, and heard what alters the whole question.” - -“Namely——?” asked the Lady, in ill temper. - -“Lord Bancourt did not see you—has never seen a ghost—doesn’t believe in -them. He said distinctly, ‘If I saw one, I should go off my nut,’—this -being schoolboy and smart for going mad.” - -“I begin to see.” The Blue Lady brightened visibly. - -“Exactly. You must catch him alone—no more of these convivial -audiences—and then drive him mad. He is an old friend of Lady Silthirsk, -rich and titled; she would not stay here after that. You must wreak your -worst on him.” - -“I can only wail,” she answered gloomily; “I have no chains, or blood, -or severed head——” - -The words inspired the headless Baron. - -“Ah,” he cried, “I will come and help—to-night. I ought not to show -myself out of my own house, but——” - -“Oh, what is etiquette in such a crisis? Baron, dear Baron, you have -saved me. I am an old-fashioned woman, and at such a time I need a -man....” - - * * * * * - -It was night. It had, to be precise, been night for several hours, and -the whole household was at length tucked up in bed. Sleep had come none -too easily to at least three members,—to Elfrida worrying about the real -sentiments of Bobby, to Bobby worrying about the real sentiments of -Elfrida, and to Lady Silthirsk worrying about the real sentiments of -both. The last named, in particular, tossed long upon her sleepless bed. -She was puzzled. She could half understand Elfrida’s foolish diffidence: -she could not understand Bobby’s idiotic silence. Why did he not speak? -He was not of a sort to be lightly daunted by the fear of a rebuff. Or -had she made a false diagnosis? Was he not in love at all? - -And at length even she turned over on her side with a contented groan. -Sleep reigned over Yewcroft Hall. - -But in Bobby’s room, far off along the west wing, dark deeds were -decidedly afoot. For more than half an hour a headless Knight, clanking -horribly in every joint of his dim-gleaming armour, had chased to and -fro a blue-clad Lady, who wailed in awful wise and tossed arms of agony -to the wall-papered ceiling. - -Through all this Lord Bancourt slept smilingly upon his noble bed. - -Then the Gaunt Baron consulted with the Blue Lady, and a change of -tactics was the result. The armoured figure now rattled round the room, -rousing more noise than any antiquated motor, the while a frantic dame -pursued him with blood-curdling wails. - -Bobby stirred a little, murmured sleepily, turned over, and showed every -symptom of having relapsed into even deeper slumber. - -The ghosts were in despair. - -“Dawn draws on,” said the Gaunt Baron suddenly. “I always knew when I -was beaten. Come, sweet dame. A man who can sleep like that will make -his mark some day in the House of Lords.” - -He vanished, and, after one despairing glance, the Blue Lady flung -herself angrily through the oaken door. - -It was at this moment, by a subtle irony of fate, that Lord Bancourt -awoke. The sense of some presence lingered with him, and he sat upright -in bed. His sleepy eyes were caught by a blue skirt which vanished from -the doorway; his sleepy mind failed to perceive that the door had not -been open. - -“Whew!” he said, and lay thinking, thinking deeply—for Lord Bancourt. - -He was very young, and, like most young nobles, not inclined to -underestimate his own importance. After the first moment of surprise, he -felt no doubt as to the wearer of the blue skirt. It was Elfrida. He was -rather unobservant as to women’s dresses “and all that, you know”: but -he felt fairly certain that she had worn a blue costume at dinner. Yes, -it could be no one else. It was almost certainly Elfrida. - -Elfrida’s iciness was but a cloak. When she had snubbed him by day, she -would creep in by night and gaze upon his sleeping, moonlit face! How -beautiful! - -His heart thrilled at the revelation. He had hesitated, so far, to -speak. It would never do for him—Lord Bancourt—to risk refusal by a -nobody. His mother, in her long course of tuition, had taught him proper -pride. But now.... - -Now, at the first chance, he would throw himself, his rank, his wealth, -his everything before the nobody, and feel no fear as to the verdict. -To-morrow—to-morrow! - -And when to-morrow came, as it does sometimes come despite the proverb, -he rose early and went out in the garden. As he had shaved each morning, -he had seen Elfrida walking in the grounds below. He had never dared to -join her. Everything, to-day, was different, though the weather was -certainly absurdly cold for early rising. - -She was there before him, in among the white, hoar-laden, yew walks. She -turned at his coming. “You are early this morning, Lord Bancourt.” - -“Ah,” he responded meaningly, “the early bird catches the first worm.” -It struck him, for the moment, as a compliment, and rather neat. But he -pined for something less indefinite. “Elfrida,” he said, going close to -her, “I may call you Elfrida?—I could not wait. You encouraged me last -night, you gave me hope, and now—I want more. You won’t take even that -away? I want far more. I want you—I want you to be my wife. Will you, -Elfrida? Don’t be cruel. I want you to say ‘yes’!” - -Elfrida’s head was in a whirl. She did not know how she had encouraged -him. She could remember nothing of last night, except that she had lost -a chance—that he had seemed offended. She could not guess at what had -changed his attitude. She only knew that what her aunt wanted—above all, -what she herself longed for—had somehow come to pass; only knew that her -loved one’s arms were round her. She said “Yes.” - - * * * * * - -“Sweet dame,” said the Gaunt Baron, later, in the Panelled Room, “I have -been scouting, and, alas! bring evil news. Lord Bancourt took you last -night for Elfrida, was encouraged to propose, and is accepted. Lady -Silthirsk is delighted, says the wedding shall be here, and she must -turn this dear chamber into a dressing-room. She says she will clear out -the musty panelling. It is all unfortunate.” - -“Unfortunate!” wailed the Blue Lady. “It all comes of listening to a -man. See what your mad scheme has done!... Baron, forgive my -bitterness,—I am defeated. I told you these mortals had vanquished us. I -set out to do a little evil, in the good old way, and see what I have -done! I have made everybody happy! Farewell. Yewcroft must know me no -more. Farewell, farewell for ever!” - -With an abysmal groan she vanished through the panelling. Unless she has -found an ancient, empty house, she is perhaps sleeping underneath the -hedges. - - - - - The Miracle - - A Tale of the Canadian Prairie - - _By_ Ralph Stock - - _Artists’ Rifles_ - - -The old man slowly shook his head and looked out through the ranch-house -window to where the sea of yellow grass merged into the purple haze of -the horizon. - -“I’m sorry, Dode,” he said in his gruff drawl, “blamed sorry.” - -The young man stood before him choking back words he longed to utter and -twisting his hat out of recognition in the effort. Words! Of what use -had they ever been with Joe Gilchrist? All his life he had used as few -as possible himself and shown little patience with those who did -otherwise—why should it be different now? - -“Blamed sorry,” the colourless voice repeated. “I had no notion things -were going this way or I’d have put ’em straight right away. It’ll hurt -all the more now, I guess, but I can’t help it, Dode—you’re not the man, -that’s all.” - -“Why?” The other’s voice carried resentment. “What’s the matter with me, -anyway?” - -The grizzled head turned slowly, the keen, deep-set eyes, surrounded by -a tracery of minute wrinkles from looking into long distances, rested on -the young man’s troubled face in a level, emotionless scrutiny. - -“Nothing,” said Joe Gilchrist. “As a man—nothing, or you wouldn’t have -been my foreman the last ten years; but as a husband for Joyce——” He -smiled faintly and shook his head. - -At that moment Dode Sinclair could have killed this man whose life he -had saved more than once. He knew the iron resolve behind that smile and -shake of the head. - -“I’m the man she chose,” he jerked out. - -“At seventeen,” was the quiet rejoinder. - -“She’s a woman.” - -Joe Gilchrist tilted his head to one side and scratched his cheek. It -was a habit of his when anything puzzled him. - -“She chose you, did she? Who’s she had to choose from?” - -Dode Sinclair opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and fell to -twisting his hat with renewed vigour. - -“Well,” he began awkwardly, “there was Dave Willet and that dude -schoolmaster on Battle Creek and——” - -“And you want to tell me Dave Willet and a dude schoolmaster on Battle -Creek’s a fair show for a girl?” The old man paused. “You can’t, -Dode—not me.” - -Dode looked down at a pair of work-worn riding-boots, then up into the -other’s face. - -“What’s the matter with Dave Willet?” he demanded hotly, “or a dozen -others who’d give their ears for her? I know we’re not fit to lick her -boots; what man would be? but we’re as good as most round these parts.” - -“Ah, these parts,” muttered the old man, “these parts. But they ain’t -the world, Dode. You’ve got to get that into your head, though maybe -it’ll be a job.” - -“They’re good enough for me.” - -“And me, and the rest of us; but they’re not good enough for my -daughter.” - -“She doesn’t say that.” - -“No, because she’s never seen anything else——” Joe Gilchrist broke off -with a gesture of uneasiness. “Shut that door; I want to ask you -something.” - -The young man obeyed mechanically, and when he turned, the other was -leaning forward in the pine pole-rocker, whittling flakes from a plug of -tobacco. - -“I want to ask you what you think I’ve been doing the last fifteen -years,” he drawled. “You ought to know, but if you don’t, I’ll put you -wise. I’ve been tryin’ to make money out of breeding horses. It ain’t -daisy-pickin’, but after hopin’ a bit, despairin’ a bit, and workin’ a -bit, I’ve made it—there it is on four legs in a pretty middlin’ bunch of -horses, and what’s it for? Me? You know my wants, Dode Sinclair. No, -it’s for Joyce. _Joyce’s got to have her chance._” - -He stopped abruptly, with an indrawing of his thin lips that the other -knew well, and commenced to rub the tobacco between his horny palms. - -Dode Sinclair still stared at his boots. - -“You’re going to take her East,” he muttered. “You’re going back on the -prairie.” - -Joe Gilchrist rose slowly from his chair and pointed through the window -with the stem of his pipe. - -“You see Tin Kettle buttie,” he said evenly, “there to the east of -Hungerford Lake: when they read my will they’ll find they’ve got to pack -me up there someway—in the democrat, I guess—but that’s where I’m goin’ -to be, and I’m tellin’ you now so’s you’ll remember when you feel like -sayin’ I’ve gone back on the prairie. But—Joyce’s got to have her -chance.” - -He stood looking out of the window for a space, then turned with the air -of one disposing of an unpleasant topic. - -“You can round up. The boy’ll be here any day after a week. I’m sellin’ -half the bunch. You’re to run the place when—we go.” - -Dode Sinclair turned on his heel. At the door he hesitated, then looked -back at the thin bent figure by the window. - -“Maybe the prairie won’t let you,” he said. - -When he had gone Joe Gilchrist stood motionless, staring at the door. - -“What the dickens does he mean by that?” he growled, and frowned as he -lit his pipe. - -Joyce Gilchrist was perched on the corral-poles when Dode came out to -her. - -“He won’t listen to me,” he said, tracing dejected patterns in the dust -with his spur. “Says you’ve got to have your chance.” - -“Chance?—what chance?” Joyce looked down at him wonderingly. - -“Chance of getting a better man than me.” - -The girl was at his side in a flash, looking into his face with anxious -interrogation. - -“Dode, Dode, what do you mean?—what does he mean?” - -“He means he’s going to take you away, Joyce—East, where the guys come -from. He’s been working for that the last fifteen years—and, God help -me!—so have I, without knowin’ it. The horses is a pretty considerable -bunch now, and——” - -“But I won’t go,” flashed the girl; “I won’t go, Dode.” Her hand was on -his arm. “I’ll talk him over.” - -“You’ll never do that,” said Dode. “Never. I know Joe better’n you, -though he _is_ your dad. He’s got that queer set look;—besides, he’s -right.” - -“Right?” - -“Yes, he always is. You’ve made good—you ought to go East and live -swell. This is no country for a woman.” - -“_You_ say that?” - -“_He_ says it, and he’s always right.” - -“But you don’t say it—_you_ don’t say it, Dode!” - -Her hands were on his shoulders now, he could feel her warm breath on -his face. - -“My God!” he burst out, “you know I love every inch and atom of you.” -His hands were trembling at his sides. “You know that I’d do -anything—anything—but we can’t go against him. Someway I couldn’t do -it—I’d feel I’d stolen you—that I wasn’t giving you what was your due. -He’s right; he’s always right.” - -The girl stamped a small work-worn riding-boot in the dust. “I wish—I -wish all the horses were dead! I wish we had to start all over again. I -won’t go, so there! I’ll talk to him; he’ll say yes; you see——” - -She left him and hurried towards the house, a slim figure of health and -lightness in a short, dun-coloured riding-skirt and dilapidated soft -felt hat. - -Dode Sinclair watched her go. - -“Nothing short of a miracle will make him say that,” he mused. - -And he was right. - -For the next week the grass flats below the Gilchrist ranch echoed with -the thunder of galloping hoofs and the shrill whinnying of mare and -foal. From every point of the compass horses flowed into the valley, -with distended nostrils and untrimmed manes and tails streaming in the -wind. Some had never yet seen a house, and at sight of the low line of -pine-log stables and corrals turned tail and fled in terror, until -overtaken and headed back by tireless riders on steaming mounts. - -On the final day Joyce Gilchrist helped her father to mount the old -piebald cayune that he loved, and rode down with him to inspect the -herd. Dode Sinclair saw them coming and turned swiftly on his companion, -a lean wire of a man in the unpretentious, workmanlike uniform of the -North-West Mounted Police. - -“Here they come,” he said in a voice harsh with apprehension. “If you -don’t want to see an old man drop dead—an old man that’s done more for -you fellers than any one on the range—take your men and horses into that -stable.” - -The policeman followed his glance and saw two black dots moving slowly -down the trail. - -“He’s got to know,” he said sternly. - -“Yes, he’s got to know—ain’t that enough? Curse it, man, can’t you see -there’s ways of doin’ these things? Sudden like that—it’d break him up.” - -“Joe Gilchrist knows how to take his medicine.” - -“No man better; but I know him, I tell you—the horses are his life. -There’s time enough for him to know.” - -“Three days,” replied the policeman shortly. “The regulations allow -three days for glanders. He’s bound to know then—why not now?” - -Dode Sinclair laid his hands on the other’s shoulders and looked into -his stern-set face. - -“Because I’m asking you, Jim,” he said. “Maybe your memory’s short; -maybe you forget the early days now you’re a corporal. Try back a -bit—try back to the spring of 1900, when the chinook came and thawed out -the Warlodge mushy a bit previous, and you thought it’d bear and it -didn’t; and the elegant fix I found you in——” - -“You don’t need to tell me, Dode,” said the other, looking away up the -trail. “But you know what Fenton’s like, and——” Suddenly he threw back -his head. “Well!—open the door, then!” - -Joe Gilchrist rode slowly through the herd. Some of the brood mares he -knew by name—had known them for fifteen years. - -“See that pot-bellied grey with the roan foal?” he said to Dode. “Got -her for fifteen dollars off the Indians at Red Deer. We’ve had her -fifteen years, and she’s had twelve foals. Seems to me she’s about done -now, though. Got that peaked look.” - -“Hasn’t lost her winter coat yet,” Dode answered shortly, and moved on -towards the edge of the herd. “Ragged, that’s all.” - -“Pretty middlin’ bunch,” mused the old man. He had never been known to -say more about his horses. “Pretty middlin’.” - -“Sure,” said Dode, and watched the pinto ambling up the trail. Then he -dismounted and opened the stable door. - -“I’m leaving two men,” said the policeman. “You can corral them -to-night, and the vet’ll be along to-morrow.” - -Dode leant against the stable and watched him mount. - -“How many d’you think——” he began. - -“The vet’ll be along to-morrow,” the other repeated shortly, and set -spurs to his horse. - -The next day and the next the grass-flat corrals creaked and strained -and rattled while an endless procession of horses fought and worked its -way along the narrow chutes, halted a brief moment while one of its -number was subjected to the “squeeze” and a minute examination by a -sweating police vet. and passed on, some to another corral and -some—pitiably few—to the open prairie and freedom. - -Dode Sinclair watched the work like a man in a trance. - -[Illustration: “It was eight o’clock before Joe Gilchrist returned” -(page 161).] - -When it was done the corral gate was flung open and the horses it had -held were headed up the valley and still up to where it ended in a deep -gully of gumbo and yellow gravel. On three sides the animals were hemmed -in by almost sheer cliff a hundred feet high; on the fourth by ten N.W. -Mounted Policemen with levelled rifles and set faces. - -There is only one cure for glanders. - - * * * * * - -“Queer that buyer don’t come,” said Joe Gilchrist. - -Three days before Dode Sinclair had ridden out to meet a florid little -man in a livery buggy on the town trail, and after five minutes’ -conversation the latter had turned his horses and driven off in a cloud -of dust. - -“Blamed queer. They’ll be losing flesh if they’re herded much longer.” - -Towards evening the old man became restless—both Joyce and Dode noticed -it, but neither was quite prepared when returning from the west field to -find the homestead empty, except for the Chinese cook, and the pinto -cayune gone from the stables. - -“He’s gone to have a look at the herd,” Dode said. - -“But alone, and on pinto!” exclaimed the girl. “You know how she -stumbles. I must go and find him.” - -“She stumbles, but she don’t fall,” said Dode. “Let him be—this once. -Alone—that’s the best way for him to find out.” - -He told her all, while Joyce sat like one turned to stone. When he had -done, she looked up into his face. - -“Then—then we _have_ got to start all over again,” she whispered. - -“Pretty near.” - -Dode looked out through the window. The setting sun was dyeing the sea -of yellow grass a rich auburn, and Joyce was at his side, but his -thoughts were with the lone rider down on the grass flats. He would find -the corrals empty, the gates open. He would follow the tracks up the -coolie, and still up, until he came to the deep gully of gumbo and -yellow gravel. Dode remembered that the “ewe-necked” grey with the roan -foal lay at the outside of the ghastly circle, her mild eyes staring -glassily down the valley. Beyond that his thoughts refused to travel. - -It was eight o’clock before Joe Gilchrist returned. He stabled the pinto -himself and came into the sitting-room, where Joyce and Dode sat -pretending to read, with his usual slow, heavy step. The pine-pole -rocker creaked, and they could hear him whittling at his plug of -tobacco, but they could not bring themselves to look up. - -“Bit dull to-night, ain’t you?” he queried suddenly. His voice was so -natural that for a fleeting moment Dode thought it impossible that he -could know. But when he looked up, there was no longer any doubt in his -mind. The strong old face was drawn and haggard, in spite of the smile -he had summoned to his lips. His keen eyes were levelled on the younger -man in a penetrating but not unkindly look. - -“I guess you were right, Dode,” he drawled. “The prairie knows how to -cure swelled head.” - -And the other two knew that the miracle had come to pass. - - - - - The Fight _for the_ Garden - - _By_ Sir Arthur T. Quiller-Couch - - _Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry_ - - - I - -“It is strange, though,” said the gardener’s wife in Flemish, standing -in the doorway of the chapel and studying, while she shook her duster, -the tall pigeon-house in the centre of the courtyard. “The birds have -not come back yet. Not a sign of them.” - -“They never like it when their house is cleaned out,” responded -Philomène, the middle-aged maid-of-all-work, just within the doorway. -She, too, had a duster and, perched on a step-ladder insecurely—she -weighed, by our English reckoning, a good fifteen stone—was flapping the -dust from a tall crucifix nailed above the lintel. “The good man told me -he had collected close on two pecks.” - -“He is down in the garden digging it in around the roses. He says that -it will certainly rain to-night.” - -“It has been raining to the southward all the afternoon,” said -Philomène, heavily descending her step-ladder and shielding her eyes to -stare up at the western window, through the clear quarrels of which the -declining sun sent a ray from under heavy clouds. “That will be by -reason of the guns.” - -“Thunder,” suggested the gardener’s wife. - -“The guns bring the thunder; it is well known.” In her girlhood -Philomène had been affianced to a young artilleryman; she had lost him -at Landrecy twenty-one years ago, and had never since owned another -lover or wished for one. - -“Ah, well—provided they leave us alone, this time!” sighed the -gardener’s wife. She gazed across to the stable-buildings where, by a -flight of cup steps leading to the hay-loft, her two children, Jean and -Pauline, were busy at play with Antoine, son of a small farmer, whose -homestead, scarcely a mile away, aligned the high-road running south -from the capital. - -The school in the neighbouring village had been closed for two days; and -to-morrow, being Sunday, would make a third holiday anyhow. Yesterday -Jean and Pauline had been Antoine’s guests at a picnic breakfast in the -sand-pit opposite his father’s farm (there were domestic reasons why -they could not be entertained in the house), and had spent four blissful -hours watching the army—their army, horse, foot, and artillery, all -within toss of a biscuit—march past and southward along the chaussée. -To-day it was their turn to be hosts; and all the long afternoon, with -intervals for light refreshment, the three children had been conducting -a series of military operations from the orchard-hedge through the -orchard, across a sunken ditch, through the terraced garden (with -circumspection here, for the gardener was swift to detect and stern to -avenge paternally any footmark on his beds), through the small -fruit-garden (where it was forbidden to eat the under-ripe currants), -the barnyard, among the haystacks, the outbuildings, to the courtyard -and a grand finale on the stable steps. Here Napoleon (Antoine, in a -cocked hat of glazed paper) was making a last desperate stand on the -stair-head, with his back to the door of the loft and using the broken -half of a flail en moulinet to ward off a combined “kill” by the Prince -of Orange (Jean) and the British Army (Pauline). Jean wielded a hoe and -carried a wooden sword in an orange-coloured scarf strapped as waistband -around his blouse. But Pauline made the most picturesque figure by far. -She had kilted her petticoat high, and gartered her stocking low, -exposing her knees. On her head through the heat of action she carried -an old muff strapped under her chin with twine. Her right hand menaced -the Corsican with a broomstick; her left arm she held crooked, working -the elbow against her hip while her mouth uttered discordant sounds as a -bagpipe. - -“Pauline—Pauline!” called her mother. “Mais, tais-toi donc—c’est à -tue-tête! Et d’ailleurs nu-genoux! C’n’est pas sage, ça....” - -“C’est le pibrock, maman,” called back the child, desisting for a -moment. “J’suis Ecossaise, voilà!” - -She had seen the Highland regiments yesterday, and the sight had given -her a new self-respect, a new interest in warfare; since (as she -maintained against Antoine and Jean) these kilted warriors must be -women; giantesses out of the North, but none the less women. “Why, it -stands to reason. Look at their clothes!” - -The gardener’s wife left discipline to her husband. She took a step or -two out into the yard, for a glance at the sun slanting between the -poplar top of the avenue. “It’s time Antoine’s father fetched him,” she -announced, returning to the chapel. “And what has happened to the birds -I cannot think. One would say they had forgotten their roosting house.” - -“The birds will return when the corn is spread,” answered Philomène -comfortably. “As for little Antoine, if he be not fetched, he shall have -supper, and I myself will see him home across the fields. The child has -courage enough to go alone, if we pack him off now, before nightfall; -but I doubt the evil characters about. There are always many such in the -track of an army.” - -“If that be so,” the gardener’s wife objected, “it will not be pleasant -for you, when you have left him, to be returning alone in the dark. Why -not take him back now before supper?” - -Philomène shrugged her broad shoulders. “Never fear for me, wife; I -understand soldiery. And moreover, am I to leave the chapel unredded on -a Saturday evening, of all times?” - -“But since no one visits it——” - -“The good God visits it, service or no service. What did Father Cosmas -preach to us two Sundays ago? ‘Work,’ said he, ‘for you cannot tell at -what hour the Bridegroom cometh’—nor the baby, either, he might have -said. Most likely the good man, Antoine’s father, has work on his hands, -and doctors so scarce with all this military overrunning us. I dreamt -last night it would be twins. There now! I’ve said it, and a Friday -night’s dream told on a Saturday——” - -“Wh’st, woman!” interrupted the gardener’s wife, in a listening -attitude; for the shouts of the children had ceased of a sudden. - - - II - -Napoleon, at bay with his back to the hay-loft door, ceased to brandish -his weapon, dropped his sword-arm and flung out the other, pointing: - -“Look!” he cried. “Behind you!” - -“Oh, we know that trick!” answered the escalading party, and closed upon -him for the coup de grâce. But he ducked under Jean’s clutch, still -pointing, and cried again, this time so earnestly that they paused -indeed and turned for a look. - -About half-way between the foot of the steps and the arched entrance, -with one of its double doors open behind him, stood a spare shortish -gentleman, in blue frock-coat, white breeches, and Hessian boots. On his -head was a small cocked hat, the peak of it only a little shorter than -the nose which it overshadowed; and to this nose the spare shortish -gentleman was carrying a pinch of snuff as he halted and regarded the -children with what, had his mouth been less grim, might have passed for -a smile of amusement. - -“Mademoiselle and messieurs both,” said he in very bad French, “I am -sorry to interrupt, but I wish to see the propriétaire.” - -“The pro—— but that will be monseigneur,” answered Pauline, who was the -readiest (and the visitor’s eyes were upon her, as if he had instantly -guessed this). “But you cannot see him, sir, for he lives at Nivelles, -and, moreover, is ever so old.” She spread her hands apart as one -elongates a concertina. “Between eighty and ninety, mamma says. He is -too old to travel nowadays, even from Nivelles, and my brother Jean here -is the only one of us who remembers to have seen him.” - -“I remember him,” put in Jean, “because he wore blue spectacles and -carried a white umbrella. He was not half so tall as anyone would think. -Oh, what a beautiful horse!” he exclaimed, catching through the gateway -a glimpse of a bright chestnut charger which an orderly was walking to -and fro in the avenue. “Does he really belong to you, sir?” Jean asked -this because the visitor’s dress did not bespeak affluence. A button was -missing from his frock-coat, his boots were mired to their tops, and a -black smear on one side of his long nose made his appearance rather -disreputable than not. It was, in fact, a smear of gunpowder. - -“He really does,” said the visitor, and turned again to Pauline, his -blue eyes twinkling a little, his mouth grim as before. “Who, then, is -in charge of this place?” - -“My father, sir. He has been the gardener here since long before we were -born, and mamma is his wife. He is in the garden at this moment if you -wish to see him.” - -“I do,” said the visitor, after a sharp glance around the courtyard, and -another at its high protecting wall. “Take me to him, please!” - -Pauline led him by a little gateway past the angle of the château and -out upon the upper terrace of the garden—planted in the formal -style—which ran along the main (south) front of the building and sloped -to a stout brick wall some nine feet in height. Beyond the wall a grove -of beech trees stretched southward upon the plain into open country. - -“Excellent!” said the visitor. “First rate!” Yet he seemed to take small -note of the orange trees, now in full bloom, or of the box-edged borders -filled with periwinkle and blue forget-me-not, or with mignonette -smelling very sweetly in the cool of the day; nor as yet had he cast -more than a cursory glance along the whitewashed façade of the château -or up at its high red-tiled roof with the pointed Flemish turrets that -strangers invariably admired. He appeared quite incurious, too, when she -halted a moment to give him a chance of wondering at the famous -sun-dial—a circular flower-bed with a tall wooden gnomon in the centre -and the hours cut in box around the edge. - -“But where is your father?” he asked impatiently, drawing out a fine -gold watch from his fob. - -“He is not in the rose-garden, it seems,” said Pauline, gazing along the -terrace eastward. “Then he will be in the orchard beyond.” She turned to -bid Jean run and fetch him; but the two boys had thought it better fun -to run back for a look at the handsome chestnut charger. - -So she hurried on as guide. From the terrace they descended by some -stone steps to a covered walk, at the end of which, close by the -southern wall, stood another wonder—a tall picture, very vilely painted -and in vile perspective, but meant to trick the eye by representing the -walk as continued, with a summer-house at the end. The children held -this for one of the cleverest things in the world. The visitor said -“p’sh!” and in the rudest manner. - -Stepping from this covered way they followed a path which ran at right -angles to it, close under the south wall, which was of brick on a low -foundation of stone and stout brick buttresses. In these the visitor’s -interest seemed to revive. - -“Couldn’t be better,” he said, nodding grimly. - -Pauline knew that her father must be in the orchard, for the small door -at the end of the path stood open; and just beyond it, and beyond a -sunken ditch, sure enough they found him, with a pail of wash and a -brush, anointing some trees on which the caterpillars had fastened. As -the visitor strode forward Pauline came to a halt, having been taught -that to listen to the talk of grown-up people was unbecoming. - -But some words she could not help overhearing. “Good evening, my -friend,” said the visitor, stepping forward. “This is a fine orchard you -have here. At what size do you put it?” - -“He is going to buy the château,” thought Pauline with a sinking of her -small heart; for she knew that monseigneur, being so old, had more than -once threatened to sell it. “He is going to buy the château, and we -shall be turned out.” - -“We reckon it at three arpents, more or less. Yes, assuredly—a noble -orchard, and in the best order, though I say it.” - -After a word or two which she could not catch, they walked off a little -way under the trees. Their conversation grew more earnest. By and by -Pauline saw her father step back a pace and salute with great reverence. - -(“Yes, of course,” she decided. “He is a very rich man, or he could not -be buying such a place. But it will break mamma’s heart—and mine. And -what is the place to this man, who appreciates nothing—not even the -sun-dial?”) - -The two came back slowly, her father walking now at a distance -respectfully wide of the visitor. They passed Pauline as if unaware of -her presence. The visitor was saying—— - -“If we do not hold this point to-night, the French will hold it -to-morrow. You understand?” - -They went through the small doorway into the garden. Pauline followed. -Again the visitor seemed to regard the long brick wall—in front of which -grew a neglected line of shrubs, making the best of its northern -aspect—as its most interesting feature. - -“Might have been built for the very purpose with these buttresses.” He -stopped towards one and held the edge of his palm against it, almost -half-way down. “But you must cut it down, so.” He spoke as if the -brickwork were a shrub to be lopped. “Have you a nice lot of planks -handy?” - -“A few, milord. We keep some for scaffolding, when repairs are needed.” - -“Not enough, hey? Then we must rip up a floor or two. My fellows will -see to it.” - -The gardener rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “To be sure there are the -benches in the chapel,” he suggested. - -“That’s a notion. Let’s have a look at ’em.” - -They mounted to the terrace and passed back into the courtyard, Pauline -still following. Antoine’s father had arrived to fetch him; had arrived -too with a cart. The cart held a quantity of household furniture. The -farmer held the reins, and the gardener’s wife and Philomène were -hoisting the child up beside him. They were agitated, as anyone could -see, and while her father led the visitor into the chapel Pauline walked -over to Jean, who stood watching, to ask him what it all meant. - -“He says the war is coming back this way: it may even be to-night.” - -“Yes,” said the farmer, addressing the women and unwittingly -corroborating Jean’s report. “This is the third load. With the first I -took along my good woman, and by God’s mercy found a lodging for her at -the Curé’s. A small bedroom—that is all; but it will be handy for the -midwife.” - -“And your crops, my poor friend?” - -“It was a fine swathe of rye, to be sure,” agreed the farmer, sighing. -“And the barley full of promise—one gets compensation, they tell me; but -that will be small comfort if while the grass grows the cow starves. So -I brought you the first word, did I? Vraiment? And yet by this time I -should not wonder if the troops were in sight.” He waved a hand to the -southward. - -Jean plucked Pauline by the sleeve. The two stole away together to the -ladder that stood against the pigeon-house. - -“We hear no news of the world at all,” said the gardener’s wife. “My man -at this season is so wrapped up in his roses——” - -“Holà, neighbour!” called the gardener at this moment, coming forth from -the chapel, the visitor behind him. “You are stealing a march on us, it -seems? Now as a friend the best you can do is to drive ahead and bespeak -some room at the village for my wife and little ones, while they pack -and I get out the carts.” - -“Is it true, then?” His wife turned on him in a twitter. - -“My good woman,” interposed the visitor, coming forward—at sight of whom -the farmer gave a gasp and then lifted his whip-head in a flurried (and -quite unheeded) salute—“it is true, I regret to say, that to-night and -to-morrow this house will be no place for you or for your children. Your -husband may return if he chooses, when he has seen you safely bestowed. -Indeed, he will be useful and probably in no danger until to-morrow.” - -“The children—where are the children?” quavered the gardener’s wife, and -began calling, “Jean! Pauline!” - -Jean and Pauline by this time were perched high on the ladder, under the -platform of the pigeon-cote. From this perch they could spy over the -irregular ridge of the outbuildings down across the garden to the grove, -and yet beyond the grove, between the beech-tops to the southward ridge -of the plain which on most days presented an undulating horizon; but now -all was blurred in that direction by heavy rain-clouds, and no sign of -the returning army could be seen, save a small group of horsemen coming -at a trot along the great high-road and scarcely half a mile away. -Crosswise from their right a shaft of the setting sun shot, as through -the slit of a closing shutter, between the crest of another wood and -rain-clouds scarcely less dark. It dazzled their eyes. It lit a rainbow -in the eastern sky, where also the clouds had started to discharge their -rain. - -The château seemed to be a vortex around which the thunderstorm was -closing fast—on three sides at any rate. But for the moment, poured -through this one long rift in the west, sunlight bathed the buildings; a -sunlight uncanny and red, that streamed into the courtyard across the -low ridge of the outbuildings. The visitor had stepped back to the -eastern angle of the house, and stood there as if measuring with his eye -the distance between him and the gate. He began to pace it, and as he -advanced, to Jean’s eye his shadow shortened itself down the wall like a -streak of red blood fading from the top. - -“There’s room in the cart here for the little ones,” the farmer -suggested. - -“But no,” answered the gardener; “Jean and Pauline will be needed to -drive off the cattle. I shall take one cart; you, Philomène, the other; -and I will have both ready by the time you women have packed what is -necessary.” - -“A bientôt, then!” The farmer started his mare, the gardener following -him to the gateway. The gardener’s wife turned towards the house, -sobbing. “But I shall come back,” called Philomène stoutly. “Mon Dieu, -does anyone suppose I will leave our best rooms to be tramped through by -a lot of nasty foreign soldiers!” - -No one listened to her. After a moment she, too, went off towards the -house. Jean and Pauline slid down the ladder. - -The farmer’s cart had rumbled through the archway and out into the -avenue. The visitor had beckoned his orderly, and was preparing to -mount. With one foot in stirrup he turned to the gardener. “By the way,” -said he, “when you return from the village bring lanterns—all you can -collect”; then to the orderly, “Give me my cloak!” for already the rain -was beginning to fall in large drops. - -A squall of rain burst over the poplars as he rode away. - - - III - -Jean and Pauline awoke next morning to some very queer sensations. They -had slept in their clothes upon beds of hay. Their bedroom, in fact, was -part of a cottage loft partitioned into two by rough boards; on this -side, hay—on the other a hen-roost. The poultry were cackling and -crowing and seemed to be in a flurry. Jean raised himself on his elbow -and called: - -“Pauline!” - -“Jean! I was just going to wake you. I have scarcely slept all night, -while you have been snoring. Listen! The battle has begun.” - -Sure enough a deal of fusillading was going on, and not very far away; -and this no doubt had scared the fowls on the other side of the -partition. The loft had but a narrow slit, unglazed, close under the -eaves, to admit air and daylight. Jean crept to it, over the trusses of -hay, and peered out on the world. He could see nothing but clouds and a -few near trees wrapped in a foggy drizzle. Still the loose fusillade -went on. - -“I don’t think it can be the battle,” he reported. “Philomène says that -battles always begin nowadays with the big guns, and this moreover -sounds half-hearted.” - -He was right, too. The two or three trees visible in the mist were the -outposts of a plantation which straggled up to the entrance of the -village. Beyond this plantation lay two regiments that, like the rest of -the army, had marched and bivouacked in mud and rain. At dawn they had -been ordered to clean their small arms, and since the readiest way to -make sure of a musket is to fire off the charge, they had been directed -to do so, by companies. - -In an interval of this fusillade the children caught the sound of -someone moving in the kitchen below, lighting the fire. Jean crept from -his window-slit to the hatchway of the loft and called down softly, -“Maman!” - -The good woman of the cottage answered, bidding him go back to bed -again. His mother was not in the house, but had been called during the -night to visit a cottage some way up the road. - -“That will be Antoine’s mother,” whispered Pauline, who had crept over -the hay to Jean’s side. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked aloud. - -“It is twins,” said the good woman. “Now lie down and be sensible, you -two.” - -“But where is papa?” - -“Down at the château, doubtless. But God knows. He was here a little -before midnight, and left again meaning to spend the night there. Now I -have told you what I know.” - -The two crept back to their lairs, and lay very obediently until the -good woman called up that coffee was ready. They hurried down the -ladder, washed their hands and faces at the pump outside, and returned -to the meal. There was coffee and a very savoury pottage in which they -dipped great slices of bread. The woman was kind to them, having no -children of her own. Her husband (she said) was somewhere in the -plantation, felling trees with the troops. He had gone out long before -dawn with a lantern, because he knew the best trees and could lead the -pioneers to them in the dark. - -Jean, having breakfasted until his small belly was tight as a drum, felt -a new courage in his veins, and a great curiosity. He proposed to -Pauline in a whisper that they should run down together to the château -and see how papa was getting on, and Philomène. - -“She will scold, though,” objected Pauline. - -“Oh!” said Jean. “Philomène’s scolding!” - -They ran out into the back garden. “That is right,” the woman called -after them. “You can play there more safely than in the road. But be -sensible now; if they should begin firing——” - -It was not difficult to slip through the tumble-down fence. On the far -side of it the children struck a footpath which ran down across a -rye-field to the plantation. The rain had ceased, and above the rye many -larks were singing, though the clouds hung grey and heavy. The loose -firing, too, had ceased. Trees and the backs of a few cottages on their -left, denser woodland ahead of them, circumscribed the view here. Not a -soldier was in sight. There was nothing to be heard save the larks’ -chorus. - -“But, of course,” exclaimed Pauline, recollecting, “it is Sunday. People -do not fight on Sunday.” - -“Are you sure?” asked Jean, with a touch of disappointment. “If it were -an ordinary Sunday the church bell would be ringing before now.” - -“That is M. le Curé’s cunning. With so many soldiers about, his church -would be suffocated if he called attention——” - -“But where are the soldiers?” demanded Jean. - -They went down the path, which was narrow and slippery with mire, -between walls of rye that, when brushed against, shook down the golden -rain in showers. Jean led, with Pauline at his heels. They reached the -plantation and entered it by a low gap. The wood being of beech, there -was no undergrowth to wet their legs; but the boughs dripped. The -plantation ended at a bank overhanging a paved road, and down this bank -they scrambled without difficulty. - -The pavement ran down the middle of the road, and they followed this, -avoiding the slush which lined it on either side. The ruts here were -prodigious. In fact, the children, who had driven the cattle up this -road a few hours ago, found it almost unrecognisable. - -They now heard sounds of wood-cutters’ axes, creaking timber, men’s -voices—foreign voices, and at an angle of the road came on a sudden -glimpse of scarlet. The avenue to the château turned off from the -high-road just here; and just beyond the turning a company of British -red-coats were completing an abattis, breast-high, of lopped trees -criss-crossed and interlaced with beech-boughs. - -An officer caught sight of the children as they stood hesitating, and -warned them sharply to go back. - -“But we have a message for our father, who is the gardener yonder,” -spoke up Jean, with a jerk of his thumb towards the château. - -“Well, you can give it to the sentry at the gate, if he’ll take it. But -be quick!” - -The children darted up the avenue between the poplars. At the entrance -gate, which stood open, sure enough they found a red-coat posted. - -“We bring a message for our father, who is the gardener here,” said -Jean, hardily. - -The sentinel made him repeat it, and answered in execrable French. -“Well, I suppose there is no harm in letting you carry it, if the -message is urgent. Your father’s somewhere in the garden; I saw him pass -that way a minute ago. But you must promise to be back within five -minutes.” - -“Lord, now,” added the sentry, smiling down at them, “I left just such a -pair as you at home, not two months ago. I’d be sorry, much as I love -them, to see them anyways here.” - -“I like that man,” said Pauline, as she and Jean passed into the yard. -The place was empty, save for two soldiers—Lunsbrugers—in green uniform, -who were carrying a bench from the chapel towards the small gate of the -garden. - -“But we have no message for papa,” said Pauline, “unless we tell him -that Antoine’s mother has twins.” - -“And he won’t be in a hurry to hear that.” Just then a dull noise -sounded afar to the southward, and the ground seemed to shake a little. -“We will first seek Philomène.” - -He had hardly spoken the words when something screamed in the air above -and struck the edge of the stable-steps with a terrific crash. The -children, frightened out of their lives, dashed for the ladder of the -pigeon-house—the nearest solid object to which they could cling. Across -the smoke, as they clung and turned, they saw the sentry very coolly -shutting the gate. Four or five green-coats ran out of the chapel to -help him, but paused a moment as a second and a third shot whistled wide -overhead. Then they rushed forward, heads down, to the gate, which was -quickly shut and barred. They had not seen the children, who now, -climbing up the ladder, stayed not until they had squeezed through the -square hole of the platform and crawled into the pigeon-house, where -they lay panting. - -[Illustration: “They had not seen the children, who now, climbing up the -ladder, stayed not until they had squeezed through the square hole of -the platform” (page 170).] - -It was, of course, quite foolish to seek shelter here. For the moment -they would have been far safer in the courtyard below, under the lee of -the outbuildings. A ball, striking the pigeon-house, would knock it to -shivers at one blow. But they had climbed in pure panic, and even now, -without any excuse of reason, they felt more secure here. - -As a matter of fact the danger was lessening, for with these first shots -the artillery to the southward, beyond the trees, had been finding its -range and now began to drop its fire shorter, upon the garden below the -château. Through their pigeon-holes Jean and Pauline overlooked almost -the whole stretch of the garden, the foot of which along the brick wall -was closely lined with soldiers—tall red-coats for the most part, with -squads of green-jackets here and there and a sprinkling of men who -carried yellow knapsacks. They had broken down the cups of the -buttresses during the night and laid planks from buttress to buttress, -forming a platform that ran the entire length of the wall. Along this -platform a part of the defenders stood ready with bayonets fixed in -their muskets, which they rested for the moment on the brick coping; -others knelt on the flower border close beneath the platform watching at -apertures where a few bricks had been knocked out. There were green -jackets and yellow, too, in the grove beyond, posted here and there -behind the breech-holes—a line of them pushed forward to a hedge on the -left—with a line of retreat left open by a small doorway. - -This was all that Jean and Pauline could see of the defence; and even -this they took in hurriedly, for the round shot by now was sweeping the -garden terraces and ploughing through the flower-beds. It still passed -harmlessly over the wall and the soldiery lining it; and the children -could see the men turn to watch the damage and grin at one another -jocosely. Pauline wondered at their levity; for the hail under which -they stood and the whistling noise of it, the constant throbbing of -earth and air and the repeated heavy thuds upon the terrace were enough -to strike terror into anyone. - -She cried “O—oh!” as a tall orange-tree fell, shorn through as easily as -a cabbage stump. - -But Jean dragged at her arm. Between the tree tops in a gap of the smoke -that hung and drifted beyond the wood—which dipped southward with the -lie of the slope and fined away there to an acute angle—the enemy -batteries, or two of them, were visible, shooting out fresh wings of -smoke on the sullen air, and on a rising ground beyond, dense masses of -infantry, with squadrons of horsemen moving and taking up position. -Flags and pennons flickered, and from moment to moment, as a troop -shifted ground, quick rivulets of light played across lines of cuirasses -and helmets. Tens—hundreds—of thousands were gathered there and -stretched away to the left (the trees were lower to the left and gave a -better view); and the object of this tremendous concourse, as it -presented itself to Jean—all to descend upon the château and swallow up -this thin line of men by the garden wall. To him, as to Pauline, this -home of theirs meant more than the capital, being the centre of their -world; and of other preparations to resist the multitude opposite they -could see nothing. - -Jean wondered why, seeing it was so easy, the great masses hung on the -slope and refrained from descending to deliver the blow. - -By and by that part of the main body which stood facing the angle where -the wood ended threw out, as it were by a puff, a cloud of little -figures to left and right, much like two swarms of bees; and these two -dark swarms, each as it came on in irregular order, expanding until -their inner sides melted together and made one, descended under cover of -their artillery to the dip, where for a few minutes Jean lost sight of -them. - -In less than a minute the booming of the heavy guns ceased, and their -music was taken up by a quick crackle of small arms on both sides of the -wood. The line of defenders by the hedge shook, wavered, broke and came -running back, mingling with their supporters posted behind the -beech-boles; under whose cover they found time to reload and fire again, -dodging from tree to tree. But still as it dodged the whole body of men -in the wood was being driven backward and inward from both sides upon -the small door admitting to the garden. At this point the crush was -hidden by the intervening wall. The children could only see the thin -trickle of men, as after jostling without they escaped back through the -doorway. But across the wall could now be seen the first of the -assailants closing in among the beech-trunks. A line of red jackets, -hitherto hidden, sprang forward—as it were from the base of the wall on -the far side—to cover the route. But they were few and seemed doomed to -perish when—— - -Whirr-rh! Over the children’s heads, from somewhere behind the château, -a shell hissed, plunged into the trees right amongst the assailants, and -exploded. It was followed by another, another, and yet another. The -whole air screamed with shells as the earth shook again with their -explosions. But the marvel was the accuracy with which they dropped, -plump among trees through which the assailants crowded—white-breasted -regiments of the line, blue-coated, black-gaitered, sharpshooters -closing in on their flanks. The edge of this ring within thirty seconds -was a semicircle of smoke and flame along which, as globe after globe -fell and crashed, arms tossed, bodies leapt and pitched back -convulsively; while even two hundred yards nearer at most, the knot of -defenders stood unscathed. - -Within five minutes—so deadly was the play of these unseen howitzers—not -a blue-coat stood anywhere in sight. A few wounded could be seen -crawling away to shelter. The rest of the front and second lines lay in -an irregular ring, and behind it the assault, which had swept so close -up to the wall, melted clean away. Amid hurrahs the streams of green and -yellow jackets, which had been pouring in at the entry, steadied itself -and began to pour forth again to reoccupy the wood, gaily encouraged by -the tall red-coats on the platform. The hail of shells ceased as -suddenly as it had begun. - -In the lull Jean found tune to look below him, then through another -pigeon-hole which faced the gateway he saw his father crossing the yard -with a red-coated officer who was persuading him to leave it. - -“Philomène!” shouted the gardener. - -The serving-woman came forth from the doorway of the house, bearing a -large basin. She emptied it into a sink beside the steps, and what she -poured was to appearance a bowlful of blood. - -“We are to go, it seems,” called the gardener. “They will try again, and -the likes of us will be shot as having no business here.” - -“No business?” called back Philomène. “I don’t remember when I had so -much.” She disappeared into the house. - -“Papa!” shrilled Jean, and pushed Pauline out towards the platform. “For -your life, quick!” - -“But the ladder has gone!” gasped Pauline. - -It was true. Jean shouted to his father again, but the scream of a -belated shell overhead drowned his young voice. Someone had removed the -ladder. Before he could call again his father had passed out and the -sentry, under the officer’s instructions, was barring the gate. - - - IV - -The ladder which alone could help them to descend rested against the -curtain of the gate, some two dozen yards away. Why it had been carried -off to be planted there, or by whom, there was no guessing. Someone, -maybe, had done it in a panic. For a moment it rested there idly: yet, -as events proved, it had a purpose to serve. - -A lull of twenty minutes ensued on the baffled first assault. But the -French tirailleurs, beaten back from their direct attack on the wood, -collected themselves on the edges of it, and began to play a new and -more deadly game, creeping singly along the hedges and by the sunken -ways, halting, gathering, pushing on again, gradually enclosing three -sides of the walled enceinte. Against the abattis on the high-road they -made a small demonstration as a feint. But the main rush came again -through the wood and across an orchard to the left of it. - -This time, for some reason, the deadly howitzers were silent. This time, -after another roar of artillery fire, the defenders in the grove came -pouring back with the black-gaitered men close upon them, intercepting -and shooting them down by scores. - -Then followed half an hour’s horrible work all along the garden wall; -work of which (and they should have thanked Heaven for it) the children -missed the worst, seeing only the red-coats jabbing across the wall and -downwards with their bayonets; the riflemen at the loopholes firing, -drawing back, pausing to re-load. The small door had been shut fast, and -a dozen men held their weight against it. - -Yells and firing sounded all the while from the orchard to the loft. But -what was happening there the children could not see. An angle of the -house cut off their view in that direction—cut off in fact, their view -of the main field of battle, where charge after charge of cavalry was -being launched against the few regiments holding a ridge to the left, -close under which the château stood. - -But for Jean and Pauline the whole fight was for the château—their home, -and especially just now for the garden. It seemed incredible that a thin -line of red-coats could hold the wall against such numbers as kept -pouring up between the beech-boles. Yet minute after minute passed, and -the wall was not carried. - -Someone shouted close at hand from the gate. They turned that way, each -choosing a peephole. A score of blue-coats had actually burst the gate -open, and were carrying the courtyard with a rush. But, half-way, as -many red-coats met them and swept them out at point of bayonet, forcing -the double gate on their backs. Half a dozen others ran with beams to -barricade it. Close beside it to the left a man topped the wall and -straddled it with a shout of triumph; a red-coat fired slantwise from -the pigeon-house ladder and he pitched writhing upon the cobbles. Shakos -and heads bobbed up behind the coping whence he had dropped; but the -yard now was full of soldiers (Heaven knew whence they had sprung) and -so this assault too was driven back. - -Shouts arose from the left of the house. Gradually, the assault here -being baffled, the men drained off in that direction. The attack upon -the wall, too, seemed to have eased. Then came another lull. Then the -enemy’s artillery opened fire again, this time with shell. A tall -officer stood against the wall, shouting an order, when the first shell -dropped. When the smoke of the explosion cleared he was there no longer. -There remained only what seemed to be his shadow. It was actually the -streak of him beaten in blood upon the stucco. - -This new cannonade was designed to set fire to the obstinate buildings, -and very soon the roof broke into a blaze in two places. That of the -chapel was the first to catch, at the western end. Many of the wounded -had been carried there. - -The pigeon-house stood intact. Not even a stray bullet had struck it. -But now a new danger threatened the children and a surer one even than -the fast dropping shells. Smoke from the blazing roof of the main -building poured into every aperture of their hiding-place. They fought -with it, striving to push it from them with hands that still grew -feebler. Of a sudden it blotted out, not the battle only, but life -itself for them. - - - V - -“Pauline!” - -It seemed to Jean that he was awaking again in the hay-loft. Again he -heard the distant crackle of musketry. - -“Pauline!” - -Pauline stirred. At that moment a bird alighted on a sill before one of -the holes and disappeared with a whirr of wings. It was a pigeon -returning to roost, frightened to discover his house occupied. - -The noise awakened Pauline upright. She sat up on the floor of the loft -and asked suddenly: - -“But did they break in after all?” - -“They? Who?” asked Jean, still confused. But he crept to the opening, as -he had crept to the other opening in the dawn. - -It was close upon sunset now; but he did not mark this. What he -marked—and what brought him back to his senses—was the sight of -Philomène crossing the empty courtyard with a bucket. It was the same -courtyard, though its outbuildings here and there lacked a roof. It was -the same Philomène anyhow, with her waddling walk. - -“Philomène!” - -“Eh? But, the good God deliver us, how?” - -“Fetch the ladder here.” - -She fetched and planted it. The two children climbed down to her. - - - VI - -A man came through the broken gateway and stood for a moment gazing -around him in the falling twilight at the ruins—a tall sergeant of the -Horse Artillery. He caught sight of Philomène and the children and -stared at them, harder still. - -“Well, I’ve seen things to-day,” he said. “But if you ain’t the -unlikeliest. Who belongs here?” - -“I could have told you, yesterday,” answered Philomène, in an old voice, -following his look around. - -“And you’ve seen these things? You?” he asked. His face was dirty—a mask -of gunpowder; but his eyes shone kindly, and Pauline, without -recognising his uniform, knew him for a friend. “Well, I’m——! But who -lives here just now?” - -“There’s nobody at home just now but me and the children, as you see,” -said Philomène. “Were you looking for somebody?” with another look -around. “He will be hard to find.” - -The tall sergeant leaned an elbow against the gate. He was tottering -with fatigue. “It’s a victory, that’s what it is,” he said; “an almighty -victory.” - -“It ought to be, God knows,” Philomène assented. - -“And—and——But you’ll be busy, no doubt?” - -“Moderately.” - -“I have to push on with my battery. But there’s no real hurry—the -Prussians are after them. Now I thought—on the off-chance, if I could -find a friend here——” - -“What is it you ask of me, good man?” - -“If one of you wouldn’t mind stepping yonder with me. It’s much to ask, -I know. But there’s a gentleman—an officer of ours——” - -“Wounded?” - -“No such trouble for you, good woman. Dead he is, and I helped bury him. -But I want to find someone who will mark the place and keep it marked -’gainst I come back—if ever I do.” - -“Was he a friend of yours, then?” asked Philomène, while the children -stared. - -“I wouldn’t altogether say that. He’d have said ‘yes’ fast enough, if -you’d asked him. But he was a gentleman; Ramsey by name—Major Norman -Ramsey; one of many fallen to-day, but I rode with him in his battery -when he charged in slap through the whole French cavalry at Fuentes -d’Oñoro. Will you come? ’Tis but a little way.” - -His voice pleaded so—it was so strange and womanly, coming from a man of -his strength and inches—that they followed him almost without demur, out -by the gateway and around the sunken lane at the back of the buildings, -where (for it was dark) they had to pick their steps for fear of -stumbling over the dead. - -Mercifully the way was not far. The tall sergeant halted and pointed to -a patch of broken turf, where was a loose mound among broad wheel-ruts. - -“You see, I have marked it with a stone,” said he. “But in a few days’ -time there may be many around here. I want you to mark this one—it -doesn’t matter how, so that you know it and can point it out when his -friends ask. He wears his jacket, of course—the same as mine.” The tall -man spanned his chest and turned towards the dying daylight, so that the -bars of yellow braid showed between his fingers. “Only the facings will -be of gold. You see those three trees standing alone? They will be -half-way between it and the wall of the château—in a straight line -almost; and the lane close here on our left. You cannot miss it.” He -felt in his pockets. - -“We want no money, soldier,” said Philomène. “We will do our best. Give -me your name, that meanwhile we may pray for you and him, out of these -many.” - -“My name is Livesay, Sergeant, of Bull’s troop. That will mean nothing -to you, however.” - -“I dare say,” answered Philomène simply, “it will convey more to our -Lord God. I had a man once—who was killed—in the Artillery.” - -Jean and Pauline stared at the man. Tears, as he stood by the grave, had -carved channels of white down his powder-stained cheeks. - -“I do not believe,” he said, “in praying for the dead. But I am glad, -somehow, there are folks who do. Will you? His name was Ramsey; and the -Duke, who has won this battle, broke his heart, curse him!” - -“How did he die, sir?” asked Philomène simply. - -“He was killed some while ago and far from here,” answered the sergeant. -“Of a broken heart, Mademoiselle.” - -“It is a sad thing,” sighed Philomène, “to live for the Artillery.” - -The sergeant seemed to wish to say more, but turned to shake hands with -her. He patted the children lightly on the head, then strode down the -slope. A last shaft of sunset cast his long shadow over the heaps of -slain. - -With a sob Philomène pulled herself together. - -“Mark my words, children. The pigeons will be home at their roosts -to-morrow and all this will be as if it never had been.” - -She turned back to retrace the path, and over the fields of slain the -two children followed her, heavy with sleep. - - - - - The Face _in the_ Hop Vines - - _By_ Charles G. D. Roberts - - _King’s (Liverpool) Regiment_ - - -From the low window, framed in hop-vines, came light enough to light to -bed so sleepy a traveller as I, so I troubled not at all to find the -candle. Sitting idly on the edge of the couch, I pondered on the effort -it would require to pull off my boots. A soldier, and hardened to all -shifts, I might, indeed, have slept as I was; but the bed was the best -in the inn, and I cared not to vex my hostess’s tidy soul by any such -roughness of the camp. Even as I thought of it, however, my tired brain -was flowing away into dreams. - -But on the sudden I sat up straight, very wide awake. My hand went to -the butt of my pistol. I had caught a stealthy rustling in the hop vines -about the window. Could these Acadians be planning any mischief against -me? It was not probable, for they were an open-dealing and courageous -folk, and had shown themselves civil during the few hours since my -coming to Cheticamp village. Nevertheless, I knew that in a certain -sense I might count myself to be in an enemy’s country, and vigilance my -best comrade. I sat in the gloom motionless, watching the pale square of -the window. - -Presently a head appeared close to the glass, and my fingers released -the pistol. The head was a woman’s—a young girl’s, it seemed—in the -wimpled white cap wherein these girls of Acadia are wont to enshadow -their bright faces. Then light fingers tapped on the pane, and with -great willingness I threw open the sash. But on the instant, guessing at -a mystery of some sort, I held my tongue and kept my face aloof from the -outdoor glimmer. For my part, however, I could make out—less, perhaps, -by these material eyes than by the insight of the heart—that the face -which looked up peeringly into mine was young and alluring. - -“Jacques,” she murmured in a voice which my ears at once approved, “is -it really you?” - -“There’s a mistake here—an interesting mistake,” said my heart to me. -But I let no such utterance rise to my lips. No, indeed. But my name is -Jack—and no one could be supposed to think of spelling at such a moment. -My conscience made no protest as I answered: - -“Surely, dear one, it’s Jack. Who else could it be?” - -I spoke in a discreet whisper, for all voices in a whisper sound alike; -and I blessed my stars that I had perfected my French since my arrival -in Halifax. I put out my hand, but failed to find a small one to occupy -it. - -“Of course, I knew it was you, Jacques,” the bewitching voice responded, -“or you don’t suppose I should have come knocking at your window this -way, do you?” - -“No, I should think not, _chérie_,” I assented heartily, solicitous to -cherish the maid’s mistake and prolong the interview to the utmost -patience of Fate. “But it was kind of you to come so soon.” - -This seemed safe and non-committal, but I trembled after I said it, lest -some unknown revelation should be lurking in the words. - -“I had to, Jacques, because I was afraid you might come to see me -to-night——” - -“I was coming,” I interrupted, boldly mendacious, “but I was on the road -all night, and thought I had better lie down for a soldier’s forty winks -before I called.” - -She laughed under her breath provocatively. - -“How your French has improved in these two years,” she remarked with -approbation. “I used to think you would never learn.” - -This was the first time I had seen Cheticamp village, but I felt safe in -my reply. - -“I was stupid, of course, _mon ange_; but after I was gone I remembered -your sweet instructions.” - -This was dangerous ground. I hastened to shift it. - -“But tell me,” I went on, “what can you mean by saying I am not to come -and see you? Surely you are not going to be so cruel, when I’ve been -away so long.” - -“No, Jacques,” she said, with a decisive shake of her pretty head, “you -cannot come. Father is very bitter against you, and there would be a -scene.” - -I began to feel that I had rights which were being trampled upon. - -“But what do you suppose I came to Cheticamp for?” I pleaded. - -“Not merely to see me—that I know, Jacques,” came the decided answer. -“You could never get leave of absence just for that. You cold-blooded -English could never make a woman’s wishes so important.” - -“Couldn’t we, indeed?” I protested. In my eagerness I leaned forward -into the glimmer, seeking closer proximity to the fair enshadowed face -that seemed to waver off alluringly just beyond my reach. Then, in a -panic lest I had revealed myself and displayed to her the error which I -was finding so agreeable, I drew myself back hastily into the gloom. To -cover my alarm I reproached her plaintively. - -“Why do you keep so far away, sweet one? Surely you are glad to see me -again!” - -She laughed softly, deliciously, under her hood. - -“I haven’t seen you yet, really, you know, Jacques. Perhaps you have -changed, and I might not like you so well. Men do change, especially -Englishmen and soldiers, they say. But tell me, why have you come to -Cheticamp; what reason beside to see me?” - -This was a poser. I feared the game was up. But experience has taught me -that when one has no good lie ready to hand it is safest to throw -oneself on the mercy of Truth and trust to her good nature. She has so -many sides that one of them can generally be found to serve any -occasion. I told the truth, yet with an air that would permit her to -doubt, should the game require it. - -“The business which gained me the privilege of coming where I might be -once more blessed by the light of your sweet eyes, provoking one, was -the need conceived in the heart of our good Governor of putting a stop -to certain transactions with the French at Louisbourg, which, as you -doubtless know very well, have laid all this Cheticamp coast under grave -suspicion. Your people, I dare wager, are too wise to be mixed up in -such perilous enterprises.” - -No sooner had I spoken than I realised that, for once, Truth had tricked -me. I had better have trusted to invention. - -“Thank you, Jacques. That is just what I wanted to know. You are so -kind. Good night.” - -There was a mocking note in the sweet voice, a little ring of triumph -and hostility. For one instant the face was raised, and I saw it -plainly, as if by the radiance of the scornful eyes. Then, before I -could in any way gather my wits, it vanished. - -I thrust my head forward, heedless of concealment, and gained one -glimpse of a shadow disappearing through the shrubbery. I sprang out to -follow. But no, I forget myself. The window was somewhat small for one -of my inches. I climbed out laboriously. The witch was nowhere to be -seen. Then, still more laboriously, I climbed back again, cursing -Fortune and my own stupidity which had bungled so sweet a game. I sat -down on the edge of my bed to consider. - -The errand which had brought me from Halifax to Cheticamp, with six -soldiers to support me, was one of some moment, and here was I already -in danger of distraction, thinking of a girl’s voice, of half-seen, -mocking eyes, rather than of my undertaking. I got up, shook myself -angrily, then sat down again to lay my plans for the morrow. - -The old Seigneur of Cheticamp, Monsieur Raoul St. Michel le Fevre, had -heartily accepted the English rule, and dwelt in high favour with the -powers at Halifax. But he had died a year back, leaving his estates to -his nephew, young St. Michel. It had come to the ears of the Government -that this youth, a headstrong partisan of France, was taking advantage -of his position as seigneur to prosecute very successfully the forbidden -traffic with Louisbourg. Great and merited was the official indignation. -It was resolved that the estates should be confiscated at once, and -young Monsieur St. Michel le Fevre captured, if possible. Thereupon the -estates were conferred upon myself, to whom the Governor was somewhat -deeply indebted. It was passing comfortable to him to pay a debt out of -a pocket other than his own. I was dispatched to Cheticamp to gather in -Monsieur le Fevre for the Governor and the le Fevre estates for myself. -They were fair estates, I had heard, and I vowed that I would presently -teach them to serve well the cause of England’s king. - -My first thought in the morning, when the level sun streaming through -the hop vines brought me on the sudden wide awake—as a soldier should -wake, slipping cleanly and completely out of his sleep-heaviness—my -first thought, I say, was of a shadowed face vanishing into the -night-glimmer, and something enchantingly mysterious to be sought for in -this remote Acadian village. Then, remembering my business and hoping -that my indiscretion had not muddled it, I resolutely put the folly from -me and sprang up. - -It is curious, when one looks back, to note what petty details stand -forth in a clear light, as it were, upon the background of great and -essential experience. I am no gourmand, but apt to eat whatever is set -before me, with little concern save that it be cleanly and sufficient. -Yet never do I hear or think of Cheticamp village without a remembered -savour of barley cakes and brown honey, crossed delicately with the -smell of bean blossoms blown in through a sunny window. At the time, I -am sure, I took little heed of these things. My care was chiefly to see -that two of my men set forth promptly to watch the two wharves on each -side of the creek, which served the fleet of the fishermen. Then I -dispatched two others to spy on the roadway entering and leaving the -village, and a fifth to sentinel a hill at the back overlooking all the -open country. With the remaining fellow, my orderly, at my heels, I set -out for the dwelling of young Monsieur St. Michel le Fevre de Cheticamp, -rehearsing his full name with care as I went, in order that there should -be no lack of courteous ceremony to disguise the rudeness of my errand. - -I needed none to point me out the house of the le Fevres. On the crest -of a dark-wooded knoll at the south-east end of the one long village -street, it spread its cluster of grey gables, low and of a comfortable -air. Fir groves sheltered it to north and east. On the west gathered the -cool, green ranks of its apple orchard. Down the slope in front unrolled -a careless garden—thyme plots and hollyhock rows, gooseberry bushes and -marigold beds, and a wide waste of blossoming roses—all as unlike the -formal pleasances of France and England as garden-close could be, yet -bewitching, like a fair and wilful woman. - -“It shall not be changed by so much as one gooseberry bush,” said I to -myself, highly pleased with the prospect. Then, rounding a lilac -thicket, I arrived at the open gate. And then, face to face, I met a -girl. - -The meeting was so sudden, and so closely did I confront her, that I -felt my coming a most uncivil intrusion. Moreover, she was most -disconcerting to look upon. Stammering apologies and snatching my hat -from my head, I flushed and dropped my eyes before her—which was not in -accordance with my custom. I dropped my eyes, as I say, but even then I -saw her as clearly within my brain as if my eyes were boldly resting -upon her face. - -The lady of the manor, evidently. I had heard there was a sister to the -recalcitrant young seigneur, one Mademoiselle Irene, over whose beauty -and caprices had more than one duel been fought among the gallants of -Quebec. - -The picture which, during those few heart-beats while I stood -stuttering, burned itself into my memory was one that not absence, -years, or habitude has any power to dull. The face was a face for which -some men would die a hundred deaths and dream all beauty in dying, while -other men, blind fools, and many women, of the envious sort, would -protest it to be not even passable; a face small, thin, clear, and very -dark; the chin obstinate; the mouth full, somewhat large, sorrowful, -mocking, maddening, unforgettably scarlet; the nose whimsical, dainty; -the eyes of a strange green radiance, very large and trustfully wide -open, frank as a child’s, yet unfathomable; a face to trust, to adore, -yet not to understand. The hair black, thick, half curling, with a dull -burnish, falling over each side of the brow almost to cover the little -delicate ears. The figure, clad in some soft, whitish stuff descending -only to the ankles, was under middle height, slight to thinness, -straight, lithe, fine, indescribably alive—in some strange way reminding -me of a flame. In narrow little shoes of red leather the light feet -stood poised like birds’. From one small nut-brown hand swung a -broad-brimmed hat of black beaver, with an ample black feather at the -side. Beside this entrancing picture I was vaguely conscious of a wide, -yellow pathway sloping upward through roses, roses, roses drenched in -sun. - -Presently I heard the sound of my stammering cease, and a soft voice, -troubling me with a familiar note, said courteously: “You are very -welcome to Cheticamp, monsieur. My brother is away from home, unhappily, -but in his absence you must allow me the honour of taking his place as -your host in my poor way.” - -I looked up and met her eyes fairly, my confusion lost in surprise, and -on the instant my heart signalled to me: “It is none other than the maid -of the window! Take care!” - -Yes, I saw it plain. Yet I should never have known it but for a -perception somehow more subtle than that of ear and eye—for she had -disguised her voice the night before, and her dress had been that of a -peasant maid, and the bright riddle of her face had been in shadow. I -perceived, too, that she felt herself safe from discovery, and that it -was for me to save her blushes by leaving her security unassailed. In -all this sudden turmoil of my wits, however, I fear that I was near -forgetting my manners. - -“But, mademoiselle,” I demanded bluntly, “how do you know who I am?” - -“It is the part of the conquered to know their conquerors, monsieur,” -she answered, in a manner that eluded the bitterness of the words. “But, -indeed, the place of an English officer, on duty that is doubtless -official, is here at the Seigneury and not at the village inn. We cannot -let you put a slight upon our hospitality.” - -I was in sore embarrassment; and the parchment deed conveying to me the -Seigneury of Cheticamp began to burn my pocket. I felt a vehement desire -to accept the sweetly proffered hospitality of this enchanting witch. -The temptation dragged at my heartstrings. There was nothing to do but -take it by the throat rudely if I would save any shreds of honour. -“Alas! mademoiselle,” I said, avoiding her eyes, “I am here on a rough -errand, and your courtesy pierces me. I am here to arrest your brother -and carry him a prisoner to Halifax.” - -“Monsieur, monsieur, what do you mean?” she cried, with a faintness in -her voice. But looking up suddenly, I saw that her surprise was a pretty -piece of feigning, though her agitation was real enough. - -“I mean that your brother, though succeeding to these estates under -protection of English law, and owing allegiance to the English Crown, is -giving aid to England’s enemies. He is supplying Louisbourg with grain -and flax and cattle from these lands of Acadia, which are now English. -The Governor has proofs beyond cavil. He has sent me to arrest your -brother, mademoiselle, not to be happy in the hospitality of your -brother’s sister.” - -And now, to my amaze, the merriest and most persuasive smile spread a -dazzle over my lady witch’s face. - -“Those proofs of your good Governor’s, monsieur,” she cried, with pretty -scorn, “I will show you what folly they are. You have all been deceived. -You must come with me now, and give me fullest opportunity to clear my -brother’s honour. And in any case it is my right, as well as my -pleasure, to entertain the Governor’s representative when he visits the -place of my father’s people.” - -But I was stubborn. That deed in my pocket weighed tons. Yet my -inclination must have shown in my eyes, plainly enough for one less keen -than Mademoiselle Irene le Fevre to decipher it. A little air of -confidence flitted over her face. Nevertheless, I shook my head. - -“Most gracious lady,” I protested, “you honour me too much. It will -delight me to learn that your brother has been maligned”—and in this, -faith, I spoke true, forgetting the contingent peril to my pocket—“but -were he never so innocent it would be my duty to take him to Halifax, -for the Governor himself to weigh the evidence. The irony of life has -sent me as your foe, not as your guest.” - -“Then, monsieur, come as a foe who but observes the courtesies. Come -with your hands free to arrest my brother at any moment on his own -hearthstone (he is far away from it now, praise Mary!), or to arrest -your hostess either, if your duty should demand that unkindness. Come as -one who graciously accepts what he could, if he would, take as his -right. Let us play that you come here as our friend, monsieur—and give -me the hope of winning an advocate for my brother against the evil day -that may bring him before the cold English judges at Halifax.” - -Her strong, little eloquent hands were clasped in appeal—and who was I -to deny her? But I looked into her eyes; and I saw in their childlike -deeps, underneath the mocking and the feigning, a clear spirit, which I -could not bear to delude. I understood now very plainly her mad game of -the night before. She was unmasking a danger for her brother. I -justified her in my heart; for my own part in the folly I felt a -creeping shame. How lightly she must hold me. This thought, and a sense -that I was about to hurt her, brought the hot flush to my face; and I -looked away as I spoke. - -“But, mademoiselle—forgive me that I bear such tidings—the estates of -Monsieur Raoul le Fevre, Seigneur of Cheticamp, are confiscated to the -Crown.” - -Lifting my eyes at the last words, I saw that the girl had grown very -white and was staring at me in a sort of terror. There was plainly no -feigning here. This blow was unexpected, unprepared for, something -beyond her bright young wit to deal with. I seemed to see in her heart a -sudden, hopeless desolation, as if all her world had fallen to ruin -about her and left her life naked to the storm of time. Not a word had -she ready in such a crisis. - -“Mademoiselle,” I cried, more passionately, perhaps, than was fitting, -“do not misunderstand. The confiscation does not apply at once, of -course, and you are still absolute mistress here. If your brother be -proved innocent, the decree of confiscation may be revoked. So it will -now be held in suspension. You will, I am sure, permit me to go through -the form of visiting your house, to convince me, as the Governor’s -emissary, that Monsieur le Fevre is not there. Then I will return to the -village and see to it that my men shall cause you no annoyance or -embarrassment. I dare not ask you to pity me for the duty that has been -put upon me.” - -As I spoke I had been watching her face, without seeming to think of -anything but my own words. First the colour returned to cheek and lips; -then a wild anger was lighted in the great green eyes—anger with a fear -and appeal behind it. Then a resolved look—and I knew that she would -force herself to play out the game, setting her brother’s interest -before all else. And then, last of all, a most fleeting, elusive look of -triumph at the back of her eyes and at the bow of her lips, for the -indeterminable fraction of a second. I took note of this with some -anxiety. Could it be possible that she felt sure of her power over me? -Could it be possible that she had, at all, any hold upon me? No, she was -too confident. She interested me amazingly. She seemed to me the most -beautiful thing that could have ever existed. But I was not in love, and -would not be swerved from my duty even if I were. Yet all this was -flashed instantaneously through my brain—she was speaking—and I was -yielding. - -“You are a generous enemy, a chivalrous enemy, monsieur,” she murmured, -in a low, earnest, slightly strained voice. Then she recovered her -lightness. “I am almost your prisoner, in a sense, am I not? A suspect, -certainly. If I accept your leniency, and profit by your permission to -stay here under my confiscated roof, do not make me die under this -weight of favour. Be my guest and let me feel that I am not the only one -in debt.” - -Was this the same woman, this half-mocking, all-irresistible creature, -she whom I had seen grey-faced with hopeless trouble not three minutes -before? Said I to myself, “If I put my wits or my heart against hers it -is all up with me. Blank truth is my only hope.” Aloud I said, “I will -be your guest, mademoiselle, though the debt in which I so overwhelm -myself is one from which I can never again get free.” - -For this acquiescence my reward was just a look of brilliancy that made -me catch my breath with pleasure. With a gesture that bade me to her -side she turned and moved slowly up the path, between the shining -copiousness of roses. - -[Illustration: “‘It is I who must ask forgiveness,’ she said softly, -holding out her hand” (page 192).] - -“I will send a servant with your orderly to the inn, monsieur,” she -said, “to fetch your things. Our old walls will be glad to shelter again -a soldier’s uniform, even if the colour of it be something strange to -them.” - -“Almost you tempt me to wish that I had been born to the white uniform,” -I answered, in a daze with the nearness of her, the witchery of her, the -nameless charm of her movement, the subtle intoxication of her voice. - -“Almost you tempt me to regret,” she retorted, with gracious raillery, -“that the men of your cold and stubborn north cannot be moved to change -by a woman’s arguments.” - -“It is to unchangeableness we are moved by a woman, mademoiselle.” - -I spoke with an exaggerated lightness, to avoid a too significant -seriousness. - -“Is there ever, I wonder, a risk of such steadfastness growing -tiresome?” mused mademoiselle, turning contemplative. - -The swift change discomfited me. I turned my words to platitudes on the -beauty of the house, the garden, the landscape. And presently I found -myself established, an honoured yet confessedly hostile guest, in the -Seigneury of Cheticamp. - -A little old housekeeper, wizened and taciturn and omnipresent, kept me -under an inscrutable surveillance, but treated me civilly enough. My -chamber, very spacious, but with a low ceiling of broken slopes under -the eaves, its windows looking out over the rose-garden, the village, -and the sea, was furnished with a strange commingling of the luxury and -daintiness of Versailles with the rudeness of a remote, half-barbarous -colony. One of my men, my orderly, was entertained, much to his -satisfaction, in the servants’ quarters, and did me service as regularly -as if we were at home at Goreham-on-Thames; while the rest, lodging at -the inn, came to me with daily reports, which varied not at all in their -trivial sameness. I breakfasted alone. Throughout the morning I walked -exploring the country for miles about and talking with the inhabitants; -or I investigated the roomy, irregular old house, whose half-open doors -and rambling corridors extended trustful invitation to my curiosity; or -I read and wrote in the small but well-stocked library, to which stained -glass from Rouen, a prayer desk, and a corner shrine lent the savour and -sanctity of a chapel. At one hour past noon precisely I dined with -Mademoiselle le Fevre, and afterwards either walked with her in the -garden and in the fir-woods, or, if the weather was unfavourable, -conversed with her, most pleasurably, in the book-room, while she -wrought with more or less affectation of diligence at a curious piece of -tapestry, gold threads and scarlet on a cloth of a soft dull blue. -Before sunset we supped, and in the evening, with doors and windows open -and the scented breath of sea and rose and meadow flowing through, she -played to me on her spinet, or sang ballads of old France, till -candle-light and “good night” brought the day to a close. - -Small wonder, being so gently occupied, that I was in no haste to force -events, to ask myself what I desired or expected should happen. The man -I was sent to seek was obviously not here. It was a plain and pleasant -duty for me to stay here and await him. Meanwhile, I was serving the -King by my presence, which was security that the Seigneury of Cheticamp -should render no assistance to the King’s enemies at Louisbourg. To be -sure, it was rendering continual assistance to Mademoiselle Irene le -Fevre de Cheticamp, but I could not bring myself to consider for a -moment that the King could be so unhappy as to count her among his -enemies. And so the days slipped by. I was not—as I should have sworn to -myself in all honesty had one suggested it to me—in the least in love -with mademoiselle. I merely found it unavoidable to think about her or -dream about her all the time; impossible to engage my interest in -anything whatever that I could not connect with her. For her part, she -grew day by day more sweetly serious, more womanly courteous, until our -pretty masquerading that night at my window among the hop vines came to -be a remote, unbelievable dream. - -But the situation, seemingly so quiet and easy that it might aspire to -last for ever, was, in fact, a bubble of rainbow tissue blown to its -extremes of tension and ready to shatter at a breath. When the breath -came it was a light one, truly, yet how the face of the world changed -under it. I awoke one morning in the first rosiness of dawn with a kind -of foreboding. I went to the window. There in the misty bay, hove-to at -a discreet distance from the wharves, was a small schooner, signalling. - -The signals were unintelligible to me, which meant it was my duty to be -concerned with them. I remembered that there was a flag-pole on the -knoll, behind the house. With a sudden leaden sinking at the heart I -realised that mademoiselle’s brother was at last in evidence, and I -could imagine nothing that would more embarrass me than that I should -succeed in capturing him. After watching the signals for some time, and -wondering if it were mademoiselle herself manipulating the unseen -replies, I decided that there was nothing to be done but parade my guard -openly along the coast. Then, if he should persist in stupidly running -his neck into the noose, I would have to do my duty and pull it. - -“Oh, why has she a brother!” I groaned, cursing him heartily, but -straight revoked my curse, remembering that but for his delinquencies I -had never come at all to Cheticamp. - -Slowly I made my toilet, and before it was finished the little vessel -was under way again, beating out of the inlet against a light westerly -wind. Both to north and south of Cheticamp Harbour were little sheltered -ports with anchorage for such small craft as she; and I concluded that -with this wind she would seek the next haven northward. I resolved to -send my men to search the southerly coves. Then I stepped out upon the -terrace and met mademoiselle herself tripping through the dew, her hair -dishevelled, her eyes like stars, her small face one gipsy sparkle with -excitement. - -At sight of me an apprehension dimmed the sparkle for an instant. Then -she came forward to greet me with her usual courtesy. But now there was -a challenge deep in her eyes, and presently a return of the old subtle -audacity, as if I were a foe to be fenced with, bewildered, eluded. It -hurt me keenly, and I took no thought of the utter unreasonableness of -my grievance. - -“Good morning, monsieur,” she cried gaily. “Have you a bad conscience -that you sleep so lightly and arise so early?” - -“Mademoiselle,” said I gravely, bending low over her cool brown fingers, -and noticing that they trembled, “I have been watching the signals from -yonder ship.” - -The brown fingers were withdrawn nervously. - -“They were quite unintelligible to me,” I continued, “but I readily -infer that your brother has returned and is on shipboard.” - -A strange look—was it relief?—passed over her face. Then she nodded her -dark head as if in frankest acquiescence. - -“Allow me to say at once that I must try to capture him, but that I -earnestly hope that I shall not be so unfortunate as to succeed.” - -At this her eyes softened upon me. Never had I seen anything, in life or -in dream, so beautiful as the smile upon her lips. But I went on: “My -men will patrol the coast; but they are few, and I cannot, of course, -prevent your messengers eluding their vigilance and communicating with -Monsieur le Fevre. I am glad I cannot prevent it. I doubt not you will -warn him that all this neighbourhood is strictly watched. My men would -at once recognise him, if they saw him, from the descriptions they have -had.” - -Then, as I watched her face, my restraint was shaken. The love which I -had not till that day let myself realise laid mighty grasp upon me. The -long-chained passion crept into my voice, and it changed, trembling, as -I continued: - -“Oh, you can prevent him falling into our hands. I beseech you let not -that evil come upon me that your brother should be my prisoner.” - -“Thank you, monsieur,” she said very simply, putting her hand in mine -with a confidence like a child’s. Her eyes searched my very heart for a -second. “I think, with such assistance, we can elude your vigilance, -monsieur.” - -But on the instant her look changed to one of the deepest gravity. As I -have so often thought of that look since, it was a surrender in part, in -part a sacrament. - -“The South Cove at noon,” she said, with a sort of sob, and flushed and -ran hastily into the house. - -For a moment or two I stood staring after her in utter bewilderment. The -dominant feeling, which sent great gushes of light and warmth through -heart and brain and nerve, was that she loved me, that she had revealed -herself to me on a swift, inexplicable impulse. This set me reeling in a -kind of intoxication. But underneath, clamouring harshly to be heeded, -was the problem she had thrust upon me. She had forced me to know just -what I had striven so desperately not to know. For the moment, however, -I did not think. I simply let myself feel; and, turning mechanically, I -walked in a daze down the winding road through the rose garden. - -“Of course,” said I to myself, and half aloud to the roses, “she means -that I am to act upon her word and take my men safely out of the way to -South Cove before noon, leaving the North Harbour, where the ship has -gone, perfectly secure. She knows that I can act with a clear conscience -on so definite a piece of information as that. She knows that there is -nothing else for me to do. She sees that I love her. She trusts me. And -she trusts my wit to comprehend her subtle devisings. Irene! Irene!” - -And I swung gaily down towards the village through an air more light and -sweet, through a sunshine more radiant and clear, under a sky more blue, -than ever before my travelled senses had encountered. - -I breakfasted at the inn. By the time my messengers had got hold of my -scattered men and given them my orders to report to me at South Cove, it -wanted but an hour of noon. To South Cove was an hour’s brisk walking, -and I set out, with my orderly at my heels. He was a trusty, discreet -fellow, with whom I was wont to talk not a little; but to-day my dreams -were all-sufficient to me, and I would not let the lad so much as stir -his tongue. Arriving at the point where the upland dipped down to South -Cove, a narrow inlet thickly screened with woods, I noted the hour as -exact noon. Then, liking well the look of the leafage below me, with the -glint of water sparkling through, and craving no company but my own and -my thoughts, I bade my man wait where he was and watch the roads both -ways, and halt the others as they should come up. - -The path down through the trees was green-mossed, winding, and steep. I -went swiftly but noiselessly. Near the foot, as I was just about to -emerge upon the beach, the sound of voices below caught my ear. I -essayed to stop myself, slipped, crashed through a brittle screen of -dead spruce boughs, and came down, erect upon my feet but somewhat -jarred, not ten paces from the spot where a lady and a cavalier, locked -in one another’s arms, stood beside a small boat drawn up upon the -shingle. - -It was mademoiselle, and the man was her brother, as I saw on the -instant from the likeness between them. They had unlocked their arms and -turned towards me, startled at the sound of my fall. Mademoiselle’s face -went white, then flushed crimson, and, drawing herself up, she -confronted me with a look of unutterable scorn, mingled with pain and -reproach. Apprehension and amusement struggled together in the face of -the young seigneur. - -For my own part, I had realised on the instant the whole enormity of my -mistake. Mademoiselle had told me the plain truth, staking everything on -my love, trusting me utterly. My heart sinks now as I recall the anguish -of that moment. I had but one thought—to justify myself in her eyes. I -sprang forward, stammering. - -“Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did not understand—I quite misunderstood. -Believe me, I never dreamed——” - -But, shaken and humiliated as she was, she did not lose her presence of -mind. She played another card boldly. - -“Captain Scott,” she said, as if this were the most ceremonious meeting -in the world, “this is my fiancé, Monsieur de St. Ange.” - -By great good fortune I had wit enough to seem to believe her. In fact, -perhaps my belief was too well simulated, for the expressions that -passed over her face in the next few seconds were inexplicable to me and -mightily increased my confusion. But toward this “Monsieur de St. Ange” -I felt most cordial. - -“Delighted, monsieur, I am sure,” I exclaimed, bowing low, while he -bowed with equal ceremony, but in silence. - -“I congratulate you,” I went on, terribly at a loss. Then I looked at -mademoiselle, who had turned away white and indifferent. - -“There has been some mistake,” I continued desperately. “That you should -wish to see your betrothed is, of course, to me sufficient explanation -of your presence here. But others might think I should inquire more -searchingly into an enemy’s purpose in visiting a place like this. My -men are in the neighbourhood; I will go at once and withdraw them. But I -beg you, monsieur, to withdraw yourself as speedily as possible.” - -I backed away, striving in vain to win a look from mademoiselle. As for -her brother, he was most civil. - -“I thank you for your great courtesy, monsieur,” he answered, the -corners of his mouth restraining themselves from mirth. “Much as it -would be to my pleasure to know you better, I am aware that I might find -it inconvenient. I shall comply as speedily as possible with your most -reasonable request.” - -At the foot of the path, finding that mademoiselle was quite oblivious -to my presence, I turned and made all haste from the calamitous spot. -When I found my men, I hurried them off toward Cheticamp with an -eagerness that hinted at a fresh and important clue. From the inn I sent -them in parties of two, on errands of urgency that would take them as -far as possible from South Cove. Then, hurrying back to the Seigneury, I -awaited, in sickening suspense, the return of mademoiselle to a belated -meal. - -At the suggestion of the wizened old housekeeper, I ate the meal -alone—or, rather, I put some dry, chip-like substances into my mouth, -which chose to collect themselves in a lump some little way below my -throat. The old lady seemed as ignorant as I of the reason of -mademoiselle’s delay, though once and again, from the shrewd scrutiny -which I caught her bestowing upon my countenance, I suspected that she -knew more than she would confess. The afternoon went by in that misery -of waiting that turns one’s blood to gall. I would go out among the -roses, but cursing them for their false, disastrous speech, I found them -not contenting company. Then I would go back into the library and spend -the sluggish minutes in jumping up, sitting down, trying this book, -rejecting that, while every sense was on the rack of intensity to catch -some hint of her presence in the house. But all in vain. The stillness -seemed unnatural. There was a menace in the clear pour of the afternoon -sun. When at last, toward sundown, the humpbacked old gardener went by -the window with a watering-pot, I was startled to see that the affairs -of life were going on as usual. There was somehow a grain of comfort, of -reassurance, in the sight of the old humpback. I left the library and -went to find the housekeeper, determined to put her through such an -inquisition as should in some way relieve my suspense. - -I found her in the supper-room, putting flowers on a table that was set -for—only one. - -“Supper is served, monsieur,” she said, as I came in. - -“For me alone?” I gasped, feeling that the world had come to an end. - -“For monsieur,” she answered. - -“Tell me”—and the tone made her look at me quickly with a deference not -before observable in her manner—“tell me at once where Mademoiselle le -Fevre is gone.” - -“Certainly, monsieur, certainly. There is no desire to deceive monsieur. -Mademoiselle and her maid have removed to the inn at Cheticamp, where -mademoiselle intends to reside till she can join monsieur her brother at -Louisbourg.” - -I heard her through, then rushed from the room, snatched up my hat, and -sped down to the inn of Cheticamp. I fear that the civil salutations of -the villagers whom I passed went outrageously unregarded. - -My demand was urgent, so within a very few minutes of my coming I was -ushered into mademoiselle’s parlour, and with a thrill of hope at the -omen I noted that it was the same room which I had occupied on the night -of my arrival at Cheticamp, the same dear room through whose -hop-garlanded window I had made such bold and merry counterfeit with -mademoiselle in her disguise. But not nourishing to hope was -mademoiselle’s greeting. I had not dreamed so small a dame could ever -look so tall. Her slim figure was in the gown of creamy linen which she -had worn when I had met her in the rose-garden. Her small, strange, -child-like face was very white, her lips set coldly and less scarlet -than their wont, and her eyes—they were fearfully bright and large, with -a gaze which I could not fathom. - -“To what do I owe this honour, monsieur?” she asked. “It is much——” - -But I was rude in my trouble. - -“Why have you fled from me, mademoiselle?” I interrupted passionately. -“Why have you left your own home in this way? I will leave it at -once—for you shall not be driven from it.” - -“My home, monsieur? It is your house. I will not be a pensioner on your -bounty.” - -How had she found this out? I was in confusion. - -“What—what do you mean, mademoiselle?” I stammered. - -“I mean, monsieur,” she said, with ice and fire contending in her voice, -“that all these days, when I thought I was playing the hostess, in a -home belonging either to my brother or to the English Government, I have -been but a beggar living on your charity. I know that you are the owner -of Cheticamp House and all in it, it having been taken from us to give -to you.” - -I was in despair over this further complication; but this was not the -time for finding out the betrayer of my secret. - -“I had hoped that you would never know, mademoiselle,” I protested. “But -it is not of that I would speak. Forgive me, I beg you on my knees, for -the stupid mistake, the unpardonable mistake I made this morning. And -oh, count it something that I did my best to remedy the error, so that -no harm came of it.” - -The anger that flamed into her eyes was of a beauty that did not delight -me. - -“Doubtless you did your duty, monsieur, as a servant of your Government. -Doubtless honour required that you should betray the trust so foolishly -reposed in you by a silly girl. You would have taken my brother, and -through his sister’s folly. I cannot feel any very keen gratitude for -the generosity which suffered my fiancé, whom you did not seek, to go -free.” - -Light began to struggle in upon the darkness of my brain. - -“Your fiancé!” I returned quickly. “Could you think for one moment I did -not know that he was your brother?” - -Her face changed marvellously at this declaration. - -“I knew your purpose then,” I went on. “But forgive me, forgive me for -not understanding you before. I was not worthy of the simple trust you -placed in me. I thought you meant me to understand that I should take my -men to South Cove at noon to have them out of the way. I thought it was -a piece of your daring strategy, and I was proud because you trusted my -stupid wits to follow your plan. I thought it was to save me the -embarrassment of openly letting your brother go. I thought—oh, I thought -myself so wise, and I was so cheaply careful of my duty. Can you forgive -me? You know, you must know, in the light of what I did afterwards, that -if I had only understood your words in all their uncalculating faith no -power on earth would have prevented me keeping myself and my men as far -as possible from South Cove.” - -Her tense attitude relaxed. Her figure seemed no longer so portentously -tall. - -“It is I who must ask forgiveness,” she said softly, holding out her -hand. I seized it in both of mine and dared to kiss it fiercely, -hungrily, and marvelled to find that it was not at once withdrawn from -such an ardour. - -“I am not so wise, I am not so subtle, as you think me,” she continued. -“It was a clever device, indeed, that you credited me with, and so much -more considerate and fine in every way than my poor little -thoughtlessness which threw the responsibility upon you. But you are -mistaken, monsieur, if you think that I am at all clever or subtle.” - -She was looking down, watching, but not seeming to see, how my hands -held both of hers. For myself, I knew that the joy of life had come to -me; but I could find no word to say, so wildly ran my blood. After a -moment’s silence she said musingly: - -“I don’t think I ever could deceive any one. I am sure I never did -deceive any one in my life—but once; oh, yes, once.” And here she lifted -up her face and flashed upon me a challenge of dancing eyes and mocking -mouth. - -“No, indeed,” said I. “The maid who came to my window did not deceive me -for a moment when afterwards I met her in the rose-garden.” - -“Oh!” she gasped with a little sob, while her face grew scarlet. “You -knew all the time? It was horrid of me—too horrid to think of. Oh——” - -At this point it seemed to me that she was looking for a spot to hide -her face, and, taking base advantage of her confusion, I drew her into -my arms and let her blushes fly to cover against my coat. Never before, -in my opinion, had the King’s uniform been so highly honoured. - -“To my window you came that night, my lady,” I whispered, “but it was to -the door of my heart you came.” - - - - - _Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and - Aylesbury._ - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Illustrations which were line-drawings had page numbers which were not -printed; illustrations which were more complex had no numbers and had -facing blank pages. This accounts for the oddities in page numbering. - -Obvious typographical errors have been corrected silently. Less obvious -ones which were changed are: - - page 9, latter was replaced by letter - page 18, drawing-toom was replaced by drawing-room - page 153, Twen- at end of a line and not finished on next line was - replaced by Twentieth - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Times Red Cross Story Book, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIMES RED CROSS STORY BOOK *** - -***** This file should be named 51142-0.txt or 51142-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/1/4/51142/ - -Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Elizabeth Oscanyan and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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