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<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p>
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<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">STORIES AND SKETCHES.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 415px;">
<img src="images/image2.jpg" width="415" height="604" alt="Stories and Sketches" />
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<p class="center" style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by<br />
LEE &amp; SHEPARD,<br />
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">CONTENTS.</h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<table class="centered" border="0" cellpadding="5" style="max-width: 65%;" summary="CONTENTS">
<tr><td class="title"></td> <td class="author"></td>  <td class="page">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#The_Skeleton_at_the_Banquet"><span class="smcap">The Skeleton at the Banquet.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Seeley Regester.</i></td> <td class="page">9</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Let_those_Laugh_who_Win"><span class="smcap">Let those Laugh who Win.</span></a></td> <td class="author"><i>Samuel W. Tuttle.</i></td> <td class="page">37</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#The_Proper_use_of_Grandfathers"><span class="smcap">The Proper use of Grandfathers.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Fitz Hugh Ludlow.</i></td> <td class="page">61</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#At_Eve"><span class="smcap">At Eve.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Gertrude Brodé.</i></td> <td class="page">77</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Broken_Idols"><span class="smcap">Broken Idols.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Richmond Wolcott.</i></td> <td class="page">93</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Dr_Hugers_Intention"><span class="smcap">Dr. Huger's Intention.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Louise Chandler Moulton.</i></td> <td class="page">105</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#The_Man_whose_Life_was_Saved"><span class="smcap">The Man whose Life was Saved.</span></a></td>  <td class="author">&#42;&#42;&#42;&#42;&#42;.</td> <td class="page">121</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#The_Romance_of_a_Western_Trip"><span class="smcap">The Romance of a Western Trip.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>J. L. Lord.</i></td> <td class="page">157</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#The_two_ghosts"><span class="smcap">The Two Ghosts of New London Turnpike.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Mrs. Galpin.</i></td> <td class="page">185</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Down_by_the_Sea"><span class="smcap">Down by the Sea.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Hattie Tyng Griswold.</i></td> <td class="page">229</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Why_Mrs_Radnor_Fainted"><span class="smcap">Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted.</span></a></td>  <td class="author">&#42;&#42;&#42;&#42;&#42;.</td> <td class="page">249</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Under_a_Cloud"><span class="smcap">Under a Cloud.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>William Wirt Sikes.</i></td> <td class="page">265</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#Coming_from_the_Front"><span class="smcap">Coming from the Front.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Richmond Wolcott.</i></td> <td class="page">281</td></tr>
<tr><td class="title"><a href="#A_Night_in_the_Sewers"><span class="smcap">A Night in the Sewers.</span></a></td>  <td class="author"><i>Chas. Dawson Shanly.</i></td> <td class="page">293</td></tr>
</table>


<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p>




<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="The_Skeleton_at_the_Banquet" id="The_Skeleton_at_the_Banquet"><span class="smcap">The Skeleton at the Banquet.</span></a></h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>


<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-d.jpg"
width="51" height="86" alt="d" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">D</span>R. GRAHAM sat in his office, his book closed
on his knee, and his eyes fixed upon the street.
There was nothing of interest to be seen. A
light snow was falling, making the pavement
dreary; but it was Christmas, and his thoughts
had gone back to other days, as people's thoughts will
go on anniversary occasions. He was thinking of the
young wife he had buried three years and three months
ago; of the great fireplace in his boyhood's home, and
his mother's face lit up by the glow; of many things
past which were pleasant; and reflecting sadly upon the
fact that life grew duller, more commonplace, as one
grew older. Not that he was an elderly man,&mdash;he was,
in reality, but twenty-eight; yet, upon that Christmas
day, he felt old, very old; his wife dead, his practice
slender, his prospects far from promising,&mdash;even the
slow-moving days daily grew heavier, soberer, more
serious. It was a holiday, but he had not even an invitation
for dinner, where the happiness of friends and the
free flow of thought might lend a momentary sparkle to
his own stale spirits.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p>

<p>The doctor was not of a melancholy, despondent
nature, nor did he rely for his pleasures upon others.
He was a self-made man, and self-reliant to an unusual
degree, as self-made men are apt to be. His tussle with
circumstances had awakened in him a combative and
resistant energy, which had served him well when
means were scant and the rewards of merit few. But
there is something in the festal character of Christmas
which, by luring from the shadows of our struggle-life
the boy nature of us, makes homeless men feel solitary;
and, from being forlorn, the mood soon grows to one of
painful unrest; all from beholding happiness from
which we are shut out. On this gray afternoon not the
most fascinating speculations of De Boismont and the
hospital lectures,&mdash;not the consciousness of the originality
and importance of his own discoveries in the field
of Sensation and Nerve Force,&mdash;had any interest for
Dr. Graham.</p>

<p>That he had talent and a good address; that he studied
and experimented many hours every day; that he as
thoroughly understood his profession as was consistent
with a six years' actual experience as an actual practitioner;
that there was nothing of the quack or pretender
in him;&mdash;all this did not prevent his rent from being high,
his patients few, and his means limited. With no influential
friends to recommend and introduce him, he had
resolutely rented a room in a genteel locality up town,
had dressed well, and had worn the "air" of a man of
business, ever ready for duty; but success had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
attended upon his efforts, and the future gave no promise
of a change. Of this he was thinking, somewhat
bitterly; for what proud soul is not stung with unmerited
neglect? Then a deep sadness stole over him
at thoughts of the loss which had come upon his early
manhood,&mdash;a loss like which there is none other so
abiding in strong, wise hearts. A cloud seemed to be
sifting down and closing around him, which, with unusual
passivity, he seemed unable or unwilling to shake
off. A carriage obstructed his view, by passing in front
of his window. It stopped; then the footman descended,
opened the carriage-door, and turned to the
office-bell. He was followed by his master, who awaited
the answer to the bell, and was ushered into the practitioner's
presence by the single waiting-servant of his
modest establishment. The doctor arose to receive his
guest, who was a man still younger than himself, with
something of a foreign air, and dressed with a quiet
richness in keeping with his evident wealth and position.</p>

<p>"Dr. Graham?"</p>

<p>The doctor bowed assent.</p>

<p>"If you are not otherwise engaged, I would like you
to go home with me, to see my sister, who is not well.
There is no great haste about the matter, but if you can
go now, I shall be glad to take you with me. It will
save you a walk through the snow."</p>

<p>"He knows," thought the doctor, "that I do not
drive a carriage;" and that a stranger, of such ability
to hire the most noted practitioners, should call upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
him, was a source of unexpressed surprise and suspicion.</p>

<p>"What do you think is the matter with your sister?"
he unconcernedly asked, taking his overcoat from the
wardrobe.</p>

<p>"That is for you to decide. It is a case of no ordinary
character&mdash;one which will require study." He
led the way at once to the door, as if unwilling to delay,
notwithstanding he had at first stated that no haste was
necessary. "Step in, doctor, and I will give you an
inkling of the case during the drive, which will occupy
some fifteen or twenty minutes."</p>

<p>"In the first place," continued the stranger, as they
rolled away, "I will introduce myself to you as St.
Victor Marchand, at present a resident of your city, but
recently from the island of Madeira. My house is upon
the Fifth Avenue, not far from Madison Square. My
household consists only of myself and sister, with our
servants. I have the means to remunerate you amply
for any demands we may make upon your time or skill;
and I ought to add, one reason for selecting so young a
physician is, that I think you will be the more able
and willing to devote more time to the case than more
famous practitioners. However, you are not unknown
to me. I have heard you well-spoken of; and I remember
that, when you were a student in Paris, you were
mentioned with honor by the college, for an able paper
read before the open section upon the very subject to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
which I now propose to direct your attention,&mdash;mental
disease," he added, after a moment's hesitation.</p>

<p>"A case of insanity?" bluntly asked the doctor.</p>

<p>"Heaven forbid! And yet I must not conceal from
you that I fear it."</p>

<p>"Give me some of the symptoms. Insanity in strong
development, or aberration of faculties, or hallucination?"</p>

<p>"I cannot reply. It is one and all, it seems to me.
The fact is, doctor, I wish to introduce you to your
patient simply as a friend of mine, so as to give you an
opportunity for studying my sister's case, unembarrassed
by any suspicion on her part. To excite her suspicions
is to frustrate all hopes of doing anything for or with
her. Can you&mdash;will you&mdash;do me the favor to dine with
me this evening? It is now only about an hour to six,
and if you have no other engagement, I will do my best
to entertain you, and you can then meet my sister as
her brother's guest. Shall it be so?"</p>

<p>The young man's tones were almost beseeching, and
his manner betrayed the most intense solicitude. Quite
ready to accede to the request, from curiosity as well as
from a desire to reässure the young man, Dr. Graham
did not hesitate to say, "Willingly, sir, if it will assist
in a professional knowledge of the object of my call."</p>

<p>The change from the office to the home into which
the physician was introduced was indeed grateful to
the doctor's feelings. The light, warmth, and splendor
of the rooms gave to the home an air of tropical sensuousness;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
and yet an exquisite taste seemed to preside
over all. Though not unfamiliar with elegance, this
home of the brother and sister wore, to the visitor, an
enchanted look, as well from the foreign character of
many of its adornments and the rare richness of its
works of art, as from the gay, friendly, enthusiastic
manner of his entertainer,&mdash;a manner never attained
by English or Americans. Sending word to Miss Marchand
that there would be a guest to dinner, St. Victor
fell into a sparkling conversation, discoursing most intelligibly
of Paris, Madeira, the East Indies, and South
America, taking his guest from room to room to show
this or that curious specimen of the productions or
handicraft of each country. As the articles exhibited
were rare, and many of them of scientific value, and as
the young man's knowledge kept pace with his eloquence
of discourse, Dr. Graham was agreeably absorbed.</p>

<p>An hour passed rapidly. Then the steward announced
dinner; but it was not until they were about seating
themselves at table that <i>the patient</i> made her appearance.
It was now twilight out of doors. The curtains were
drawn and the dining-room lit only by wax tapers,
under whose soft radiance bloomed an abundance of
flowers, mostly of exotic beauty and fragrance. It was
evident that the young master of the house brought
with him his early tastes.</p>

<p>"We have an extra allowance of light and flowers, and
a little feast, too, I believe; for neither myself nor my
English steward here forget that this is Christmas.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
Don't you think it a beautiful holiday? My mother
always kept it with plenty of wax candles and flowers."</p>

<p>"It is a sacred day to me," answered the doctor, sadly,
thinking of his lost wife and of the three times they
had kept it together, with feasting and love's delights.</p>

<p>At this moment Miss Marchand floated into the room
and to her place at the head of the table,&mdash;a girlish
creature, who gave their guest a smile when the brother
said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Dr. Graham is not entirely a stranger, Edith; he
was in Paris when we were there. You were a child,
then. I was indeed glad to meet him in this strange
city, and I mean that we shall be friends upon a visiting
footing, if he will permit it."</p>

<p>It was but natural for the physician to fix a piercing
look upon the face of her whom he had been given to
understand was to be his patient, and whose disease was
of a character to command his best skill. His physician's
eye detected no outward tokens of ill health, either
of body or of mind. A serene brow, sweet, steady, loving
eyes, cheeks rosy and full with maiden health, a
slender though not thin figure, all were there before
him, giving no indication even of the "nervousness"
assumed to be so common with young ladies of this
generation. Exquisite beauty, allied with perfect health,
seemed to "blush and bloom" all over her; and the
medical man would have chosen her, with professional
enthusiasm, as his ideal of what a young woman <i>ought</i>
to be. Her pink-silk robe adapted itself to her soft<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
form as naturally as the petals of a rose to its curving
sweetness. Only to look upon her gladdened the sad
heart of Dr. Graham, the wifeless and childless. He
felt younger than he had felt for years, as thirsty grass
feels under the influence of a June sun after a morning
of showers. His spirits rose, and he talked well, even
wittily,&mdash;betraying not only his varied learning as a
student and his keen powers of observation as a man of
the world, but also the gentleness and grace which, in
his more active, worldly life, were too much put aside.
It was a little festival, in which the dainty dishes, the
fruit, and wine played but a subordinate part.</p>

<p>Nothing could be more apparent than the pride and
affection with which Mr. Marchand regarded his sister.
Was there, indeed, a skeleton at this feast? The doctor
shuddered as he asked himself the question. All his
faculties were on the alert to deny and disprove the possibility
of the presence of the hideous visitor. His sympathies
were too keenly enlisted to be willing to
acknowledge its existence even in the background of
that day or the days to come to that household. Yet,
ever and anon, in the midst of their joyousness, a
strange look would leap from the quick, dark eyes of
St. Victor, as he fixed them upon his sister's face, and
an expression would flit across his own face inscrutable
to the watchful physician. With a slight motion of his
hand or head he would arrest and direct the doctor's
attention, who would then perceive Miss Marchand's luminous
glance changing into a look expressive of anxiety<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
and terror, the glow of her cheeks fading into a pallor
like that of one in a swoon. But, strange! an instant
would change it all. The pallor, lingering but a moment,
would melt away as a mist before the sun, and the
roses would come back to the cheeks again in all their
rosiness. The host would divert his companion's startled
attention by gracefully pressing the viands upon his
notice, or by some brilliant sally, so scintillating with wit
or droll wisdom, as to have brought the smile to an anchorite's
eyes.</p>

<p>"I pray you watch her! Did you not notice that
slight incoherency?" he remarked, in a whisper, leaning
over toward the doctor.</p>

<p>The doctor had noticed nothing but the playful badinage
of a happy girl.</p>

<p>"I am afraid her loveliness blinds my judgment. I
<i>must</i> see what there is in all this," he answered to himself,
deprecatingly.</p>

<p>They sat long at table. Not that any one ate to excess,
though the pompous English steward served up
one delicious dish after another, including the time-honored
Christmas feast requisite,&mdash;the plum-pudding,&mdash;which
was tasted and approved, not to wound the
Briton's national and professional vanity, but sent off,
but slightly shorn of its proportions, to grace the servants'
table.</p>

<p>The guest noticed that St. Victor partook very sparingly
of food, although he fully enjoyed the occasion.
Save tasting of the wild game and its condiment of real<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
Calcutta currie, he ate nothing of the leading dishes or
<i>entrées</i>. Neither did he drink much wine, whose quality
was of the rarest, being of his own stock drawn from
his father's rich store in his Madeira cellar. Of the luscious
grapes and oranges which formed a leading feature
of the dessert, he partook more freely, as if they cooled
his tongue. That there was fever, and nervous excitement,
in the young man's frame, was evident. Indeed,
to the doctor's observant eye, the brother appeared more
delicate, and of a temperament more highly nervous
than his sister.</p>

<p>The frankness, the almost childish confidence and
open-heartedness of the young people formed one of
their greatest attractions to the usually reticent, thoughtful
physician. He felt his own impulses expanding under
the warmth of their sunny natures until the very
romance of his boyhood stirred again, and sprouted
through the mould in which it lay dormant. There was
nothing in their past history or present prospects which,
seemingly, they cared to conceal, so that he had become
possessed of a pretty fair history of their lives before
the last course came upon the board. Both were born
in the island of Madeira. St. Victor was twenty-four,
Edith nineteen, years of age. Their mother was the
daughter of an American merchant, long resident on the
island; their father was a French gentleman of fortune,
who had retired to the island for his health, had loved
and won the fair American girl, and lived with her a
life of almost visionary beauty and happiness. Their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
father had joined their grandfather in some of his mercantile
ventures; hence those voyages to the Indies, to
South America, to the Mediterranean in which the
children were participants. They also had spent a couple
of years in France, cultivating the acquaintance of their
relatives there, and adding some finishing touches to St.
Victor's education, which, having been conducted under
his father's eye by accomplished tutors, was unusually
thorough and varied for one so young. This fact the
doctor surmised during the progress of the banquet,
though he did not ascertain the full extent of the young
man's accomplishments until a future day. Nor was
Edith's education overlooked. She was in a remarkable
degree fitted to be the companion and confidante of her
brother,&mdash;sympathizing in his tastes, reading his books,
enjoying his pastimes, and sharing his ambitions to their
utmost. It was a beautiful blending of natures,&mdash;such
as the world too rarely beholds,&mdash;such as our received
"systems" of education and association <i>cannot</i> produce.</p>

<p>Their grandfather had been dead for several years;
their father for three, their mother for two. "She faded
rapidly after father's death,&mdash;drooped like a frost-blighted
flower," said St. Victor. "They had been too
happy in this world to remain long apart in the next."</p>

<p>"You now see, doctor," the narrator of these family
reminiscences at length said, "why Edith and myself are
so unlike. My sister is her mother over again, fair
and bright, like your New York ladies,&mdash;among the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
most beautiful women, in many respects, I have ever
seen. I am dark and thin,&mdash;a very Frenchman in tastes,
temperament, and habits."</p>

<p>He toyed a few moments with an orange; then, again
leaning toward the physician, he said, in that sharp
whisper which once before during the evening he had
made use of,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I will tell you all, doctor. My father died insane.
We afterwards learned that it was one of the inheritances
of his haughty and wealthy family. The peace and delight
which he had with his wife and children long delayed
the terrible legacy; but it fell due at last. He
died a maniac,&mdash;a raving maniac. <i>She</i> does not know
it. It killed her mother. Imagine, doctor, <i>imagine</i>, if
you can, how I watch over her! how I pity! how I
dread! O God! to think that I must detect those symptoms,
as I have done during the last six months. I have
seen the virus in her eyes to-night. I have not breathed
a word to her of my knowledge and convictions; but I
am as certain of it as that she sits there. Look at her
now, doctor,&mdash;<i>now</i>!"&mdash;with a stealthy side-glance
at the beautiful girl who, at the moment, was smiling
absently over a flower which she had taken from its
vase,&mdash;smiling only as girls can,&mdash;as if it interpreted
something deeper than a passing thought.</p>

<p>It is impossible to describe the strain of agony in the
young man's voice; his sudden pallor; the sweat starting
from his forehead; or to describe the piercing power
of his eye, as he turned it from the face of his sister to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
that of his guest. Accustomed as he was to every form
of suffering, Dr. Graham shrank from the appeal in that
searching look, which mutely asked him if there were
any hope.</p>

<p>The clear whisper in which St. Victor had spoken
aroused Edith from her revery; she darted a glance at
both parties, so full of suspicion and dread, so in contrast
with her natural sunny expression, that it was as
if her face had suddenly withered, from that of a child,
to the thin features of the careworn woman of fifty. She
half rose in her chair, faltered, sank back, and sat gazing
fixedly at the two men; yet silent as a statue.</p>

<p>St. Victor was the first to recover himself. He burst
into a light laugh,&mdash;sweet as a shower of flowers,&mdash;and,
taking up a slender-necked decanter of pale wine, passed
it to his guest, remarking,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We are forgetting that this is Christmas night. Fill
your glass, my friend, with <i>this</i> wine,&mdash;the oldest and
rarest of our precious store,&mdash;and I will fill mine.
Then, we will both drink joyously to the health of my
only darling&mdash;my one beloved&mdash;my sister."</p>

<p>He said this so prettily, poured out the wine with such
arch pleasantry of gesture, that the color came back to
Edith's cheeks; and when the two men bowed to her,
before drinking, she gave them a smile, steeped in melancholy,
but very sweet, and brimming with affection.
It thrilled Dr. Graham's veins more warmly than the
priceless wine.</p>

<p>"After our mother's death," continued St. Victor, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
his natural voice, "we found ourselves quite alone. We
had formed no great attachment to our relatives in
France; and, as one branch of our father's business remained
still unsettled in this country, we resolved to
come hither. Then, too, we had a longing to behold the
land which was our mother's. When we had arranged
and closed up our affairs in Madeira, we sailed for
France, where we spent one winter only. I thought"&mdash;with
a tender glance at his sister&mdash;"that a sea voyage
would do Edith good. I was not satisfied about her
health; so I drew her away from Paris, and, last spring,
we fulfilled our promise to see our mother's land, and
came hither. I am afraid the climate here does not
agree with her. Do you think she looks well?"</p>

<p>The girl moved uneasily, casting a beseeching look at
the speaker.</p>

<p>"It is not I who am not strong," she said; "it is you,
St. Victor. If your friend is a doctor, I wish he would
give a little examination into the state of your health.
You are thin and nervous; you have no appetite,&mdash;while
he can see, at a glance, that nothing in the world
ails <i>me</i>."</p>

<p>Again her brother laughed; not gayly as before, but
with a peculiar and subtle significance; while he gave
the doctor another swift glance, saying to him in a low
voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I have heard that persons threatened with certain
mental afflictions never suspect their own danger."</p>

<p>Dr. Graham did not know if the young lady overheard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
this remark; he glanced toward her, but her eyes again
were upon the flowers, which she was pulling to pieces.
He perceived that her lips trembled; but she still smiled,
scattering the crimson leaves over the white clothes.</p>

<p>At this period of his novel visit,&mdash;just then and there,
when St. Victor laughed that subtle laugh and his sister
vacantly destroyed the red flower,&mdash;a conviction rushed
into the physician's mind, or rather, we may say, pierced
it through like a ray of light in a darkened room.</p>

<p>Instantly all was clear to him. From that moment
he was cool and watchful, but so pained with this sudden
knowledge of the true state of the case that he
wished himself well out of that splendid house, back in
his own dreary office. He wished himself away, because
he already loved these young people, and his sympathy
with them was too keen to allow him further to enjoy
himself; yet, in all his medical experience, he had never
been so interested with a professional interest. As a
physician, he felt a keen pleasure; as a friend, a keen
pain. His faculties each sprang to its post, awaiting
the next development of the scene.</p>

<p>While Mr. Marchand was giving some order to his
steward, the beautiful girl at his other hand leaned toward
him, and also whispered confidentially in his ear:
"Dr. Graham, if you really are my brother's friend, I
pray you watch him closely, and tell me at some future
time if you have any fears&mdash;any suspicions of&mdash;Oh,
I implore you, sir, do not deceive me!"</p>

<p>Her eyes were filled with tears, her voice choked.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p>

<p>The thing was absurd. Its ludicrous aspect struck
the listener, almost forcing him to laugh; while the
tears, at the same time, arose responsive in his own
eyes.</p>

<p>A clock on the mantel chimed nine. The steward
placed on the board the last delicacies of the feast,&mdash;Neapolitan
creams and orange-water ice.</p>

<p>"Edith chooses luscious things like creams," remarked
her brother. "Which will you have, doctor? As for
me, I prefer ices; they cool my warm blood, which is
fierce like tropic air. Ah, this is delicious! I am feverish,
I believe; and the scent of the orange brings
back visions of our dear island home."</p>

<p>He paused, as if his mind were again on the vine-clad
hills of the "blessed isle." Then he spoke, suddenly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Edith, have some of this?"</p>

<p>She smiled, shaking her head.</p>

<p>"But you <i>must</i>. I insist. You need it. Don't you
agree with me, doctor, that it is just what she requires?"</p>

<p>He spoke in a rising key, with a rapid accent. Edith
reached forth her hand, and took the little dish of
orange ice. It shook like a lily in the wind; but she
said, softly and with apparent calmness,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Anything to please you, brother. I will choose
this every day if you think it good for me."</p>

<p>He gave her a satisfied look. Then there was a brief
silence, which their guest was about to dissipate with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
a playful remark, when St. Victor turned abruptly to
the steward,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Thompson," he cried, "now bring in the skeleton!"</p>

<p>"What, sir?" stammered the astonished servant.</p>

<p>"Bring in the skeleton, I said. Do you not know
that the Egyptians always crown their feasts with a
death's head? Bring it in, I say, and place it&mdash;<i>there</i>!"</p>

<p>Half-rising in his seat, he pointed to the vacant space
behind his sister's chair.</p>

<p>The man now smiled, thinking his master jested; but
his expression grew more questioning and anxious as
the bright eyes turned upon him glittering in anger.</p>

<p>"Why am I not obeyed? Bring in the skeleton,
I repeat, and place it behind my sister's chair. It is in
the house; you will have no difficulty in finding it. It
has lurked here long. I have been aware of its presence
these many months,&mdash;always following, following my
dear Edith,&mdash;a shadow in her steps. You see how
young and fair she is; but it is all hollow&mdash;ashes&mdash;coffin-dust!
She does not know of it; she has never even
turned her head when it lurked behind her; but to-night
she must make its acquaintance. It will not longer be
put off. Our feast is nearly over. Bring it in, Thompson,
and we will salute it."</p>

<p>The steward, with a puzzled look, turned from one to
another of the company. Miss Marchand had risen to
her feet, and was regarding her brother with terrified
eyes, stretching out her hands toward him. The doctor,
too, arose, not in excitement, but with commingled pain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
and resolution stamped upon his features; while his
gaze rested upon the face of St. Victor until the eyes of
the young man were riveted and arrested by the doctor's
demeanor. A flush then diffused itself gradually
over Marchand's pale countenance; his thin nostrils
quivered; his fingers twitched and trembled and sought
his bosom, as if in search of something concealed there.
Then he laughed once more that short, nervous laugh so
significant to the physician's ears, and cried, in a high
tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"So, Edith, you did not know that you were going
mad? <i>I</i> did. I've watched you night and day this long
time. I have all along been afraid it would end as it
has&mdash;on Christmas night. <i>That</i> was the day our father
tried to murder our mother. An anniversary, then, we
have to-night celebrated. Ha, ha! And you didn't
know the skeleton was awaiting admittance to the banquet!"</p>

<p>His eyes gleamed with a light at once of delight and
with malice; but he quietly added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"But <i>I</i> shall not harm you, you demented thing, you
beautiful insanity. There! doctor, didn't I tell you to
watch her&mdash;to read her&mdash;to comprehend the subtle
thing? So full of art and duplicity! But look at her
now&mdash;<i>now</i>! She is as mad as the serpent which has
poisoned itself with its own fangs&mdash;mad&mdash;mad! O
God! has it come to this? But, I knew it&mdash;knew the
skeleton was her skeleton&mdash;the bones without her beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
flesh. We've had enough of it now. Take it
away, Thompson,&mdash;hurry it away!"</p>

<p>"Appear to obey him. Pretend that you take something
from the room," said Dr. Graham, in an undertone,
to the servant, while St. Victor's eyes were fixed
glaring and lurid upon his trembling, agonized, speechless
sister.</p>

<p>The skeleton had, in truth, appeared at the Christmas
feast.</p>

<p>Laying his hand firmly upon the young man's wrist
the doctor said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mr. Marchand, you're not well, to-night. You are
over-fatigued. Shall we go upstairs?"</p>

<p>St. Victor's quickly flashing gaze was met by that
clear, resolute, almost fierce response in the physician's
eye, before which he hesitated, then shrank. The madman
had his master before him.</p>

<p>"You are right. I am not very well; my head aches;
I'm worn out with this trouble about Edith, doctor.
<i>Do</i> you think it is hopeless? She had better come with
us. I don't like to leave her alone with that hideous
shape at her back."</p>

<p>Obeying the gentle but firm pull upon his wrist, the
brother turned to leave the room, looking back wistfully
upon his sister. She was following them with clasped
hands, and a face from which all youth and color had
fled. St. Victor suddenly paused, gave a scream like the
cry of a panther, wrenched himself quickly from the
grasp upon his arm, and, in an instant, his teeth were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
buried in the white shoulder of his sister. But only for
an instant, for almost as quickly as the madman's movement
had been the doctor's. One terrible blow of his
fist sent the maniac to the floor like a clod.</p>

<p>"O doctor! why did you do it?"</p>

<p>"To save your life, Miss Marchand."</p>

<p>"Poor St. Victor! His fate is on him at last."</p>

<p>Her voice was calm in its very despair. She sank
down beside the senseless man, lifting the worn, white
face to her lap and covering it with kisses. "I saw it,&mdash;yet
I did not think it would come so soon. O God!
be pitiful! Have I not prayed enough?"</p>

<p>The lips of the injured man began to quiver. "We
must bind him and get him to bed before he fully recovers,"
said the doctor, lifting Edith to her feet.
"Here, Thompson, help me to carry him to his
bed."</p>

<p>When the maniac recovered consciousness fully, his
ravings were fearful. It was the malady of frenzy in
its most appalling condition. The extent of the mental
wreck Dr. Graham had, for the last half hour of the
feast, been trying to fathom. When he dealt that dreadful
blow he knew the wreck was complete: reason had
gone out forever with that panther-like shriek. All
that could be done was to secure the maniac against
injury to himself or others, and to administer such
anti-spasmodics or anæsthetics as, in some degree,
would control the paroxysms.</p>

<p>Poor St. Victor! So young, so gifted, so blest with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
worldly goods; his fate was upon him, as Edith had
said.</p>

<p>From that hour he had but brief respite from torment.
Not a gleam of sanity came from those fiery
eyes; all was fierce, untamable, inhuman, as if the life
had been one of storm and crime, instead of peace and
purity. Did there lay upon that racking bed a proof of
the natural depravity of the creature man, when the
creature was uncontrolled by a reasoning, responsible
will? Or, was it not rather a proof that the mental
machine was in disorder, by a distention of the blood-vessels
and their engorgement in the brain,&mdash;that cerebral
excitement was a purely physical phenomenon, dependent
upon simple, physical causes, which science
some day shall define and skill shall counteract?</p>

<p>Happily, the fire in the sufferer's brain scorched and
consumed the sources of his life, as flames drink up the
water that is powerless to quench them. Day by day
he wasted; and, in less than a month from that night,&mdash;Christmas
evening,&mdash;St. Victor Marchand's form was
at peace in death.</p>

<p>During all that time Dr. Graham never left the sufferer's
bedside. Day and night he was there at his post,
doing all that was possible to alleviate the pain. The
skill of a physician and the love of a brother were exhausted
in that battle with death in its most dreaded
form.</p>

<p>His care was, too, required for Miss Edith. Her life
was so interwoven with that of her brother, that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
doctor doubted if she could survive the shock to her
sympathies and affection. When the surprise of the
tragedy was over, on the day following the first outburst
of the malady, she told him that for months she
had feared the worst. She had remarked symptoms so
like her father's as to excite her fears; yet, with the
happiness of youth, the sister persuaded herself that her
apprehensions were groundless. His sunny nature
seemed proof against the approach of an evil so
blasting; and her momentary fears were banished by
the very mood of heightened vivacity and excitement
which had awakened them. Having no intimate friend
in whom to confide, none to counsel, she had borne the
weight of her inward sorrow and dread alone.</p>

<p>At intervals, during Christmas day, she had observed
an incoherency in her brother's speech, and an unwonted
nervousness of manner, which had inspired her with serious
alarm. When he proposed to drive out, she encouraged
the suggestion, hoping that the cold air might restore
him to his usual state. Upon his return with Dr.
Graham, he had seemed so entirely like himself, so happy,
so disposed to enjoyment, that she once more dismissed
every thought of danger, until she overheard the
sharp whispers in which he addressed his guest.</p>

<p>"And oh, to think," she cried, while the tears rained
down her cheeks, "that in his love for me, his madness
should take the shape of beholding the conditions of his
own brain reflected in mine! He was so afraid harm
would come to me,&mdash;thoughtful of me so long as even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
the shadow of sanity remained. Dear, dear St. Victor,&mdash;so
good, so pure, so wise! Why was not I the victim,
if it was fated that there must be one?" Then lifting
her tearful eyes,&mdash;"Doctor, perhaps the poison lurks
in my veins, too! Tell me, do you think there is danger
that I, too, shall one day go mad?"</p>

<p>"No, poor child, most emphatically, I do <i>not</i>. You
must not permit such a fancy to enter your mind. As
St. Victor said, you are your mother's image and counterpart,
in temperament and mental quality, while he,
doubtless, in all active or positive elements of constitution
and temperament, was his father's reflex. Is it not
true?"</p>

<p>"I believe so. My dear father used, I know, to think
St. Victor nearer to him than I could be. When together,
they looked and acted very much alike. Poor, dear
brother!" and again the tears coursed down her cheeks.</p>

<p>The doctor was deeply moved; this grief was so inexpressibly
deep as to stir in his heart every emotion of
tenderness and sympathy it was possible for a gentle-souled
man to feel.</p>

<p>"I loved him," he said, gently, "before I had known
him an hour. His nature was like a magnet, to draw
love. Alas! it is sad, when the promise of such a life is
blighted. I would have given my life for his, could it
have averted this terrible blow from this house."</p>

<p>A radiant, soul-full look dwelt in her tear-dimmed eyes.
That this man&mdash;a comparative stranger&mdash;should manifest
this interest in her brother aroused all the gratitude
and affection of her warm nature.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>

<p>"And I love you, Dr. Graham, for loving him," she
said, in the pathos of the language that never speaks untruthfully,&mdash;the
pathos of irrepressible feeling. Then
she added: "Do not leave us, doctor. You are all the
friend we have here in this great city. If you leave us
I shall, indeed, be alone."</p>

<p>"I will remain, my dear child, so long as there is need
of my services."</p>

<p>He did not tell her, in so many words, that the case
was hopeless; but her eye was quick to see the wasting
form and the growing prostration which followed each
paroxysm. How those two faithful attendants watched
and waited for the end! And in the grief for the sister,
the physician's gentleness found that road to a mutual
devotion, which is sure to open before those who love
and wait upon a common object of affection. The doctor
and sister became, without a consciousness of their
real feeling, mutually dependent and trusting.</p>

<p>In less than a month, as we have written, the skeleton
which came to the feast on Christmas night departed
from the house to abide on St. Victor Marchand's
grave.</p>

<p>At the next meeting of the Institute, Doctor Graham
gave a full account of the case, remarking upon the singular
feature in it of the madness assuming an embodiment
in the sanity of another. From much that Edith
told him, as well as from his own observation and knowledge,
he was convinced that, for months, the young man
had detected every minute symptom and development<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
of his disease in his sister; and had a physician been at
hand, he could have traced the insidious progress of the
malady in the strength of the brother's suspicions regarding
his sister. The facts cited to the Institute
touched the compassion of the most practice-hardened
physician when Dr. Graham related the strange and
pitying tenderness with which young Marchand had
watched his sister, and strove to divert from her mind
the madness which tainted his blood alone.</p>

<p>"Alone in this great city. If you leave me, I shall be
alone indeed." The words were like an angel's rap upon
the heart's door. In his own great trouble,&mdash;the loss
of his wife,&mdash;the physician deemed himself afflicted beyond
his deserts; but what was his condition compared
with that of this youthful, tender, dependent woman,
whose loss isolated her from all others?</p>

<p>No, not all others. After the first black cloud of
her sorrow had drifted away, she turned to him, whose
hand had sustained her, even when prayer had left her
helpless and hopeless,&mdash;turned to him with a love
that was more than a love, with an adoration, before
which the physician bent, in wonder and satisfaction.
He drew her to his bosom as something to be kept with
all the truth and tenderness of an abiding love.</p>

<p>The dull office has been exchanged for a home that is
like a palace of dreams; and Edith Graham, never forgetting
her great sorrow, yet became one of the happiest
of all who ever loved.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">LET THOSE LAUGH WHO WIN.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p>

<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Let_those_Laugh_who_Win" id="Let_those_Laugh_who_Win"><span class="smcap">Let those Laugh who Win.</span></a></h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-m.jpg"
width="61" height="84" alt="m" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">M</span>R. PONTIFEX POMPADOUR was a gentleman
whose family record testified to his having
breathed the breath of life sixty years, and yet
his appearance bore witness to not more than
forty. Appearances, however, though they are
deceitful, result from causes more or less palpable; and,
in this case, they could be naturally accounted for.</p>

<p><i>Ecce testem!</i></p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour's complexion was clear and transparent,&mdash;but
it was not his own. His teeth were white
and regular,&mdash;but they were artificial. His hair was
black and glossy,&mdash;but it was dyed. His whiskers were
ibid.,&mdash;but they were ditto. His dress was the perfection
of fashion and taste, though rather youthful; and
withal he carried himself with a jaunty air, and a light
and springing step, smiling blandly on all he met, as if
smiles were dollars and he were dispensing them right
royally.</p>

<p>He had an only son,&mdash;Augustus Fitz Clarence Pompadour,&mdash;who
was heir-apparent to the very considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
property supposed to belong to the "said aforesaid."
This son was twenty-three, and had graduated at college
with some knowledge of some things, if not of some
others. He was a modern Mithridates in his power to
withstand strychnine and nicotine; and he had devoted
much attention to that branch of geometry which treats
of the angles of balls on a cushion. One beautiful trait
in his character, however, was his tender affection for
his father, which showed itself most touchingly&mdash;whenever
he was in need of money.</p>

<p>In person he was prepossessing, having light-blue
eyes, dark-brown hair, and a drooping moustache. Nor
will I allow that he was a vicious lad. Indolent and
useless he certainly was,&mdash;an insignificant numeral in
the great sum of humanity, but a <i>roué</i> he certainly was
not. The worst thing about him was his name, and
that he received from a weak, silly novel-reading mother,
who gave her life for his, and, with her dying breath,
charged his father to pay this homage to the yellow-covered
world in which she had lived.</p>

<p>If there was anything wanting in the comfortable
mansion, where the Pompadours, father and son, kept
bachelor's hall, it was the refining and softening influence
of woman. And this brings us to the consideration
of the skeleton which abode in the closets of Pompadour
and son.</p>

<p>The late Mrs. Pompadour had possessed some property
which she had retained after marriage. Before her
death she made a will, leaving to Augustus the fee, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
to his father the income of the estate. In case, however,
Augustus should marry before his father <i>did</i>, he
was to enter into full possession of the property. Wives,
in dying, do not generally offer their husbands a premium
for replacing them; and so the judges inferred that the
real meaning of the testatrix would be arrived at by inserting
the letter <i>e</i> in the word "<i>did</i>;" thus making the
contingency turn upon Augustus' marrying before his
father <i>died</i>. Moreover, the lawyer who drew the will
(his ancestor was limned by Æsop in the fable of the
Ass in the lion's skin) swore positively to this rendering
being in accordance with the wish of the deceased,
and so the courts decided that in the event of Mr. Pompadour's
marrying before his son, he should retain his
interest during life.</p>

<p>Now Mr. Pompadour, aside from mercenary motives,
was very uxoriously inclined; and would doubtless have
married years before, had he not set too high an estimate
on himself.</p>

<p>His condition of mind at the beginning of this history
might be expressed logically somewhat as follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>First, he must get married.</p>

<p>Second, Augustus must <i>not</i>.</p>

<p>And Augustus, by analogous reasoning on identical
premises, <i>mutatis mutandis</i>, had arrived at a dual conclusion.</p>

<p>First, he must get married.</p>

<p>Second, his father must <i>not</i>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p>

<p>A vigorous system of espionage had been instituted
by father and son, on the actions of each other. Skirmishes
had been frequent; and if neither gained any decided
advantage, neither lost. But the great battle of
the war was yet to be fought, and it has been reserved
for my pen to inscribe its history.</p>

<p>In the suburban village where Mr. Pompadour resided
was a handsome residence; and its owner, "about visiting
Europe," offered it for rent. The house was elegant,
and the grounds especially fine. They were flanked by
two shady streets and fronted on a third. A widow
lady with one daughter became the tenant; and, as is
usual in such cases, the whole village called upon her,&mdash;three
persons prompted by politeness, and three hundred
by curiosity. The cards which did duty for the
lady in returning these calls, announced her to be "Mrs.
Telluria Taragon, <i>née</i> Trelauney." By the same token
her daughter was discovered to be "Miss Terpsichore
Taragon."</p>

<p>Mrs. Taragon was one of the most bewitching of widows.
About forty (she acknowledged to thirty-three),
she was the very incarnation of matronly beauty. She
was just tall enough to be graceful, and just plump
enough not to be unwieldy. Her eyes were black and
dangerous. Her hair was short, and it clustered over
her forehead in little ringlets,&mdash;rather girlish, but very
becoming. Her teeth were white and natural, and she
had a most fascinating smile, which showed her teeth in
a carefully unstudied manner, formed a pretty dimple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
in her chin, and enabled her to look archly without
apparent intention.</p>

<p>Her daughter, Miss Terpsichore, was twenty, with a
slender, graceful form, and a pair of rosy cheeks, before
whose downy softness the old simile of the peach becomes
wholly inadequate. She had hazel eyes, whose
liquid depths reflected the brightest and sunniest of
tempers, and dark brown hair, with just a suspicion
of golden shimmer filtering through its wavy folds.</p>

<p>Mrs. Taragon, on the bare charge, could not have
escaped conviction as a "designing widow." She not
only was on the lookout, perpetually, for an investment
of her daughter, but she was flying continually from her
cap a white flag of unconditional surrender to the first
man bold enough to attack herself.</p>

<p>Mr. Pontifex Pompadour "availed himself of an early
opportunity" to call upon Mrs. Taragon. His fame
had preceded him; and that estimable lady, who was in
her boudoir when he was announced, gave a small
shriek of dismay at her dishevelled appearance. However,
no one need be alarmed at such a manifestation on
the part of a "lady of fashion." It is indicative of perfect
satisfaction with her general effect. Mrs. Taragon
flew to her mirror to shake out another curl&mdash;and her
flounces; smiled bewitchingly by way of rehearsal; bit
her lips frantically to bring the blood <i>to</i> them, and
walked aimlessly about the room for a few moments
with her hands above her head, to send the blood <i>out</i> of
them. Then picking up her handkerchief daintily, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
going downstairs slowly, that her cheeks might not be
too much flushed, she acquired sudden animation at the
parlor-door, and burst into the room with an elaborate
rustle, and a thousand apologies for having kept Mr.
Pompadour waiting so long,&mdash;and wasn't "the day perfectly
lovely?"</p>

<p>If a conversation be interesting, or serve in any way
to develop the plot of a story, I hold that it should be
given at full length; but the polite nothings which were
repeated at <i>this</i> interview, came under neither of these
heads. They served only to display Mr. Pompadour's
false teeth, and Mrs. Taragon's real ones (and the dimple)
through the medium of Mr. P.'s real smile and Mrs.
T.'s false one.</p>

<p>The two parted mutually pleased, and Mrs. Taragon
said to herself, as she resumed the novel she had dropped
at Mr. Pompadour's entrance, "If I marry <i>him</i>, I will
have that set of sables, and those diamonds I saw at
Tiffany's."</p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour beheaded a moss rose with his cane,
as he stepped jauntily down the walk, and remarked to
his inner self, "A monstrous fine woman that, and I
may say, without vanity, that she was struck with my
appearance. Why, ho! who the devil's that?"</p>

<p>The acute reader will perceive a slight incoherence in
the latter portion of this remark. It was due to a sight
which met Mr. Pompadour's gaze on stepping into the
street from Mrs. Taragon's domain. This was nothing
else than Augustus Fitz Clarence walking leisurely up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
the street with a young lady whom we know&mdash;but the
illustrious parent did not&mdash;to be Miss Terpsichore Taragon.</p>

<p>"Confound the boy!" said the old gentleman, "I
wonder who he's got there? Just like his father,
though! For I may say, without vanity, that I was a
tremendous fellow among the girls."</p>

<p>Augustus Fitz Clarence was not at all pleased at this
chance rencontre. The intimacy with the charming
widow, which it strongly hinted at, brought vividly to
his mind its possible results upon his own prospects.
And, moreover, he was conscious of a peculiar and novel
sensation in regard to the young lady, which made him
rather shamefaced under the paternal eye. In short,
he was in love. All the symptoms were apparent: a
rush of blood to the face, and a stammering in the
speech, whenever proximity to the infecting object induced
a spasm. He also had the secondary symptoms,&mdash;a
sensation of the spinal cord, as if molasses were being
poured down the back, and a general feeling "all over,"
such as little boys call "goose-flesh," and which is ordinarily
occasioned by a ghost story, or a cold draught
from an open door-way.</p>

<p>To the writer, who stands upon the high level of the
philosophic historian, it is evident that the same feelings
warmed the gentle breast of Terpsichore that burned in
the bosom of Augustus. To furnish food, however, for
the unextinguishable laughter of the gods, this fact is
never made clear to the principals themselves till the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
last moment. "And so from hour to hour we ripe and
ripe ... and thereby hangs a tale."</p>

<p>With the foregoing paragraph, I bridge over an
"hiatus, as it were," of several months.</p>

<p>Respect for truth obliges me to record the fact, that
Mrs. Taragon regarded her daughter with that unchristian
feeling called jealousy. But, if a heartless, she was a
shrewd woman, and she meant to dispose of Terpsichore
advantageously.</p>

<p>There was, at this time, and I believe there is still, in
the village of which I write, an "order of the garter,"
under the control of one Mrs. Grundy, the motto of
which was: "Those are evil of whom we evil speak."
Its evening meetings were familiarly known as the
"nights of the sewing-circle;" and it was the duty of
each member to attend to everybody's business but his
own. An agent of this order promptly put Mrs. Taragon
in possession of everything which had been discovered
or invented concerning Mr. Pompadour, not forgetting
to enlarge upon the conditions of the will. Mrs.
Taragon thereupon resolved to marry Mr. Pompadour;
for, in addition to other reasons, she confessed to herself
that she really liked him. As may be supposed, therefore,
she looked with much disfavor on the increasing
intimacy between the young people; but she feared
that any violent attempt to rupture it would precipitate
the very result she would avoid. She sat, one day,
in a brown study, regarding the subject in all its bearings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
with her comely cheek resting upon her plump
hand, and, at last, arrived at a conclusion.</p>

<p>"I think it would not be wise," she said, consulting
the mirror to see if her hand had left any mark upon
her cheek,&mdash;"to interfere just at present; at any rate,
not till I am <i>sure</i> of Mr. Pompadour; but I will keep a
close watch upon them."</p>

<p>Not many days afterwards, a picturesque group occupied
the bow-window of Mrs. Taragon's drawing-room.
Mrs. T. herself, quite covered with an eruption of worsted
measles, was the principal figure. At her feet, like
Paul at Gamaliel's, sat Augustus; but, unlike Paul, he
held a skein of worsted. Nestling on an ottoman in the
recess of the window was Terpsichore, inventing floral
phenomena in water-colors, and looking very bewitching.</p>

<p>"'Twas a fair scene." As under the shade of some
far-spreading oak, when noon holds high revel in the
heavens, the gentle flock cluster in happy security, fearing
no dire irruption of lupine enemy, so&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mr. Pompadour," announced the servant.</p>

<p>"The devil!" echoed Augustus Fitz Clarence.</p>

<p>Mrs. Taragon's first impulse was to spring up and
greet her visitor cordially. Her second, to do no such
thing. Napoleon said, "An opportunity lost is an occasion
for misfortune." Here was her Austerlitz or her
Waterloo! With the rapidity of genius, she laid the
plot for a little comedy of "The Jealous Lovers," to the
success of which the actors themselves unwittingly contributed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>

<p>Half rising, she acknowledged Mr. Pompadour's
elaborate bow, and, motioning him gracefully to a seat,
sank back into her chair. Then, pretending that the
worsted was knotted, she bent her curls so near Augustus'
face, and made a whispered remark with such a
conscious air, that the blood rushed to that young man's
face in an instant.</p>

<p>"I saw you out riding yesterday, Mr. Pompadour,"
said the cheerful widow, pleased that her first shot had
taken effect. "And what a <i>beautiful</i> horse! and you
ride <i>so</i> gracefully!"</p>

<p>"Thank you, madam," said Mr. Pompadour, stiffly;
"I think I may say, without vanity, that I do ride tolerably
well."</p>

<p>"And you," to the son, "now your father is present,
I must call you <i>Mr.</i> Augustus,&mdash;may I not?" she said,
coaxingly. The "Mr." was emphasized, as if when
alone she did not use it. But this was, of course, unintentional.</p>

<p>Now Augustus, for some time, had endeavored to ingratiate
himself with Mrs. Taragon, but with little
success, and, therefore, he was utterly unable to comprehend
her sudden benignity. He glanced at his
father, and met the eyes of that individual glaring on
him with the look of an ogre deprived of his baby lunch.
He glanced at Terpsichore, but that young lady was
absorbed with a new discovery in botany. He glanced
at Mrs. Taragon, but she was calmly winding worsted.</p>

<p>"Terpy, dear," said her mother, "<i>do</i> show Mr. Pompadour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
some of your drawings. My dear little girl is
<i>so</i> devoted to art!" she exclaimed, enthusiastically, as
the daughter rose to bring her portfolio. "Take care,
Mr. Augustus; you know worsted is a dreadful thing to
snarl." Augustus had involuntarily sprung up to offer
his assistance, but he sank back in confusion.</p>

<p>"Are you fond of engravings, Mr. Pompadour?"
asked the young lady, sweetly.</p>

<p>"Ah! yes! I&mdash;I think I may say without vanity,"&mdash;began
Mr. Pompadour, but he finished silently to himself,&mdash;"D&mdash;me,
I'll make her jealous!" Whose Austerlitz
or Waterloo should it be? He put on his eye-glass
to inspect the volume, and for a little while almost forgot
his egotism in admiration of the beauty of nature
beside him, if not of the beauties of art before him.</p>

<p>Augustus was not slow in perceiving that, for some
unknown reason, Mrs. Taragon's attention was gained,
and he tried desperately to improve the occasion. Every
once in a while, however, his eyes would wander toward
his father, who played his part with so much skill that
the bosom of Augustus was soon filled with burnings,
and the mind of the widow with perplexities. The gentle
heart of Terpsichore was grieved also, and her mind
sorely puzzled at the enigmatical conduct of those about
her, while she was somewhat annoyed at the pertinacious
attentions of the elder P.</p>

<p>The distinguished gentleman who wrote so graphically
about the "Elbows of the Mincio," must confess that
<i>our</i> Quadrilateral is only second to that which he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
helped to embalm in history. The Irishman's experience
with the large boot and the small one, and the other pair
similarly mismated, was here reproduced with painful
reality. Some evil genius had scattered wormwood on
the air, and asphyxia, or something worse, seemed likely
to supervene, when the entrance of another visitor broke
the charm, and the <i>téte-à-téte</i>, and the gentlemen fled.</p>

<p>The thermometer of Mr. Pompadour's temper indicated
boiling heat. He sputtered and fumed like an
irascible old gentleman as he was, and managed to work
himself into a crazy fit of jealousy, about his son and
the too fascinating widow; and, oddly enough, this feeling
thus aroused by the green-eyed monster, for the
time being, quite eclipsed his mercenary muddle. So,
upon poor Augustus, as the available subject, fell palpable
and uncomfortable demonstrations of paternal displeasure.</p>

<p>For several days Mr. Pompadour stayed away from
Mrs. Taragon's, and that good lady began to fear lest
she had overdrawn her account at the bank of his heart,
and that further drafts would be dishonored. The
thought of such a catastrophe was torture of the most
refined quality. By an illogical system of reasoning,
peculiar to the female mind, she imagined that Terpsichore
was the cause of his desertion, and that young
lady thereupon became the recipient of an amount of
small spite and aggravated vindictiveness, which reflected
great credit upon Mrs. Taragon's inquisitorial
capabilities.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p>

<p>She had, it must be obvious, set her heart upon having
those diamonds from Tiffany's.</p>

<p>At the end of a week, however, Mr. Pompadour called
upon Mrs. Taragon, and this time he found her alone.
His countenance gave proof of some desperate resolution.
His attire was more than usually elegant. His
hair and whiskers were a trifle blacker and glossier than
ever. He had a rose in his button-hole, and yellow kids
on his hands. Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed
(I sincerely trust) like unto him! Mrs. Taragon rose
cordially, and held out to him her plump little hand; it
lay a moment in his, as if asking to be squeezed. Mr.
Pompadour looked as if he would like to squeeze it, and
perhaps he did.</p>

<p>The lady's cordiality soon gave place to a timid shyness.
To use a military phrase, she was "feigning a retreat."
Mr. Pompadour waxed bold and advanced.
The conversation skirmished awhile, the widow occasionally
making a sally, and driving in the enemy's outposts,
his main body meanwhile steadily approaching. The
tone in which they conducted hostilities, however, gradually
fell, and if one had been near enough he might have
heard Mr. Pompadour remark, with a kind of quiet satisfaction,
"For I think I may say, without vanity, I
still possess some claim to good looks." The widow's
reply was so low that our reporter failed to catch it, and
then&mdash;military phraseology avaunt!&mdash;the old veteran
knelt on the carpet, and surrendered at discretion.</p>

<p>"Good gracious, Mr. Pompadour!" exclaimed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
widow, with well-feigned alarm, at the same time picking
a thread off her dress, "<i>Do</i> get up, somebody may come
in!"</p>

<p>"Never!" said the old hero stoutly, seeing his advantage,
and determined to have its full benefit, "at any
rate, not till you promise to marry me!"</p>

<p>A form passed the window. This time Mrs. Taragon
was really frightened. "I will," she said hurriedly;
"now get up, and sit down."</p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour leaped to his feet with the agility of a
boy&mdash;of sixty, and imprinted a kiss lovingly upon the
lady's nose, there not being time to capture the right
place on the first assault. What followed we will leave
to the imagination of the reader.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>It was now October, and the trees had adorned themselves
in their myriad dyes. The maple had put on
crimson, the hickory a rich gold, and the oak a deep
scarlet; while the pine and the hemlock "mingled with
brighter tints the living green."</p>

<p>To the woods one balmy day Augustus and Terpsichore
went together, to gather leaves for wreaths and
screens. Both were carelessly happy, and the pines
echoed their merry voices as they laughed and sang.
At length the basket, which Augustus carried, was filled
with gorgeous booty, and they sat down upon a fallen
log, while Terpsichore wove a garland for her hair. No
wonder that in the tranquil beauty of the scene their
noisy mirth should become hushed. No wonder that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
as the sun stole through the branches, and like Jove
of old fell in a shower of gold about them, upon both
their hearts fell the perfect peace of love! With the
full tide of this feeling came to Augustus the resolve
to know his fate; for he felt that upon that answer
hung his destiny.</p>

<p>They sat in silence while he tried to teach his tongue
the language of his heart. Then he glanced timidly at
the maiden, but her head was drooped low over the
wreath, and her cheeks reflected its crimson dye.</p>

<p>"Miss Taragon," he said, at length, abruptly, "were
you ever in love?"</p>

<p>She started like a frightened bird. The rich blood
fled to her heart, and left her face pallid as marble.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;don't know," she stammered. "Why do you
ask me such a question?"</p>

<p>"Because," he said, "then you may know how I feel,
and pity me! O Terpsichore!" he added passionately,
"I love you with my whole soul, and if you will but
bless me with your love, my whole life shall be devoted
to your happiness."</p>

<p>And so he talked on in an impetuous strain, of mingled
prayer and protestation, which was stereotyped
long before the invention of printing.</p>

<p>Terpsichore's heart beat wildly. The color came and
went in her cheeks, and she turned her head away to
conceal her emotion.</p>

<p>The wreath lay finished in her lap; and at last, with
a bright smile, she placed it on his forehead; and, clasping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
his hand in both her own, she kissed him on the forehead.
And now we might as well leave them alone
together.</p>

<p>Mrs. Taragon, having made sure of Mr. Pompadour,
now proceeded to carry out her plan of throwing obstacles
in the way of the young people. Augustus, of
course, was not aware of her complete information in
regard to his "property qualifications," and attributed
her disfavor to personal dislike. Whatever her motives,
however, her actions were unequivocal; and Terpsichore,
especially, had a sorry time of it. So uncomfortable did
matters become, that, upon a review of the situation, and
an eloquent appeal from Augustus, she consented to take
with him that irrevocable step, to which Virgil undoubtedly
alluded under the fine figure of "Descensus Averni."
In plain English, they resolved to run away and be
married.</p>

<p>I will not weary the reader with details of the preliminaries.
They are unimportant to my narrative. A
note, dispatched by Augustus to the Rev. Ebenezer Fiscuel,
informed that gentleman that about half-past ten
o'clock of an appointed evening he would be waited on by
a couple desirous of being united in holy matrimony.</p>

<p>Augustus arranged to have a carriage in waiting under
Terpsichore's window about ten o'clock, and, with
the aid of a ladder and the above-mentioned clergyman,
he hoped to settle the vexed question of the property,
and render all further opposition to their union of an
<i>ex post facto</i> character.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>

<p>The evening came, and it found Mrs. Taragon and her
daughter seated together in the parlor. Terpsichore was
crocheting a net, which, like Penelope's, grew very
slowly. She was nervous and fidgety. Her eyes wandered
restlessly from her mother to the door, and she
started at the slightest sound. Mrs. Taragon seemed
uncommonly suspicious and alert. She was reading, but
had not turned a leaf for half an hour. She glanced furtively
and continually about the room.</p>

<p>"She has found us out," thought Terpsichore, and
her heart almost stopped beating. With a great effort
she controlled herself, and had recourse to stratagem.</p>

<p>"Mother, dear," she said, dropping the net in her lap,
"you look tired; why don't you go to bed?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, darling," said the widow, cheerfully, "I don't
feel a bit weary. But your eyes look red, and I think
<i>you</i> had better retire."</p>

<p>"No, mamma, not yet," she replied. "I want to finish
this net. I have done so little upon it lately."</p>

<p>A slight shade of vexation crossed the face of the
widow.</p>

<p>"If you had devoted yourself to the net," she said,
spitefully, "it would have been finished."</p>

<p>Terpsichore blushed guiltily. Augustus had spent
more than two hours with her that day; and she felt a
presentiment that impending wrath was about to descend
on her devoted head.</p>

<p>"I am sure, mother," she said, quietly, "<i>you</i> can't
complain of my seeing too much company."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>

<p>This shot told; for Mr. Pompadour had been very
attentive of late.</p>

<p>Mrs. Taragon nearly tore a leaf out of her book.</p>

<p>"At any rate," she retorted, "my visitors are respectable."</p>

<p>Terpsichore's lip quivered. The remark was cruel,
but it roused her spirit.</p>

<p>"If my company is not respectable," she said, with
an incipient sob, "it is the fault of his bringing up."</p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour was hit this time, right between his
eyes. The widow blazed.</p>

<p>"You&mdash;you&mdash;you minx," she said, angrily, "I believe
you'd like to see me dead, and out of your
way!"</p>

<p>The remark was utterly irrelevant; but she saw it in
the book, and thought it would be dramatic.</p>

<p>Terpsichore burst into tears, and beat a retreat in disorder.
As she left the room, Mrs. Taragon said to herself,
with a sigh of relief,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, the coast is clear for Pompadour,&mdash;and she's
safe for to-night, any way."</p>

<p>Which was a slight mistake.</p>

<p>Ten o'clock came, and with it the carriage. A man
glided silently underneath Terpsichore's window, and
a ladder was reared against the wall. Silently the
window opened, and a form descended the ladder, and
was clasped in an equally silent embrace at the foot.
Terpsichore had not entirely recovered her spirits, but
she stifled her emotions for the sake of Augustus. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
the same reason she did not scold him for rumpling her
bonnet. Hurrying into the carriage, they drove rapidly
away.</p>

<p>As they turned the corner into the principal street,
another carriage, going in the same direction, came up
behind them at a quick trot. Augustus sprang to his
feet, and peered out into the darkness. "Betrayed,"
was the thought which flashed through his mind, and
he muttered an eighteen-cornered oath. Terpsichore
clung to his coat with an energy which indirectly reflected
lasting credit upon his tailor.</p>

<p>"Put on more steam," whispered Augustus hoarsely
to the driver, and the horses dashed onward at a break-neck
pace, soon leaving the other carriage far behind.</p>

<p>At the rate they were going, it took but a few minutes
to reach the parsonage. Directing the coachman
to drive round the corner and wait, Augustus half-led,
half-carried the trembling girl into the house. The
Rev. Fiscuel's family and one or two neighbors were
assembled in the parlor. The ceremony was soon performed,
and an earnest blessing invoked upon the married
life of the young people. As they were receiving
the congratulations suited to the occasion, a juvenile
Fiscuel came in, and whispered something to his father.
Mr. Fiscuel, with a smile, turned to Augustus, saying,
"My son tells me that your father is coming in at the
gate with a lady."</p>

<p>The newly-married looked at each other in mute
surprise. "I'll bet a hat," exclaimed Augustus, suddenly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
"it's your mother; and they've come to get
married!"</p>

<p>The Rev. Ebenezer spoke eagerly: "Did you send me
two messages this morning?"</p>

<p>"No!" said Augustus; "of course I did not."</p>

<p>"Then they have, verily," exclaimed the clergyman,
in a tone of very unclerical excitement; "for I received
two messages from 'Mr. Pompadour.' I spoke of the
singularity at the time."</p>

<p>"Can you hide us somewhere?" said Augustus, "till
you've 'done' the old gentleman?"</p>

<p>"Come in here," said Mrs. Fiscuel, who had her
share of that leaven of unrighteousness which is usually
called fun. As she spoke, she opened the drawing-room
door.</p>

<p>The Rev. Ebenezer sat down to write a certificate for
Augustus; and, as one door closed upon the young
couple, the other opened to admit the older one. If not
in as great a hurry as their children, they seemed
equally desirous of making assurance doubly sure. The
family and the witnesses, who had followed Mrs. Fiscuel
out of the apartment, were again summoned, and, for a
second time that evening, the words were spoken which
made a Pompadour and a Taragon "one bone and one
flesh." Watching the proceedings through the crevice
of the half-opened door, was a couple not counted
among the "witnesses," and certainly not invited by the
principals.</p>

<p>When the ceremony was over, Augustus and Terpsichore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
entered the room. Their appearance created
what "Jenkins" would call "a profound sensation."
Mr. Pompadour looked bowie-knives and six-shooters,
Mrs. P., darning-needles and stilettoes. Augustus was
self-possessed. Perhaps he remembered the old saying,
"Let those laugh who win."</p>

<p>"We happened here not knowing you were coming,"
he said, addressing both; "wont you accept our congratulations."</p>

<p>Suddenly Mrs. Pompadour <i>née</i> Trelawney, gave a
scream, and fell back in a chair, with symptoms of
hysterics. She had caught sight of the <i>ring</i> on her
daughter's finger, and comprehended everything in
an instant,&mdash;the carriage which had fled before them
as they left the house; this "accidental" visit to the
minister's; and, worse than all, how she had been outwitted!</p>

<p>Terpsichore sprang forward to assist her.</p>

<p>"Go away from me! Go away! Don't let her touch
me!" she screamed, throwing her arms about like a
wind-mill. "I wont have it! I wont! I wont!"</p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour, during this outburst, showed signs
of exasperation; apparently, however, he did not see
the point, but was fast concluding that he had married a
lunatic.</p>

<p>Terpsichore was frightened and began to cry. Augustus,
to reässure her, put his arm around her waist. At
this, the senior Mrs. Pompadour sprang up, and seized
her husband by the arm, so energetically that it made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
him wince. Pointing to the tell-tale ring with a gesture
worthy of Ristori, she managed to articulate: "Don't
you see it? That undutiful girl has married Augustus,
and&mdash;and he has married <i>her</i>!"</p>

<p>Mr. Pompadour "saw it," and uttered some words
which were not a blessing.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">THE PROPER USE OF GRANDFATHERS.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>

<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="The_Proper_use_of_Grandfathers" id="The_Proper_use_of_Grandfathers"><span class="smcap">The Proper use of Grandfathers.</span></a></h2>

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<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-i.jpg"
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</div><p><span class="dropletter">I</span>F people without grandfathers are in need of
any particular solace, they may find it in the
fact that those cumbrous contingencies of existence
cannot be continually stuck in their
faces. A wise man has remarked, that the moderns
are pigmies standing upon the shoulders of giants.
He would have been wiser still, had he observed how
frequently the giants change places with the pigmies,
and ride them to death like Old Men of the Sea. If,
at sixteen, I have the dyspepsia and a tendency to
reflect on the problems of my being, I am begged to
notice that, at a corresponding period old Jones, of the alternate
generation, was gambolling o'er the dewy meads,
a gleesome boy. If my baby cries and is puny at teething-time,
the oracles, with an intuitive perception how
my grandfather behaved a hundred years before they
were born, tell me it was not so in his day; that heaven
lay about him in his infancy; but that none of the article
exists either in that loose condition or otherwise for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
the immature human animal who breaks out of darkness
and mystery into this day of gum-rings. If the tremendous
pace at which the modern world is going
knocks me up at forty, and compels me to keep my stall
for a year of valetudinarianism, I am asked to remember
what a hale old fellow the same inevitable ancestor
was at ninety; I am inundated with his exuberance of
spirits, overwhelmed with the statistics of his teeth; and
invited in the mind's eye (in my own, too, if I know
myself!) to take six-mile walks with him before breakfast
unassisted by a cane. It is not a pleasant state of
mind to be disgusted with one's forefathers, who would,
probably have been very jolly fellows to know, and not
the least in the world like the people who are all the
time boring us about them. If there is truth in spiritualism,
a delegation from those fine old boys will, some
of these days, take advantage of a sitting, and rap out an
indignant disclaimer of the bosh that is talked in their
name. If my grandfather was not a much more unpleasant
person than myself, he would scorn to be made
a boguey of for the annoyance of his own flesh and
blood. Any man of well-regulated mind must prefer
utter oblivion among his descendants to such perpetuation
as that of Mr. Wilfer.</p>

<p>"Your grandpapa," retorted Mrs. Wilfer, with an
awful look, and in an awful tone, "was what I describe
him to have been, and would have struck any of his
grandchildren to the earth who presumed to question
it."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p>

<p>If our ancestors could return to the earth, it is little
likely that their first inclination would be to goody themselves
over the excellence of their own period, or pull
faces at the degeneracy of ours. Sleepers in ill-ventilated,
or rather entirely non-ventilated apartments, eaters
of inordinate late suppers, five-bottle men, and for
the most part wearers of sadly unphilosophical raiment,
those sturdy old fox-hunters would acknowledge it just
cause for astonishment that their children have any constitutions
at all. Little motive for self-laudation would
they find in the fact, that, after drawing out their account
with Nature to the last dime, they had taken a
respectable first-cabin passage to the Infinite Boulogne
just before the great Teller said "No funds," and
shoved back their checks through the window, leaving
to their children the heritage of a spotless name and the
declaration of physiological bankruptcy.</p>

<p>Nor would they content themselves, I fancy, with
the negative ground of mere humility. They would
have something very decided to say to the wiseacres,
who taunt our wives in the agony of tic-doloureux with
the statement that their grandmothers knew nothing of
neuralgia. "No!" these generous ancients would retort,
"that is the residuary legacy of a generation to
whom we left a nervous system of worn-out fiddle
strings." To such as talk of that woful novelty diphtheria
as a crime of the present age, they would point
out the impossibility of a race's throat descending to it
without tenderness, a race's blood flowing to it without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
taint, from ancestors who swaddled their necks in fathoms
of cravat, and despised the question of sewage.
When I had the gout, and could not stand up for myself,
those brave <i>vieilles moustaches</i> would stand up for me.
"Many a fine old bin of our port," would they exclaim,
"has been emptied down through the æons into those
innocent toes of thine. I mind me how I smacked my
lips over that very bottle whose broken glass now grinds
around, red-hot, in the articulation of thy metatarsal phalanges.
Dancing at thy fair great-grandmother's wedding,
I slaked the thirst of many vigorous sarabands in
that identical ruby nectar, which, turned by the alchemy
of generations into acid blood, now through thy great
toe distils in gouts of fiery torture. I danced;&mdash;thou,
poor Serò-natus, dancest not, but dost pay the piper."</p>

<p>Suppose that our returning ancestors regarded us in
the intellectual and spiritual, as well as the physical
aspect, they must find still less reason to put on airs of
superiority. If, in the sphere where they have been
lately moving, improvement goes on as fast as we believe,
they may be expected to wonder that the theological
and scholastic training of their own earthly day has
not resulted in a present race of imbeciles and fetish-worshippers,
or Torquemadas and madmen. With
thankful astonishment will they revere that nature whose
boundless elasticity and self-repair has brought bright
and self-reliant, even though sometimes a trifle too pert
and iconoclastic, Young America from loins burdened,
through all their period of cartilage, with five days and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
a half per week of grammar-grinding, a Saturday afternoon
of "keeping in for marks," and a seventh day
which should have been the Lord's, but was conspicuously
liker the devil's.</p>

<p>Woman, religion, and the forefathers are all the victims
of a false quality of reverence. The world has immemorially
paid them in the coin of lip-service for the
privilege of using their sacredness as a yoke. They are
defrauded of their true power by the hands that waft
them hypocritical incense; bought off the ground where
their influence might be precious and permanent, by the
compliment of a moment, or the ceremony of a day.
We pick up the fan of the first, and shoulder her out of
her partnership in our serious business of living. We
build temples for the second, that she may not gad
about among our shops, or trouble the doors of our
houses. In the third, we do superstitious homage to a
mere accident of time, and feel free to neglect the genial
lesson of humanity which is eternal.</p>

<p>It is impossible not to reverence our forefathers&mdash;those
grand old fellows who, long before we rose, got
up to build the fires, and shovel the sidewalks of this
world. The amount of work which they did was immense;
great was their poking and their pushing; their
thrashing of arms, and their blowing of fingers. If they
sometimes made a compromise with their job; if here
and there they left the gutters uncleared, or a heavy
drift to thaw over under the sun of modern conscience,
and flood our streets with revolution; if they built some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
of their fires with wet wood, which unto this day smokes
the parlors, or even the inmost bed-chambers of mankind,&mdash;let
us remember how frosty the dawn was, how
poorly made were the tools and mittens of the period.
All honor to their work, and the will with which they
went at it! But when we are asked to regret the rising
of the sun; to despise a time of day when there are no
more fires to build, no more walks to shovel; or, if such
anywhere remain, when there are snow-ploughs and
patent-kindling to use in their behoof&mdash;distinctly No!&mdash;a
No as everlasting as Mr. Carlyle's, and spelt with
as big a capital.</p>

<p>The mistake of that great writer and minor disciple
of the Belated-Owl school to which he belongs, naturally
arises, not from the over-development of reverence,
to which it is generally ascribed, but from a constitutional
divorce between the poetic imagination and
the power of analysis. The former faculty, by itself,
results in impatience with the meaner actualities of life,&mdash;a
divine impatience in great poets, a petulant in small
ones. Lacking the latter faculty, such persons are in the
condition of a near-sighted man placed without chart or
compass at the helm of a free-going clipper. Making
no allowance for the fact that the blemished and the
trivial disappear with distance, and, ignorant of the direction
in which humanity must steer, they put out with
disgust from a shore where every old clam-shell and
rotten wreck is as conspicuous to those, at least, who
look for it as the orange-groved cliffs, and the fair retiring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
stretches of greensward, to voyage for some scarce
descried Atlantis gemming the horizon ring with an
empurpled roundness born of vapor, time, and space.
To such, the future might be a noble course to lay; but
that lies beyond the horizon, and impatience is not consistent
with faith. On, then, on to the farthest visible,&mdash;but
westward, while the grand fleet of humanity sails
last. Into shadow which drowns the petty details of
existence,&mdash;not toward a shore which shall be reached
only by long buffeting and weary watching, whose noble
scenery, glorious with all the temples and trophies of
the latest age, shall bear unshamed the scrutiny of the
full-risen sun.</p>

<p>The application of scientific processes to the study of
history has revealed the steady amelioration of the race.
The mail of chivalric giants is brought out of romance's
armory to the profane test of a vulgar trying on, and,
behold, it is too small for the foot-soldier of to-day.
Population everywhere increases, while the rates of
mortality diminish. The average longevity of the people
of London is greater, by something like twenty-five
per cent., than it was a century ago. The improvement
of machinery is more and more lifting the yoke of physical
labor from the neck of man, leaving his mind freer
to cope with the higher problems of his own nature and
the universe without. Not as a matter of platform enthusiasm
and optimist poetry, but of office statistics, do
we know that the world is an easier and better place
to live in, and that a man is luckier to be born into it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
than in the day of the fathers. So much has changed,
and changed for the better. That analysis, which the
Carlylists lack, reveals still other changes worked by
the course of time in the phenomena of the race,&mdash;such
changes as concern the habits of society, the styles
of literature, the systems of political economy and commercial
order, the tenets of philosophy, the schools of
art, the forms of government and religion. This analysis
further reveals that, while all these functions of life
are in their nature endlessly mutable, the organic man,
from whom, under all variations, they get their <i>vis viva</i>,
remains from age to age eternally the same. While
each successive generation has its fresh, particular business
on the earth,&mdash;something to do for the race, which
succeeding generations will not have the time, even
as prior generations had not the light, to do,&mdash;something
which is wanted right away,&mdash;something for
which it was sent and for which the whole machine-shop
of time had been shaping the material to be worked by
its special hand,&mdash;analysis discloses that the capital
upon which every business is to be carried on undergoes
neither increase nor diminution. There is just as much
faith, just as much courage, just as much power in the
world as there ever was. They do not show themselves
in Runnymedes, because Runnymede has been attended
to; nor in wondrous Abbot Sampsons, because monkery
is mainly cured. They are not manifest in martyred
Edwardses, because at this day Edwards could call a
policeman; nor in burning Cranmers, because society has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
made a phenomenal change in her method with martyrs
and shuts them in a refrigerator, where once she chained
them to a stake. They do not appear in French Revolutions,
because the world has grown through a second
American Revolution, grander than the first, and a
great representative native has plucked Liberty out of
the fire without one scorch of license on her garments.
They seek no outlet in crusade, for Jerusalem has been
made of as little consequence as Barnegat, by the fulfilment
of the promise,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The hour cometh when ye shall neither in this
mountain, nor yet in Jerusalem, worship the Father,
... when the true worshippers shall worship him in
spirit and in truth."</p>

<p>I have a little butcher, who is C&oelig;ur de Lion in the
small. He does not split heads nor get imprisoned in
castles, but has the same capricious force, the same capacity
for affront-taking, the same terribleness of retribution,
and the same power of large, frank forgiveness
which belonged to the man who broke the skulls of the
Saracens and pardoned his own assassin. I went to
school to Frederick the Great. He did not take snuff
nor swear in high Dutch, and it was his destiny to be at
the head, not of an army of men, but of one hundred as
unmanageable boys as ever played hawkey or "fought
pillows" in the dormitory. His solution of difficulties
was as prompt, his decisions were as inexorable, he had
as irascible a temper and as admirable a faculty of organization
as his Prussian prototype's. Calvin and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
Servetus discuss their differences at my dinner-table;
the former possesses all his old faith in the inscrutable;
the latter all his ancient tendency to bring everything
alleged to the tribunal of science, and I may add that
Calvin has as little doubt as ever of the propriety of
having Servetus cooked,&mdash;only he postpones the operation,
and expects to see it done without his help. I am
acquainted with Sir Philip Sidney, the courtly knight
and the melodious poet. The chivalry with which he
jousted at Kenilworth and fought at Zutphen are hourly
needed in the temptations and harassments of a broker's
office, and many's the hard day through which it has
borne him with honor. The pen which he devotes to
the Muses is as facile as in the Arcadian time,&mdash;though
the sturdy lance he used to set in rest is substituted by
another pen, of the fat office type, consecrated to the
back of gold certificates and the support of an unmediævally
expensive family.</p>

<p>Looking in all directions round the world, I find the
old nobleness,&mdash;the primeval sublimities of love and
courage, faith and justice, which have always kept humanity
moving, and will keep it to the end. In no age
has the quantity of this nobleness been excessive, but so
much of it as exists is an imperishable quantity. It is
a good interred with no man's bones; it is the indispensable
preventive of the world's annihilation. Carlyle has
been praised for the epigrammatic assertion that nothing
can be kept without either life or salt. This is true,
but not the whole truth; salt will keep beeves, but as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
for nations and races which have lost their savor, wherewithal
shall they be salted? The fact that mankind
survive at all is the proof that ages have not tainted
them with putrescence. Things live only by the good
that there is in them, and the interests to which they
appeal; the fields which open to man, in our own day,
are so much vaster and massier than they were in the
day of our fathers, that the tax on the activities of the
race could not be met by our capital of life if we had lost
one particle of the good which supported them.</p>

<p>When I look at the fathers, I recollect that courage
and love, faith and justice, have no swallowing horizon,
while all that is petty and base succumbs in one generation
to the laws of perspective. It is pleasanter thus.
At the grave of the old schoolmaster who flogged us, we
remember the silver hair and the apple he gave us once,&mdash;never
the rattan. "We had fathers after the flesh
who corrected us, and we gave them reverence," nothing
but reverence, when we leaned with tearful eyes over
their vacant chairs. If I have ever quarrelled with my
friend, when he can return to me no more, I make up
with his memory by canonizing him. The tendency to
do thus is among the loveliest and divinest things in our
nature. But it is a still lovelier and diviner thing to anticipate
the parallax of time and look upon the present
with the same loving, teachable, and reverent eyes, which
shall be bent upon it from the standpoint of coming generations.
He to whom the beauty and nobleness of his
own time are, throughout all that he deplores in it and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
in himself, the conspicuous objects of love and veneration,&mdash;who
extends the allowance of the dead to the
faults of the living,&mdash;from whom no personal disappointments
can ever take away his faith in the abiding divinity
of his kind,&mdash;need never fear that his judgment of the
fathers will be a churlish and disrespectful one. The
only object which such a man can have in recalling the
vices and defects of older generations is to establish
their kinship with his own, to prove his era's legitimacy
against philosophers who find only pettiness in the
present and grandeur in the past. If he cannot make
them see the good side by which the modern family
receives blood from the ancient, there shall not be any
bend sinister on his escutcheon because he neglects to
show them the bad one, though he would rather vindicate
his lineage the other way. To him the organic
unity of mankind, throughout all generations, is dearer
than the individual reputation of any one of them.</p>

<p>Having the faith of this organic unity he can look at
the errors of the forefathers without pain. They lessen
neither his love nor his respect for them. Who is there
that would care to know king David only as a very
respectable Jew, in a Sunday-school book, who was
always successful, invariably pious, and passed his time
wholly in playing hymns on a harp with a golden crown
upon his head? To almost all young readers, and many
an old one, the vindictive psalms seem a shocking inexplicability
in the sacred canon. The philosopher, however,
feels with the illiterate preacher, "It is a comfort to us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
poor erring mortals, my brethren, to remember that on
one occasion even, David, beloved of the Lord, said not
only, 'I am mad,' but 'I am fearfully and wonderfully
mad?'" Not that it would be any comfort to us if that
were all we possess of him; but we also have the record
of his getting over it. I once knew a little boy who
learned to swear out of the psalms, and it must be
acknowledged that of good round curses there is in no
tongue a much fuller armory. Conscientious persons,
who want to damn their enemies without committing sin,
no doubt often sit down and read an execratory psalm
with considerable relief to their minds. Not in this spirit
do men skilled in human nature peruse the grand rages
of the many-sided fighting bard; not because they would
cloak their errors with the kingly shadow of his own,
do they rejoice that he exists for us to-day just where
the rude, large simplicity of his original Hebrew left
him, and that tame-handed biography has never been
able to pumice him down into a demi-god. They are
glad because these things prove him human and imitable.
If his stormy soul triumphed over itself; if he could be
beloved of the Infinite at a moment when the surges of
both outer and inner vicissitude seemed conspiring to
sweep him away, then we cease to hear his swearing
or the clamor of his despair; and to us, whose modern
spirits are not exempt from flood and hurricane, his
grand voice chants only cheer down the centuries, and
we know that there is love caring and victory waiting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
for us also in our struggle, since we are not the lonely
anomalies of time.</p>

<p>As with David so with all the men of the past,&mdash;it
gives us no pain to find that they were not a whit nearer
perfection than ourselves. We do not regret their superseded
customs, nor wish them restored in the living age.
He who takes them from the time of which they are a
congruous part and seeks to import them into a day
which has no explanatory relevance to them, so far from
showing them reverence, is like a man who, to compel the
recognition of his grandfather's tombstone, strips it of
its moss, scrubs it with soap and sand, and sets it up on
Broadway among signs and show-cases. Their opinions
are not final with us, because every age brings new proofs,
and every generation is a new court of appeal. Their
business methods are framed upon a hypothesis which
does not include the telegraph or the steam-engine.
Where a man can persuade his correspondents to send
their letters by the coach and their goods by the freight-wagon,
he may adjust himself very comfortably to the
good old way by which his grandfather made a fortune
and preserved his health to a great age. Until he gets
his mail weekly and answers it all in a batch, recuperating
from that labor by the sale of merchandise, one box
to an invoice, he is simply absurd to lament over the
rapidity with which fortunes are made at this day, and
eulogize the "sure and slow" process by which a lifetime
whose sole principle was the avoiding of risks attained
the same object. As if the whole problem of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
life were not how to secure, as quick as possible, all the
material good necessary for living, in order to leave the
kind free for all its higher functions of self-development
and discipline. As if money were not a mere expression
of the extent to which a man has subordinated
the forces of the world to his own use,&mdash;a thing, therefore,
which naturally comes quicker to a generation
which has taken all the great atmospheric and imponderable
couriers into its service!</p>

<p>The true use of ancestors is not slavish; we do not
want them for authority, but for solace. If my grandfather
could come back, he certainly would be too much
of a gentleman to sit down on my hat or put his feet on
my piano; and how much less would he crush my convictions
or trample on my opinions! He would be
equally too much of a business-man to interfere in the
responsibilities of any practical course I might take,
when he had not looked into the books of the concern,
taken account of its stock, or consulted the world's market-list
for an entire generation. He would do what any
man would be proud to have his grandfather do,&mdash;take
the easiest and most distinguished chair at the fireside,
and tell us night by night, the story of his life. What
roars of laughter would applaud his recollection of jokes
uttered by some playmate of his boyhood. They would
seem so droll to us at the distance of a hundred years,
though a contemporary might have uttered them without
raising a smile on our faces. What mingling of tears and
laughter would there be when he related some simple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
little family drama,&mdash;its pathos depending on incidents
as slender as the death of Auld Robin Gray's cows, but
like the wonderful song, in which those animals have
part interest, going unerringly to the fountains of the
human heart! How would we double up our fists, how
red would we grow in the face when he told us, in the
most unadorned, dispassionate way, about the cruel creditor
who foreclosed a mortgage on him and turned him
and our grandmother into the street, just after the birth
of their first child, our father; and when he came to the
passage where the kind friend steps in and says, "here
are five hundred dollars,&mdash;pay me when you are able,"
how many girls there would be sobbing, and men violently
blowing their noses! If we had belonged to
the period of the foreclosure and been next-door neighbors
to the mortgagor, the thing might have impressed
us simply as the spectacle of a young couple with a baby
who couldn't meet their quarterly payments, and were
obliged to curtail their style of living. The thing still
happens, and that is the way we look at it. But when
grandpapa relates it, nothing in the domestic line we
ever saw upon the stage seems half so touching. The
littlest school-boy feels a roseate fascination hovering
around the dogs that went after squirrels with that venerable
man when he wore the roundabout of his far-off
period; there is glamour about the mere fact that then,
as now, there were dogs, and there were squirrels; and
as the grandchild hears of the boughs which hung so
full, the crisp leaves which crackled so frostily those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
many, many falls ago&mdash;a strange delight comes over
him, and he seems to be going out chestnutting in the
morning of the world.</p>

<p>What we want of one, we want of all the grandfathers
of the race,&mdash;their story. Their value is that they take
the experience of human life, and hold it a sufficient distance
from us to be judged in its true proportions.
That experience in all ages is a solemn and a beautiful,
a perilous, yet a glorious thing. We are too near the
picture to appreciate it, as it appears in our own day,
though all its grand motives are the same. We rub our
noses against the nobilities and cannot see them. The
foreground weed is more conspicuous than the background
mountain. When the grandfathers carry it
from us, and hang it on the wall of that calm gallery
where no confusing cross-lights of selfish interest any
longer interfere, the shadows fall into their proper
places, the symbolisms of the piece are manifest, and
above all minor hillocks, above all clouds of storm, unconscious
of its earthquake struggles and its glacier
scars, Human Nature stands an eternal unity, its peak
in a clear heaven full of stars. We recognize that unity
and all things become possible to us, for thereby even
the commonest living is glorified.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">AT EVE.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="At_Eve" id="At_Eve"><span class="smcap">At Eve.</span></a></h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-quotei.jpg"
width="60" height="87" alt="i" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">&ldquo;I</span>T is almost time for John to come home, I
guess," and the young wife rose from her sewing
and put the tea-kettle over the bright fire on the
clean-swept hearth. Then she pulled the table
out into the middle of the floor, right to the spot
where she knew the setting sun would soon shine
through the latticed window; for John loved to see the
light play upon the homely cups and saucers, and pewter
spoons; he said it reminded him of the fairy stories,
where they ate off gold dishes. She went about her
work swiftly, but very quietly. Once there had been a
time when the little cottage rang early and late with the
sound of her glad voice. But then a pair of little feet
crept over the floor, and a tiny figure had raised itself up
by the very table whose cloth was now so smooth and
unruffled by the small awkward hands.</p>

<p>When Margery had put the golden butter, the jug of
cream, and the slice of sweet honey on the table, she
went to the door to look for John. A narrow path,
skirted on one side by waving corn-fields, on the other
by pastures and orchards, stretched from the cottage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
down to the broader road that led to the village. The
sun was already low in the sky, and threw across the
path the shadow of the old apple-tree that stood beside
the house. Margery remembered how full of pink and
white blossoms the tree had been that spring when she
first came here as John's bride, and how they showered
down like snow, while now a ripe apple occasionally
dropped from the branches with a heavy plump.</p>

<p>"Here comes John at last," she said in a low voice, as
she saw him approaching from the village. He was yet
a considerable distance off, but Margery's bright eyes
discerned that he was not alone. Beside him walked a
girl, whom Margery had known already while they were
both children. Mary was called handsome by the village
lads; but she was poor, and she and her father helped to
do field work, on the neighboring farms, in the busiest
seasons of the year.</p>

<p>As she and John advanced, Margery noticed that they
seemed engaged in earnest conversation. Then John
stood still and gave her his hand. The girl seized it
eagerly and put it to her lips, and looking up at him
once, turned around and walked back to the village, while
John hastened on with longer steps.</p>

<p>Margery's lips quivered. She did not wait for John at
the door, but turned back into the house, and was busied
at the hearth when he came in.</p>

<p>"Well, wify, how goes it this evening?" he asked in
his cheery voice, which always reminded Margery of the
time when he used to add, "And how is my little pet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
darlint?" and pick the baby up from the floor. The
tones of his voice had grown almost kinder and more
cheerful since, if that were possible, though he always
gazed around the room with a vague kind of look, as if
he half-expected to see the baby toddle up to him from
some corner.</p>

<p>"Thank you, John, all goes as well as usual. You are
late to-night."</p>

<p>"Yes, there was something to detain me," he said, as
he took down the tin-basin and filled it with water, to
wash his sunburnt face and hands. A shadow flitted
over Margery's face, but it was gone again when they
sat down to table. It was still light enough to see without
a candle, though the golden sunbeams John loved so
much had faded long ago. He talked cheerily of the
crops, and of harvest-time, and of the excellent prospects
for the coming winter. There was no occasion for
Margery to say much, and she was glad of it.</p>

<p>Then she quickly cleared the table, and John sat down
by the hearth, lighted his pipe, and laid his evening
paper across his knee to be read afterwards by candle-light.
While Margery washed the dishes there was no
sound in the room but the clatter of the cups and spoons,
and the monotonous ticking of the old-fashioned clock in
the corner. Margery sometimes glanced over at John,
who sat smoking and looking into the fire. At last he
got up, lit the candle, and, going up to Margery, he asked,
"What's the matter, Margery? You are uncommonly
silent to-night."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>

<p>She stopped in her work, and hung the towel over her
arm.</p>

<p>"John," she said, looking straight at him, with a
strange light in her brown eyes, and her face rather pale,
"I want to go home."</p>

<p>An expression half of pain, half of astonishment, came
into John's honest face. He too was a shade paler, and
the candle trembled a little in his hand as he asked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Is the house too lonely again, Margery? You did
say you wanted to go home for a spell, after, after&mdash;but
I thought you had got contented again."</p>

<p>She had turned away from him as she answered,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, John, the house is lonely again. I see the little
hands on all the chairs, and hear the little feet crawling
over the floor;" but there was something of coldness in
her tone, very unlike the pleading voice in which she had
once before made the same request.</p>

<p>"Well, Margery," he went on, after a pause, going to
the table and putting the candle upon it, "if you think
it will ease your heart to go and see the old folks a little
while, I am willing you should."</p>

<p>He never spoke of the utter loneliness that fell upon
him at the thought of her going away, and how to him,
too, the dim room was full of the golden hair and the
blue eyes of his child.</p>

<p>She said nothing.</p>

<p>"When will you come back, Margery?" he asked,
after another pause.</p>

<p>"I don't know, John."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p>

<p>"When do you think of going?"</p>

<p>"On Monday morning, if you can spare the horse to
take me over."</p>

<p>"I think I can, Margery; but I shall be sorry to lose
my little wify so soon," he could not help saying, as he
laid his rough hand on her hair, with so soft a touch that
the tears started to her eyes.</p>

<p>"I shall ask Mary to come here and keep house for
you, while I am away," she said. "Mary is used to our
ways, and can do for you very well."</p>

<p>"Mary?" asked John, "I reckon she will be busy
enough at harvest-time. I need nobody when you are
gone. I can live single again," with a half smile; "but
just as you think, Margery."</p>

<p>Nothing more was said on the subject. Margery took
up her sewing, and John his paper. But he did not read
very attentively that evening, but often stopped and
looked long and intently at Margery, who kept her eyes
steadily on the busy needle that was flying to and fro in
her fingers. It was a Saturday, and John tired with a
week's hard labor. So the fire was raked for the night,
the old clock wound up, and the little kitchen soon dark
and silent.</p>

<p>Next morning Margery awoke bright and early. So
early indeed, that through the open window of the bedroom
she could see the pink clouds floating in the sky,
and felt the cool wind that always goes before the rising
of the sun. The swallows under the roof were just
waking up, and beginning to twitter half-dreamily. With<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
her hands folded under her head, Margery lay musing
for a long while. Somehow her whole life passed before
her on this still, holy Sunday morning. She remembered
when she used to play barefoot in the little brook
or sit on warm summer afternoons on the straight-rowed
wooden benches of the village school. How the years
had sped by like a single day, and she was a grown young
girl. Then John came and courted her, and then&mdash;. The
sun had come up, and played in bright lights over the ceiling,
while on the floor quivered the shadows of the rose-leaves
from outside before the window. The church-bell
in the village began to ring. Margery listened to
the sounds, as they came borne on the soft breeze, across
the waving corn-fields. She looked out at the blue sky
and thought of heaven, and the blessed angels singing and
rejoicing there. She thought of her child, and of John,
and of herself. A mingled feeling of joy and pain, of
calm and unrest, crept into her heart. She felt the tears
rising to her eyes again, but she would not let them.
She sprang up, dressed hastily, and went softly downstairs,
while John slept heavily on.</p>

<p>As Margery entered the kitchen, the cat got up from
her rug, stretched her legs and yawned, and then came
forward to be petted. On the next Sunday, Mary would
probably be here to give pussy her milk, and stroke her
soft, glossy back. Margery threw open the door to let
in the beautiful fresh morning air. The dew lay sparkling
on the grass and flowers. Down there on the road
was the spot where John and Mary had parted last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
night. Margery turned away and shut the door again.
Then she bestirred herself to get breakfast.</p>

<p>When John came down to it, Margery thought his
step sounded heavier than she had ever heard it before.</p>

<p>"Will you go to church this morning, Margery?" he
asked, when the simple meal was over.</p>

<p>"No, John, I guess not."</p>

<p>"Well, Margery, I am going. I will come home as
soon as service is over; but I think it will do me good."</p>

<p>"John, will you promise me to"&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>"What, Margery?"</p>

<p>"This afternoon, after I have got ready to go, will
you come once more with me to the&mdash;the grave?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Margery, yes."</p>

<p>She helped him on with his best coat, brought him the
prayer-book, and then watched him from the window as
he walked down the road with slow steps.</p>

<p>Margery wondered what could be the matter with herself
that morning. She felt so tired that her feet almost
refused to carry her. A hundred times in her simple
household duties, she paused to take breath, and sat down
to rest so often, that John came home from church and
to dinner, almost before it was ready. He praised the
cookery; but the dishes were taken almost untouched
off the table again, and when everything was cleared
away, Margery said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I must go upstairs now, John, to get ready. I want
to take some of my clothes with me."</p>

<p>He sat on the doorstep, holding his pipe, which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
gone out, between his fingers, and only nodded his head,
and said nothing. Margery went up to the bedroom,
and began to open closets and drawers, and pack articles
of clothing into a small trunk. At last she unlocked the
great old bureau, and took out a pile of tiny dresses and
aprons, a tin cup, and a few bright marbles, and stowed
them carefully away in the trunk. A pair of small, worn-out
leather shoes, turned up at the toes, stood in the
drawer yet. Should she carry both these away, too?
No, she thought, as she brushed away the tears that had
fallen upon it, one she had better leave John. She put it
resolutely back, locked the drawer, and laid the key on
the top of the bureau. Now there was nothing more to
be done. She looked around the room. Yes, that was
to be readied up a little, so that John might not miss her
too much for the first day or two. So she polished the
chairs and the bureau, and carefully dusted the mantlepiece,
with the red and white china dog and the kneeling
china angel that stood there. Then she herself was to
be dressed; she had almost forgotten that altogether.
She opened her trunk once more, and took out the dress
John loved best to see her in.</p>

<p>Several hours had slipped by while she was thus employed,
and now the village-clock struck five. She hastened
down. John still sat on the doorstep where she
had left him.</p>

<p>"John, dear, I did not think it was so late. It is time
to go to the graveyard. Are you ready to come?"</p>

<p>He looked up as if he had been dreaming, but rose
and said, "Yes, Margery."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p>

<p>He shut the house-door, and they turned into a path to
the rear of the cottage. For some distance this road,
too, was skirted on both sides by fields of ripened corn.
John passed his hand thoughtlessly over the heavy ears,
and now and then pulled one up, and swung it round in
the air. Neither of them spoke, and for a long while
there was no other sound but the rustle of their steps.</p>

<p>The path at length turned aside and led to a high plateau
that overlooked the valley, in which deep shadows
were already beginning to fall. Blue mists crept over
the foot of the mountains, while their tops were yet lit
up by the sun. The smoke from the chimneys rose up
into the air, and the shouts of the village children, playing
on the meadow, faintly came up from below. There
under that great oak, the only tree for some distance
around, John had first asked Margery to be his wife.
Involuntarily the steps of both faltered as they drew
near the spot, but neither stopped. Margery glanced up
at John; she could not see his face, for his head was
turned, and he seemed to be attentively looking at something
down in the valley.</p>

<p>Another turn in the road, and the small cemetery,
with the white stones that gleamed between the dark
cypress-trees, rose up before them. In silence they
found their way to the little grave. John seated himself,
without a word, on a mound opposite, Margery knelt
down and pulled some dried leaves off the rose-tree she
had planted, and bound the ivy further up on the white
marble cross. She felt that John watched her, but did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
not look up at him. Though she tried hard to keep them
back, the tears would fill her eyes again and again, so
that she could hardly see to pluck up the few weeds that
had grown among the grass. When that was completed,
she covered her face with her hands and tried to pray.
She wanted to ask that John might be happy while she
was away, and that,&mdash;but her head swam round, and
she found no words. She raised her eyes, and glanced
at John through her fingers. He sat with his back toward
her now, but she saw that his great, strong frame
trembled with half-suppressed sobs.</p>

<p>"O John!" she cried, bursting into tears. She only
noticed yet that he suddenly turned around, and then
closed her eyes, as he clasped her in his arms. For a
time she heard nothing but the sound of her own low
weeping, and the throbbing of John's heart. Suddenly
she looked up, and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O John, dear, dear John, please, please forgive me!"</p>

<p>"Margery," he answered, in as firm a tone as he could
command, "don't talk so."</p>

<p>"Oh, but, John, I did not want to go away only
because the house was so lonely, but because,&mdash;because,"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Because what, Margery?" he asked, astonished.</p>

<p>"O John, because I&mdash;I thought you loved Mary better
than me, because I saw you together so many times
in the last weeks; and she kissed your hand last night."</p>

<p>John's clasp about Margery relaxed, and his arms
sank down by his side. His tears were dried now, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
his earnest blue eyes fixed upon Margery with a dumb,
half-unconscious expression of surprise and pain. She
could not bear the look, and covered her face with her
hands again.</p>

<p>"No, Margery," he said, slowly, "I only saw Mary
because,"&mdash;</p>

<p>Margery raised her head.</p>

<p>"John, dear John, don't talk about it! I don't believe
it any more! I know I was a bad, foolish wife!
Only love me again, and forgive me, dear, dear John!
Oh, I don't believe it any more!" and she took his right
hand and kissed it, as Mary had done.</p>

<p>"Wont you forgive me, John? I will never, never go
away from you," she pleaded, while the tears streamed
down her face.</p>

<p>He took her in his arms once more, and kissed her
lips.</p>

<p>The red evening sunlight had crept away from the
little grave, and the dusk was fast gathering about it.
Margery bent down and kissed the white marble cross;
then they turned their steps homeward, Margery holding
John's hand like a child.</p>

<p>"I must unpack my clothes again to-night," she said,
after a while. "I have all the baby's little things in my
trunk, but, John, I was going to leave you one of the
little shoes."</p>

<p>She felt her hand clasped closer in his.</p>

<p>"Margery," he said then, "I think I had better tell
you about Mary."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p>

<p>"John, dear John, didn't I tell you I don't believe
that any more," she answered, with another pleading
look.</p>

<p>"No Margery, it is not that, but I guess you might
help us. You never knew that Mary's father is getting
very bad in the way of drinking. Since his house was
burnt down, and he lost his property, he has been going
on in that way. Mary takes it dreadful hard, and wont
let the news get about, if she can help it. She thinks so
much of you, and she says you used to like her father so
well, that she wouldn't have you know for almost any
money. So I promised not to tell you. She has come
to me many and many a time, crying, and begging me
to help her. She works as hard as she can, but her father
takes all she gets; so they are very poor. When you
saw us yesterday, I had given her money to pay their
rent. She wants to raise money enough to take him to
the Asylum, because there he may be cured. I promised
her to get him some decent clothes."</p>

<p>"O John, I will sew them. Poor Mary! and you
needn't tell her who sewed them."</p>

<p>"That's right, Margery!"</p>

<p>They had reached the house by this time, and John
opened the door. The kettle was singing over the
hearth, and the bright tin pans against the wall shone
in the firelight. On the doorstep Margery turned
around, and, throwing her arms around John's neck,
said softly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"John, I am glad I am going to stay."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>

<p>When they had entered, John lit the candle, and while
Margery was getting supper, took up yesterday's unfinished
paper. He read very attentively this evening,
but suddenly stopped, and Margery saw the paper
tremble in his hand. Then he rose, gave it to her, and
said, in a husky voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Read that, Margery."</p>

<p>Margery read. Then the paper dropped, and with a
fresh burst of tears she once more threw her arms about
John's neck.</p>

<p>In one corner of the paper that lay neglected on the
floor was the poem:&mdash;</p>

<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: 28%;">"As through the land at eve we went,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;And plucked the ripened ears,<br />
We fell out, my wife and I,<br />
Oh, we fell out, I know not why,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;And kissed again with tears.<br />
<br />
"For when we came where lies the child<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;We lost in other years;<br />
There above the little grave,<br />
Oh, there above the little grave,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;We kissed again with tears."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>



<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">BROKEN IDOLS.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />



<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>



<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Broken_Idols" id="Broken_Idols"><span class="smcap">Broken Idols.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-n.jpg"
width="55" height="86" alt="n" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">N</span>OT long since, it was my misfortune to be
inveigled into attending one of the semi-periodical
"Exhibitions" of the &mdash;&mdash; Institute, a
seminary for young ladies. I say it was my
misfortune, because, to please my better half,
I abandoned the joys of my fireside, my book, and my
slippers, to stand for two hours by an open window,
with a cold draft blowing on my back; hearing, now and
then, a few words of the sentimental and "goody" platitudes
of which the young ladies' essays were composed,&mdash;the
reading of which was interspersed with pyrotechnic
performances on the piano-forte, which the programme
was kind enough to inform me were "The
Soldiers' Chorus from Faust," "Duette from Norma,"
etc. I was fortunate in having a programme to enlighten
me.</p>

<p>There was nothing remarkable about the "Exhibition,"
except that, in the dozen essays which were read,
all the verses of Longfellow's "Psalm of Life" were
quoted, and that through them all there ran a dismal
monotone of morbid sentiment. One young lady, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
had a beautiful healthy bloom on her cheeks and wore
quite a quantity of comfortable and elegant clothing,
uttered a very touching wail over her buried hopes,
her vanished joys, and the mockery of this hollow-hearted
world. She stated that all that's brightest
must fade,&mdash;that "this world is all a fleeting show, for
man's illusion given,"&mdash;that "our hearts, though stout
and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral
marches to the grave;" and much more of the same sort.
She was impressed with the fact that Time is an iconoclast,&mdash;which
last word seemed to strike her as one of
the finest in the dictionary.</p>

<p>This is very true. Time does smash our idols continually;
but should we lament and sing dirges and make
ourselves generally uncomfortable on that account?
Because the geese that we thought swans have turned
out to be only geese after all, should we go into mourning
for our "buried hopes," and "vanished joys"?
That we outgrow our youthful fancies is no more a
cause for sentimental regret than that we outgrow our
youthful jackets. For myself, I can look upon the
ashes of my early loves,&mdash;and their name was legion,&mdash;with
as few tears as I bestow upon the ragged remnants
of my early trousers.</p>

<p>A number of years ago my young heart's fresh affections
were lavished upon the bright-eyed girl whose
father kept a little candy-shop and bakery across the
way, and who with her own fair hands often gave me
striped sticks of stomach-ache for my pennies, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
sometimes, when I was penniless, sweetened my lot with
a few peppermint drops, telling me to pay for them when
I came into my fortune. Many a time have I stood by
the lighted window of the little shop, heedless of the
bell that summoned me to my nightly bread and milk,
watching her trip about among the jars of candy and
barrels of nuts, tying up parcels and making change
with a grace that seemed unsurpassable. But there was
a red-haired, scorbutic youth who drove the baker's
bread-cart, and also drove me to distraction. He was
always flinging my youth into my face and asking if
my mother was aware of my whereabouts. At last a
grave suspicion forced itself upon my mind that Lizzie
looked upon him with favor and made light of my juvenile
demonstrations. Time proved that my suspicion
was well founded; for one day a carriage stopped in
front of the little shop, out of which sprang the scorbutic
young man, clad in unusually fine raiment, including
a gorgeous yellow vest and immaculate white gloves.
He was followed by a solemn-looking person, who wore
a very black coat and a very white choker. They
passed through the shop and went up the back stairs.
After a while they returned, and with them Lizzie, all
smiles and blushes and ribbons and a bewitching pink
bonnet. The carriage was driven away and my idol
was smashed.</p>

<p>Straightway I builded me another, which was in turn
broken, and followed by another and another. Sometimes
it was the dashing highwayman, whose life and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
brilliant exploits I furtively made myself acquainted
with, out in the wood-house, and whose picture, in profuse
curls, enormous jack-boots, and immense expanse
of coat-flap, graced the yellow covers of the Claude
Duval series of novels. Anon it was the great Napoleon
seated so proudly,&mdash;in cheap lithograph,&mdash;upon
the extreme hind-quarters of his fiery charger, and
pointing with aspiring hand toward the snowy Alps,
that I set up and worshipped.</p>

<p>Nor was I free from relapses of the tender passion.
About the time that my first love, Lizzie, was putting
the third of her red-haired progeny into pantaloons, and
torturing his fiery elf-locks into an unsightly "roach,"
and when I was a freshman in college, I became convinced
that the light of my life shone from a certain
window in Miss Peesley's boarding-school; for behind
that window a comely maiden, with golden hair and eyes
of heavenly blue, slept and studied and ate sweetmeats
and read Moore's melodies. My heart was hers entirely,
as was also my spare coin,&mdash;for we had specie in
those days,&mdash;which I converted into valentines and
assorted candies and "The Language of Flowers," for
her especial use and behoof. I worshipped her at church,
as she sat, with a bevy of other girls, aloft in the gallery,
the entrance to which was guarded by the ancient and
incorruptible damsel who taught algebra in Miss Peesley's
academy, and who also marshalled the young ladies
to and from church, keeping them under her eye, and
putting to rout any audacious youth who endeavored to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
walk with one of them. It was for her that I bought a
flute, and with much difficulty so far mastered it as to
play "Sweet Home" and "What fairy-like music,"&mdash;in
performing which, standing in the snow under her
window at midnight's witching hour, I caught a terrible
cold, besides being threatened with arrest by a low-bred
policeman for making an unseemly noise in the night-time,&mdash;as
if I were a calliope. It was to bow to her
that I neglected to split and carry in my Saturday's
wood, and stood on the street-corner all the afternoon,
for which I was soundly rated at night by my venerable
father, who also improved the occasion by repeating his
regular lecture upon my inattentions to study and
general neglect of duty.</p>

<p>So great was my infatuation that I manifested an unheard-of
anxiety about the details of my dress. I even
went so far as to attend the Friday evening "Receptions"
at the academy, where Miss Peesley graciously
gave the young gentlemen an opportunity to see and
converse with the young ladies, under her own supervision.
It was a dismal business,&mdash;sitting bolt upright in
a straight-backed, hair-cushioned chair, under the gaze of
Miss P. and her staff, smiling foolishly at some dreary,
pointless sally of Miss Van Tuyl's, who taught rhetoric
and was remarkably sprightly for one of her years,&mdash;crossing
and uncrossing my legs uneasily, and endeavoring
to persuade myself that I was "enjoying the evening."
Nevertheless, I made desperate attempts to be
happy even under these adverse circumstances.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>

<p>And what was my reward?</p>

<p>There came to college a young man who was reputed
to be a poet. He wore his hair long and parted in the
middle, was addicted to broad Byronic collars, could take
very pretty and pensive attitudes, and was an adept in
the art of leaning his head abstractedly upon his hand.
He at once became that terrible thing among the ladies, a
lion. And he was a very impudent lion. Regardless of
my claims and feelings, he sent to her, whom I had fondly
called mine own, an acrostic valentine of his own composition,
taking care that she should know from whom
it came. The result was that I was&mdash;as we Western
people would term it&mdash;"flopped!"</p>

<p>And so another idol was smashed.</p>

<p>Then came a reaction. I scorned the sex and sought
balm for my wounded feelings in the worst pages of
Byron.</p>

<p>Having by this time attained the sophomoric dignity,
I discovered that the end and aim of existence was to
be <i>fast</i>,&mdash;that the divine significance of life consisted in
drinking villanous whiskey "on the sly," and proclaiming
the fact by eating cardamom seeds; in stealing gates
and the clapper of the chapel bell; in devouring half-cooked
chickens, purloined from professional coops; in
hazing freshmen; in playing euchre for "ten cents a
corner;" and in parading the streets at midnight, singing
"Landlord, fill the flowing bowl," and vociferously
urging some one to "rip and slap and set 'em up ag'in,
all on a summer's day." I smoked vile Scarfalatti tobacco<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
in a huge Dutch pipe, wore a blue coat with brass
buttons, a shocking hat, and my trousers tucked into my
boots,&mdash;which after my great disappointment befell me
I ceased to black with any degree of regularity,&mdash;and
regulated my language according to a certain slangy
work called "Yale College Scrapes."</p>

<p>I am inclined to look upon these youthful pranks not
as unpardonable sins, though I freely admit their utter
folly, but as the vagaries of immature <i>genius</i>,&mdash;if I may
say so,&mdash;scorning to walk decorously, because other
people do, struggling to throw off the fetters of conventionality,
burning to distinguish itself in some new and
original way, striking out from the beaten paths,&mdash;to
repent of it afterward. For it does not take many years
to teach one that the beaten paths are the safest; and I
have often wished that I had had a tithe of the application
and assiduity of "Old Sobriety," as we rapid
youngsters called the Nestor of the class, who plodded
on from morn till dewy eve and far into the night,
and quietly carried off the honors from the brilliant
geniuses, who wore flash neckties and shone at free-and-easys.
But what thoughtless college-boy does not
prefer worshipping at the shrine of the fast goddess
to treading the straight and safe paths of propriety?
It takes time and one or two private interviews
with a committee of the Faculty to rid him of his delusion.</p>

<p>I have been making these confessions to show that I,
too, as well as the handsome and healthy young lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
whose essay furnishes my text, have had some joys that
are vanished and some hopes that are buried.</p>

<p>But I do not therefore find that this world is a dark
and dreary desert. I do not rail at life as a hollow
mockery, nor long to lay my weary head upon the lap
of earth. On the contrary, the longer I live in this
world, the better I like it. It is a jolly old world, after
all; and, though Time is an iconoclast and does smash
our idols with a ruthless hand, it is only to purify our
vision; and, as the fragments tumble and the dust settles,
we see the true, the beautiful, and the joyous in
life more clearly. I know that life has its disappointments
and crosses; but I think that it is too short for
sentimental lamentation over them. In homely phrase,
"There is no use in crying over spilt milk." If Dame
Fortune frowns, laugh her in the face, and, with a light
heart and brave spirit, woo her again, and you will
surely win her smile. I am as fully impressed as any
one with the fact that this world is not our permanent
abiding-place; but that is no reason why we should
underrate, abuse, and malign it. There is such a thing
as being too other-worldly. The grand truths and
beautiful teachings of God's gospel do not conflict with
the grandeur, the beauty, and the mystery of God's
handiwork, the world; and we can no more afford to
despise and dispense with the one than with the other.
And it seems to me that we cannot better prepare for
enjoying the life hereafter than by a healthy, hearty,
rational enjoyment of the one that is here.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p>

<p>Do not, then, O youth, sit down and grow sentimental
over your fancied griefs. Do not waste your time in
shedding weak tears over the fragments of your broken
idols. Kick the rubbish aside, and go on your way,
with head erect and heart open to the sweet influences
of this bright and beautiful world, and you cannot fail
to find it not a "Piljin's Projiss of a Wale," but</p>

<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">"A sunshiny world, full of laughter and leisure."</p>

<p>In worthy action and healthy enjoyment you will find
a cure for all your imaginary woes and all your maudlin
fine feelings.</p>

<p>In two little lines lies the clue to an honorable and
happy life:&mdash;</p>


<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 2em;">"Thou shalt find, by <i>hearty striving</i> only<br />
&nbsp;And <i>truly loving</i>, thou canst truly live."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">DR. HUGER'S INTENTION.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Dr_Hugers_Intention" id="Dr_Hugers_Intention"><span class="smcap">Dr. Huger's Intention.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>


<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-d.jpg"
width="51" height="86" alt="d" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">D</span>R. HUGER was thirty years old when he deliberately
resolved to be in love,&mdash;I cannot say
"fall in love" of anything so matter-of-fact and
well-considered. He made up his mind that
marriage was a good thing,&mdash;that he was old enough
to marry,&mdash;finally, that he <i>would</i> marry. Then he
decided, with equal deliberation, on the qualifications
necessary in the lady, and began to look about him to
find her. She must be a blonde. Above all things else,
he must have her gentle and trustful; and he believed
that gentleness and trustfulness inhered in the blue-eyed,
fair-haired type of womanhood. She must be appreciative,
but not strong-minded,&mdash;well-bred, with a
certain lady-like perfectness, which could not be criticised,
and yet which would always save her from being
conspicuous. Not for the world would he have any
new-fangled woman's-rights notions about her.</p>

<p>You might fancy it would be a somewhat difficult
matter for him to find precisely the realization of this
ideal; but here fate befriended him,&mdash;fate, who seemed
to have taken Dr. Huger under her especial charge, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
had been very kind to him all his life. He looked out
of his window, after he had come to the resolution heretofore
recorded, and saw Amy Minturn tripping across
the village green.</p>

<p>Amy was eighteen,&mdash;blonde, blue-eyed, innocent,
well-bred, unpresuming, without ambition, and without
originality. She was very lovely in her own quiet, tea-rose
style. Her position was satisfactory; for her father,
Judge Minturn, was a man of mark in Windham, and
one of Dr. Huger's warmest friends. So, having decided
that here was an embodiment of all his "must-haves,"
the doctor went over that evening to call at the Minturn
mansion. Not that the call in itself was an unusual occurrence.
He went there often; but hitherto his conversation
had been principally directed to the judge,
and to-night there was a noticeable change.</p>

<p>Amy was looking her loveliest, in her diaphanous
muslin robes, with blue ribbons at her throat, and in
her soft light hair. Dr. Huger wondered that he had
never before noticed the pearly tints of her complexion,
the deep lustrous blue of her eyes, the dainty, flower-like
grace of her words and ways. He talked to her, and
watched the changing color in her cheeks, and her rippling
smiles, until he began to think the falling in love,
to which he had so deliberately addressed himself, the
easiest and pleasantest thing in the world. She had the
prettiest little air of propriety,&mdash;half prudish, and half
coquettish. She received his attentions with a shy grace
that was irresistibly tempting.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>

<p>He went often to Judge Minturn's after that&mdash;not <i>too</i>
often, for he did not wish to startle his pretty Amy by
attentions too sudden or too overpowering; and, indeed,
there was nothing in the gentle attraction by which she
drew him to hurry him into any insane forgetfulness of
his customary moderation. But he liked and approved
her more and more. He made up his mind to give her
a little longer time in which to become familiar with
him, and then to ask her to be his wife.</p>

<p>When he had reached this determination, he was sent
for, one August day, to see a new patient,&mdash;a certain
Miss Colchester. He was thinking about Amy as he
went along,&mdash;laughing at the foolish old notion concerning
the course of true love; for what could run any
smoother, he asked himself, than his had? It seemed
to him as simple and pretty as an idyl,&mdash;the "Miller's
Daughter" New Englandized.</p>

<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 25%;">"Oh, that I were beside her now!<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Oh, will she answer if I call?<br />
&nbsp;Oh, would she give me vow for vow,&mdash;<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sweet Amy,&mdash;if I told her all?"</p>

<p>he hummed, half unconsciously, as he walked on.</p>

<p>Soon he came in sight of Bock Cottage, the place to
which he was going, and began thereupon to speculate
about Miss Colchester. Of course she was one of the
summer boarders of whom Rock Cottage was full. He
wondered whether she were young or old,&mdash;whether he
should like her,&mdash;whether she would be good pay;&mdash;and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
by this time, he had rung the bell, and was inquiring for
her of the tidy girl who answered his summons.</p>

<p>He was shown into a little parlor on the first floor,
and, pausing a moment at the door, he looked at his patient.
A very beautiful woman, he said to himself, but
just such an one as he did not like. She sat in a low
chair, her back to the window and her face turned toward
him. She wore a simple white-cambric wrapper.
Her beauty had no external adornment whatever. It
shone upon him startlingly and unexpectedly, as if you
should open a closet, where you were prepared to find
an old family portrait of some stiff Puritan grandmother,
and be confronted, instead, by one of Murillo's
Spanish women, passionate and splendid. For Miss
Colchester was not unlike those Murillo-painted beauties.
She had a clear, dark skin, through which the
changeful color glowed as if her cheeks were transparent;
dark, heavily-falling hair; low brow; great, passionate,
slumbrous eyes; proud, straight features. There
was nothing like a New-England woman about her.
That was Dr. Huger's first thought; and she read it,
either through some subtle clairvoyant power, or, a
simpler solution, because she knew that every one, who
saw her under these cool skies of the temperate zone,
would naturally think that thought first. Her full,
ripe lips parted in a singular smile, as she said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You are thinking that I am not of the North. You
are right. I was born in New Orleans. I am a Creole
of the Creoles. I don't like the people here. I sent for
you because you were German, at least by descent."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>

<p>"How did you know it?"</p>

<p>It was an abrupt question for a man of the doctor's
habitual grave courtesy; but she seemed to him unique,
and it was impossible to maintain his old equipoise in
her presence. She had read his thought like a witch.
Was there something uncanny about her?</p>

<p>"How did I know you were German?" She smiled.
"Because your name suggested the idea, and then I
saw you in the street, and your features indorsed the
hint your name had given me."</p>

<p>"I am glad that anything should have made you think
of me."</p>

<p>It was one of the conventional platitudes, of which
self-complacent men, like Dr. Huger, keep a stock on
hand for their lady friends. Miss Colchester saw its
poverty, and smiled at it, as she answered him,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I think of every one with whom I come in contact;
and I thought of you, especially, because I intended
from the first, if there were a good physician here, to
consult him."</p>

<p>The doctor looked into her radiant face.</p>

<p>"Is it possible that you are ill?"</p>

<p>He had sat down beside her by this time, and taken
her hand. It gave him a curious sensation as it lay
quietly in his. He felt as if there were more life, more
magnetism, in it than in any hand he had ever touched.</p>

<p>"That <i>you</i> must tell me," she said, quietly. "My
heart feels strangely, sometimes; it beats too rapidly,
I think, and sometimes very irregularly. I have lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
too fast,&mdash;suffered and enjoyed too keenly. The poor
machine is worn out, perhaps. I look to you to inform
me whether I am in danger."</p>

<p>"I must have my stethoscope. I will go for it. Are
you sure you can bear the truth?"</p>

<p>She smiled,&mdash;a cool smile touched with scorn.</p>

<p>"I have not found life so sweet," she said, "that its
loss will trouble me. I only want to know how long
I am likely to have in which to do certain things. If
you can tell me, I shall be satisfied."</p>

<p>As Dr. Huger went home, he met Amy. Something
in the sight of her fresh, blonde beauty, with its fulness
of life and health, jarred on his mood. He bowed to
her with a preoccupied air, and hurried on. When he
went back to Rock Cottage, Miss Colchester was sitting
just as he had left her. To sit long at a time in one
motionless attitude was a peculiarity of hers. Her
manner had always a singular composure, though her
nature was impetuous.</p>

<p>He placed over her heart the instrument he had
brought, then listened a long time to its beating. He
dreaded to tell her the story it revealed to him, and at
last made up his mind to evade the responsibility.
When he had come to this conclusion, he raised his
head.</p>

<p>"I do not feel willing," he said, "to pronounce an
opinion. Let me send for a medical man who is older,
who has had more experience."</p>

<p>She raised her dark eyes, and looked full in his face.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are afraid to tell me, after all I said? Will
you not believe that I do not care to live? I shall send
for no other physician. I look for the truth from your
lips. You find my heart greatly enlarged?"</p>

<p>"I told you I did not like to trust my own judgment;
but that <i>is</i> my opinion."</p>

<p>"And if you are right I shall be likely to live&mdash;how
long?"</p>

<p>"Possibly for years. Probably for a few months.
There is no help,&mdash;I mean, no cure. If you suffer
much pain, that can be eased, perhaps."</p>

<p>Miss Colchester was silent a few moments. Dr. Huger
could see no change in her face, though he watched
her closely. The color neither left her cheeks or deepened
in them. He did not see so much as an eyelash
quiver. At last she spoke,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You have been truly kind, and I thank you. I believe
I am glad of your tidings. I think I shall stay
here in Windham till the last. I would like one autumn
among these grand old woods and hills. I have nothing
to call me away. I can do all which I have to do by letter,
and my most faithful friend on earth is my quadroon
maid who is here with me. She will be my nurse, if I
need nursing. And you will be my physician,&mdash;will
you not?"</p>

<p>"I will when I can help you. At other times, may I
not be your friend, and as such come to see you as often
as I can?"</p>

<p>"Just as often,&mdash;the oftener the better," she answered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
with that smile which thrilled him so strangely
every time he met it. "I shall always be glad to see
you. Your visits will be a real charity; for, except
Lisette, I am quite solitary."</p>

<p>He understood by her manner that it was time to go,
and took his leave.</p>

<p>That night he walked over to Judge Minturn's. Amy
was just as pretty as ever,&mdash;just as graceful and gentle
and faultless in dress and manner. Why was it that he
could not interest himself in her as heretofore? Had
the salt lost its savor? His judgment endorsed her as
it always had. She was precisely the kind of woman to
make a man happy. That pure blonde beauty, with its
tints of pearl and pink, was just what he wanted, always
had wanted. Why was it that he was haunted all the
time by eyes so different from those calm blue orbs of
Amy's? He thought it was because his new patient's
case had interested him so much in a medical point of
view. He was tired, and he made it an excuse for shortening
his call.</p>

<p>He went home to sit and smoke and speculate again
about Miss Colchester. He seemed to see her wonderful
exotic face through the blue smoke-wreaths. Her words
and ways came back to him. He had discovered so soon
that <i>she</i> was no gentle, yielding creature. She had
power enough to make her conspicuous anywhere&mdash;piquant
moods and manners of her own, which a man
could find it hard to tame. He was glad,&mdash;or thought
he was,&mdash;that such office had not fallen to his share,&mdash;that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
the woman he had resolved to marry was so
unlike her; yet he could not banish the imperious face
which haunted his fancy.</p>

<p>The next day found him again at Rock Cottage; but
he waited until afternoon, when all his other visits had
been made. It was a warm day; and Miss Colchester
was again in white, but in full fleecy robes, whose effect
was very different from the simple cambric wrapper
she had worn the day before. Ornaments of
barbaric gold were in her ears, at her throat, and
manacled her wrists. A single scarlet lily drooped
low in her hair. She looked full of life,&mdash;strong,
passionate, magnetic life. Was it possible that he had
judged her case aright? Could death come to spoil this
wonderful beauty in its prime?</p>

<p>Their talk was not like that of physician and patient.
It touched on many themes, and she illuminated each one
with the quick brilliancy of her thought. He grew acquainted
with her mind in the two hours he spent with
her; but her history,&mdash;who she was,&mdash;whence she came,&mdash;why
she was at Windham,&mdash;remained as mysterious
as before. Her maid came in once or twice, and called
her "Miss Pauline," and this one item of her first name
was all that he knew about her more than he had discovered
yesterday. He saw her,&mdash;a woman utterly different
from the gentle, communicative, impressible, blue-eyed
ideal he had always cherished,&mdash;a woman with
whom, had she been in her full health, his reason would
have pronounced it madness to fall in love. How much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
more would it be madness now, when he knew that she
was going straight to her doom,&mdash;that when the summer
came again, it would shine upon her grave! And yet it
seemed as if the very hopelessness of any passion for her
made her power over him more fatal.</p>

<p>He went to see her day after day. He did not consciously
neglect Amy Minturn, because he did not think
about her at all. She was no more to him in those days
than last year's roses, which had smelled so sweet to him
in their prime. He was absorbed in Pauline Colchester&mdash;lived
in her life. She accepted his devotion, simply
because she did not understand it. If she had been in
health, she would have known that this man loved her;
but the knowledge of her coming fate must make all that
impossible, she thought. So she accepted his friendship
with a feeling of entire security; and, though she revealed
to him no facts of her material life, admitted him to such
close intimacy with her heart and soul as, under other
circumstances, he might never have reached in a lifetime
of acquaintance.</p>

<p>And the nearer he drew to her the more insanely he
loved her,&mdash;loved her, though he knew the fate which
waited for her, the heart-break he was preparing for himself.</p>

<p>At last he told her. He had meant to keep his secret
until she died, but in spite of himself it came to his lips.</p>

<p>In September it was,&mdash;one of those glorious autumn
days when the year seems at flood-tide, full of a ripe
glory, which thrills an imaginative temperament as does<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
no tender verdure of spring, no bravery of summer.
Pauline Colchester, sensitive to all such influences as
few are, was electrified by it. Dr. Huger had never
seen her so radiant, so full of vitality. It seemed to him
impossible that she should die. If he had her for his
own,&mdash;if he could make her happy,&mdash;could he not
guard her from every shock or excitement, and keep
her in such a charmed atmosphere of peace that the
worn-out heart might last for many a year?</p>

<p>It was the idlest of lover's dreams, the emptiest and
most baseless of hopes, which he would have called any
other man insane for cherishing. But he grasped at it
eagerly, and, before he knew what he was doing, he had
breathed out his longing at the feet of Miss Colchester.</p>

<p>"Is it possible," she said, after a silent space, "that
you could have loved me so well? That you would
have absorbed into your own the poor remnant of my
life, and cherished it to the end? I ought to be sorry
for your sake; but how can I, when just such a love is
what I have starved for all my life? I have no right to
it now. I am Mrs., not Miss, Colchester. I was Pauline
Angereau before Ralph Colchester found me and married
me. I had money and, I suppose, beauty; perhaps he
coveted them both. He made me believe that he loved
me with all his heart; and then, when I was once his
wife, he began torturing me to death with his neglect
and his cruelty. He was a bad man; and I don't believe
there is a woman on earth strong enough to have saved
him from himself. I bore everything, for two years, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
silence. Then I found that it was killing me, and, in one
of his frequent absences, I came away to die in peace.
When it is all over, Lisette will write to him. He will
have the fortune he longed for, without the encumbrance
of which he tired so soon. You must not see me any
more. Bound as I am, feeling what you feel, there
would be sin in our meeting. And yet I shall die easier
for knowing that, once in my life, I have been loved for
myself alone."</p>

<p>Then Dr. Huger rose to go. To-morrow, perhaps he
could combat those scruples of hers; but to-day, there
was no more to be said to this woman whom another man
owned. To-morrow, he could tell better how nearly he
could return to the quiet ways of friendship,&mdash;whether
it would be possible for him to tend her, brother-like, to
the last, as he had meant to do before he loved her. He
took her hand a moment, and said, in a tone which he
tried so hard to make quiet that it almost sounded
cold,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I must go now. I dare not stay and talk to you. I
will come again to-morrow."</p>

<p>"Yes, to-morrow."</p>

<p>Her face kindled, as she spoke, with a strange light
as of prophecy. What "to-morrow" meant to her he
did not know. He turned away suddenly, for his heart
was sore; and, as he went, he heard her say, speaking
very low and tenderly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"God bless you, Francis Huger."</p>

<p>The next day he went again to Rock Cottage. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
had fought his battle and conquered. He thought now
that he could stay by her to the end, and speak no word,
look no look, which should wrong her honor or his own.
He asked for her at the door as usual; and they told
him she had paid her bill that morning, and left. She
had come, they said, no one knew from whence; and no
one knew where she had gone. She had left no messages
and given no address.</p>

<p>Dr. Huger understood that this was something she
had meant to keep secret from him of all others. Was
he never to see her again? When she had said, "Yes, to-morrow,"
could she have meant the long to-morrow,
when the night of death should be over? He turned
away, making no sign of disappointment,&mdash;his sorrow
dumb in his heart; and, as he went, her voice seemed
again to follow him,&mdash;</p>

<p>"God bless you, Francis Huger."</p>

<p>For two months afterward, he went the round of his
daily duties in a strange, absent, divided fashion. He
neither forgot nor omitted anything; yet he saw as one
who saw not, and heard with a hearing which conveyed
to his inward sense no impression. <i>She</i> was with him
everywhere. All the time, he was living over the brief
four weeks of their acquaintance, in which, it seemed to
him, he had suffered and enjoyed more than in all the
rest of his lifetime. Every day, every hour, he expected
some message from her. He felt a sort of conviction
that she would not die until he had seen her again. He
thought, at last, that his summons to her side had come.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
He opened, one day, a letter directed in a hand with
which he was not familiar. He read in it, with hurrying
pulses, only these words:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Madame Pauline Angereau Colchester is dead. I
obey her wish in sending you these tidings."</p>

<p style="margin-left: 70%;">"<span class="smcap">Lisette.</span>"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>From the letter had dropped, as he unfolded it, a long
silky tress of dark hair. He picked it up, and it seemed
to cling caressingly to his fingers. It was all he could
ever have in this world of Pauline Colchester. Her "to-morrow"
had come. His would come, too, by-and-by.
What then? God alone knew whether his soul would
ever find hers, when both should be immortal.</p>

<p>Will he go back again some day to Amy Minturn?
Who can tell? Men have done such things. It will
depend on how weary the solitary way shall seem,&mdash;how
much he may long for his own fireside. At any
rate, he will never tell her the story of Pauline.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p>



<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">THE MAN WHOSE LIFE WAS SAVED.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="The_Man_whose_Life_was_Saved" id="The_Man_whose_Life_was_Saved"><span class="smcap">The Man whose Life was Saved.</span></a></h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<h3 style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;">I.</h3>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-o.jpg"
width="56" height="87" alt="o" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">O</span>N a pleasant, sunshiny afternoon of early summer,
Mlle. Lisa sat knitting in the door-way of
a white, shining house, fronting on a silent, remote
street of a garrisoned town of France, not
far distant from Paris. The street was narrow
and badly paved with sharp, irregular stones, sloping
gradually down to a point in the centre, which formed
the gutter, and at night was feebly lighted by an oil-lamp
suspended to a rope and stretched across the street
at the corners. The general aspect of the place was not
amusing, for the habitations were few and the passers-by
fewer. Long rows of high, white-washed walls, the
boundaries of gentlemen's gardens, garnished with
broken glass and pots of cactus, gave a certain monotony
to the Rue Arc en Ciel. The very blossoms of the
fruit-trees and flowering-shrubs behind the white-washed
walls, looked sleepily over their barriers, as they diffused
the contagious languor of their odors along the
silent white street. These drowsy influences, however,
seemed in no ways to diminish the carolling propensities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
of Mlle. Lisa, or to abate in any particular the ardor
of her knitting.</p>

<p>Lisa Ledru was the daughter of the <i>proprietaire</i> of
No. 29,&mdash;a worthy woman who had toiled to sustain herself
and an agreeable, sprightly husband, addicted to no
vice save that of contented idleness, through many long,
weary years, and had brought up her only child, Lisa, to
a point of prettiness and usefulness, which compensated
for past sacrifices, and promised well for the future.</p>

<p>Madame Ledru's house had been for years the abode
of <i>militaires</i>. She would occasionally condescend to the
admission of a bourgeois, but this infringement of habit
and inclination was but a condescension after all, and
left her with a certain sense of degradation, when she
exposed her stair-case, which had creaked so long under
the thundering tread of martial heel and spur, to the
mild, apologetic footstep of a man of peace. Mme. Ledru's
principles were well-known and properly appreciated
by the regiments in garrison, and her house never
lacked inmates. Her reputation for discretion and
adroitness, in bringing order out of the chaotic love affairs
which perpetually entangled the impetuous sons of
Mars, was established on the firmest basis. No lodger
was ever "at home" to an importunate creditor, so long
as madame's ample person could bar the passage to
their entrance, and no <i>tête-à-tête</i> of a tender nature was
ever interrupted by the untimely appearance of a cherished
mother or aunt, or, still worse, the jealous intrusion
of a rival queen.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>

<p>The court-yard of Mme. Ledru's house presented a
far more lively appearance than the street in which it
stood. In the centre of the court stood a large, umbrageous
tree, drooping over a stone watering-trough,
which gave drink to the numerous horses in the stable-yard
as well as to the chickens and barn-yard fowls,
who cackled and prowled about in its vicinity, as they
picked up their precarious living. At times their foraging-ground
would be enriched by a shower of crumbs
from a friendly window above, and rumor asserted that
the gallant Colonel Victor de Villeport, hero of many
campaigns, with the prestige of a wound or two, and a
compensating glitter of decorations, had so far abandoned
himself to the pastime of chicken-feeding as to
invent new methods of beguiling the monotony of the
entertainment,&mdash;such as tying morsels of bread to a
string and dancing it distractedly before the eyes of
stupid clucking hens, until experience had taught
them in a measure how to cope with this unexpected
phase of their trying existence. The stable-yard, extending
to the left of the court, was gay with the bright
military caps of orderlies, who sang snatches of vaudeville
airs, as they rubbed down their masters' steeds,
and polished up their sabres and buckles.</p>

<p>But to return to Mlle. Lisa, who sat knitting and
singing in the Porte Cochère of No. 29, on a warm summer
afternoon. Her joyous refrain ceased, for a moment,
as she heard the little gate opposite to the house,
belonging to the Countess d'Hivry's garden, creak on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
its hinges, and the next instant saw protruding the
round, red head of François, the gardener. This apparition,
though not itself enchanting, gave Mlle. Lisa, on
this occasion, the liveliest satisfaction.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, Monsieur François," she said, with a
beaming smile, as she glanced furtively at the bouquet
of flowers which was in his hand. However dull might
be the instincts of François in many things, they were
keen enough where Lisa was concerned; and, recognizing
at once the advantages of the situation, he advanced
with a profusion of bows, and a grin of ecstasy, to deposit
his tribute of flowers at the feet of his <i>adorata</i>.</p>

<p>"What beautiful taste you have in flowers, Monsieur
François," said Lisa, with a perceptible elevation of
voice, and with a sidelong glance at the stone trough in
the court-yard, whereat Ulysse, the orderly of Colonel
de Villefort, was watering his master's horse. "Mme. la
Contesse d'Hivry says that she could never give a dinner-party
without you to arrange flowers for the Jardinières,
and to furnish all that lovely fruit for dessert,
which you grow in the glass-houses."</p>

<p>"As to that," replied François, drawing himself up,
and assuming an attitude of professional dignity, which
had momentarily yielded to the all-absorbing power of
Lisa's presence, "as to that, mademoiselle, I can say,
without boasting, that the yellow roses and tulips of the
Jardin du Roi would never be known for tulips and
roses alongside of mine; though for red and white roses
I will not say so much, and the pears&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>

<p>"O mademoiselle! how lovely you are with those
flowers in your hair!" cried out the enamored gardener,
once more forgetful of his life-long enthusiasm, the pears
and roses, and only mindful of the unexpected form of
female seduction offered to his distracted gaze. "I
never knew that roses could be so beautiful," he added,
with a genuineness which would have touched any being
less merciless than a girl of eighteen, bent on piquing a
more indifferent admirer into something like jealousy.</p>

<p>"It is your roses," said Lisa, laughing, "that make
me, what you call lovely. I don't make the roses. But
what have you peeping out of your pocket?" she inquired,
fearing that the conversation was about to assume
a more tender character than she desired; "a note
I should think"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, yes! I had forgotten," said poor François, with
a sigh over his own hopeless perturbation. "It is from
Mme. la Contesse to the Colonel de Villefort, and it
was to be given without delay."</p>

<p>"Ulysse, Ulysse," cried Lisa, gladly availing herself
of this welcome diversion, "here is a note for you."</p>

<p>"Do you not see, mademoiselle," said Ulysse, pettishly,
not entirely pleased with François and his flowers,
"do you not see that I am watering the colonel's horse?
I should think, too, that the bearer of a note might deliver
it himself."</p>

<p>François, with a soothing sense of present preferment,
was about to make a good-natured reply, when the colloquy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
was terminated by a sonorous voice from an
upper window shouting, "Ulysse!"</p>

<p>"<i>Mon colonel.</i>"</p>

<p>"Saddle one of my horses immediately."</p>

<p>"Impossible to use either to-day, <i>mon colonel</i>; one
limps, and I have taken Mars to the blacksmith's, for he
cast a shoe this morning."</p>

<p>"<i>Sapeisti!</i> What am I to ride then? There is the
horse of Monsieur le Baron always at our service. He
is a nasty, stumbling thing, but if it is very pressing"&mdash;</p>

<p>Victor de Villefort looked irresolutely out of the
window, and twirled his blonde mustache. He was a
man between thirty and forty perhaps, <i>distingué</i> in manner
and bearing, and gifted with a charming sympathetic
voice.</p>

<p>"Here is a note for you, <i>mon colonel</i>," said Lisa,
glancing reproachfully at Ulysse, as she tripped lightly
across the court-yard, and passing the corridor of red
brick, mounted two flights of narrow wooden stairs to
the colonel's room.</p>

<p>"Thank you, mademoiselle," said Victor, courteously,
as he took the note. "Ulysse shall stay with me always
if you say so. Do the roses worn so gracefully on the
left side of the head, indicate consent?"</p>

<p>"I wear the roses for the sake of François, the gardener
of Madame la Contesse d'Hivry, who brings them
to me."</p>

<p>"Ah! I am always allowing myself to be taken by surprise,
Lisa," said Victor, opening his note and glancing
over its contents. "I never keep pace with fickleness."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>

<p>"But is it fickleness, <i>mon colonel</i>, to like what belongs
to the Contesse d'Hivry?" inquired Lisa, lowering
her eyes with assumed <i>naïveté</i>.</p>

<p>"For you, yes. I should say that it was. But I
dare say, with your little malicious airs, mademoiselle,
you mean more than that. But I advise you to wear
roses on the right side for Ulysse, and then tell him that
he must never leave me; and he shall not, I give you my
word," said Victor, gayly, taking up his hat and gloves
and moving to the door. "What a lucky thing," he
continued to himself as he descended the stair-case,
"that the charming countess only asks for a pedestrian
cavalier! If she had asked for a mounted escort, I
should have been forced to have recourse to this tiresome
baron here," and Victor brushed lightly against
the door of a fellow-lodger, "to have used his stumbling
horse, and then to have been bored for the rest of my
life, or of his life, about helping him to the cross of the
Legion of Honor."</p>

<p>The baron in question was a retired <i>militaire</i>, who,
inspired with an insatiable thirst for fame, was writing
a military history of France. His chief claims to notice
appeared to be the possession of a stumbling horse, and
an overwhelming greed of decorations.</p>

<p>As Victor mused over the consequences of an incautious
acceptance of the baron's steed, and over the base
intrigues in which a pursuit of the coveted cross might
involve him, his brow darkened, and his step grew
heavier.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p>


<h3 style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">II.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> drawing-room of the Contesse d'Hivry was a
comfortable, social-looking apartment, though with too
great abandon in the matter of furniture and decorations,
to claim to be a model of any particular epoch.
The well-polished floors and numerous mirrors reflected
back the sun's rays, which sometimes penetrated
through the fragrant vines shading the windows.
Bright oriental rugs were at the feet of yellow damask
ottomans, and the etagères and tables were covered with
rare bronzes, costly bits of porcelain, alabaster, and goblets
of crystal. But the appointments of the room
seemed never so complete as when the countess herself
was seated in the embrasure of one of the windows, as
she was on this occasion, working at her embroidery or
her aquarelles. Mathilde d'Hivry enjoyed the deserved
reputation of being irresistibly charming. She
was nothing in excess. She was not very young, nor
very rich, nor very handsome, nor very clever. But she
was exactly what every one desired that she should be
at the moment. No one could precisely define why
they left her presence in a complacent mood and in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
friendly attitude towards the whole human race. Such
being the case, however, her society was naturally
sought for, and reluctantly abandoned. As the countess
sat this afternoon, listlessly and idly before her
aquarelles, quite disinclined for work, and leaning her
little head with its great coils of black braids wearily on
her hands, her eyes rested mechanically on a miniature
likeness near her. The miniature was that of a young
man, well-featured, well dressed, well <i>frisé</i>, and well-painted.
Under the sober tint of the beard and hair
was the suggestion of a more fiery hue,&mdash;the red of the
ancient Gaul,&mdash;just as in the mild brown eyes lurked
the possibility of a flash of "<i>furia Francese</i>," the savage
ferocity which centuries of civilization and good manners
have only smothered in the modern Frenchman,
and which shows itself any day in the blouses, as it
might in the time of Charlemagne, in spite of their
surroundings of millinery, cookery, hair-dressing, and
the art of dancing. These reflections, however, were
not in the least the source of Mathilde's preoccupation.
After a prolonged contemplation of the young gentleman's
miniature, she exclaimed petulantly, "Why should
my aunt and uncle urge me to marry again, especially
Armand?" always regarding the brown eyes of the
miniature. "He looks mild enough there on ivory.
But I can imagine him clothed with the authority of a
husband, making scenes of jealousy, interfering, dictating,
and being quite insupportable. I like him too well
to expose him to such temptations. We are much better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
as we are. There is De Villefort. He is more solid,
and more simple in character, but terribly in earnest, I
should say. And they say he will never marry. Some
disappointment in the past, or some hope for the future
will keep him as he is,&mdash;so they say, at least;" and she
fell into another revery, which was finally interrupted
by a servant announcing the Colonel de Villefort.</p>

<p>"Oh! I am so glad that you could come to-day," said
the countess, resuming her wonted gayety. "Do you
share my wish for a stroll in the park this afternoon,
whilst the band is playing?"</p>

<p>"I always share your wishes, dear countess, and am
too happy when I may share your pleasures."</p>

<p>"That is almost a compliment, I should say, and you
think yourself incapable of paying one. Why do you
never pay compliments?"</p>

<p>"I will tell you, if you will, in return, tell me why the
portrait of Monsieur Armand is always so near your
favorite seat."</p>

<p>"The reason is, I suppose," said the countess, laughing,
"that I am so used to it, that I am quite unconscious
whether it is there or not."</p>

<p>"Then I will tell you why I rarely pay you compliments,&mdash;because
I like you too well."</p>

<p>"So you can only compliment those whom you dislike?"</p>

<p>"On the contrary, those to whom I am indifferent."</p>

<p>"But Colonel de Villefort," exclaimed the countess,
gravely tying on her white bonnet before the mirror<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
and observing, with satisfaction, that the soft white lace
brought out the lustre of her rich hair and her clear
gray eyes, "do you know that public opinion decides
that you will never marry?"</p>

<p>"Public opinion, perhaps, is wise enough to decide,
because I never have married, that I never shall," replied
De Villefort, offering his arm to the countess as
they passed through the door.</p>

<p>"There is certainly a reason for such a supposition in
your case,&mdash;for you have had inducements to marry."
The colonel was grave and thoughtful, and, for a few
moments, they walked on in silence until the sound of
music roused him from a revery which Mathilde cared
not to disturb. "We are in the park now," he said, at
last, "and almost in the midst of 'public opinion,'" he
added laughing; "but, after the music, if you are not
too tired for a stroll in the Jardin du Roi, I will tell you
some incidents of my early life, and you shall judge
whether I can marry."</p>

<p>"Oh! thank you," said the countess, eagerly and
gratefully, more with her eyes than her voice, for the
latter was quite lost in a blast of Roland à Roncevaux
from the trumpets of one of the imperial bands. The
afternoon being warm, the band was ranged in a circle
under the protecting shade of the great, careless old
trees; but the sun's rays penetrated here and there
through their branches, throwing a golden light on the
curls of rosy children frolicking on the green grass,
casting an aureole of glory around the heads of gray-haired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
old men, and glittering in the epaulets of flighty
young officers. There were knots of people grouped
about in every direction,&mdash;French girls, by the side of
their chaperons, immersed in needle-work; imperious
English misses staring haughtily at the officers; ladies
of opulent financial circles, in striking toilets of the
last mode, fresh from Paris, and a few relics of the
"<i>Ancienne Noblesse</i>," plainly attired, and looking curiously
and, perhaps, disdainfully from their small exclusive
<i>coterie</i>, at all this bourgeois splendor. Old women
with weather-beaten, parchment faces, under neat frilled
caps, were possibly retrieving, in their old age, the errors
of a stormy youth, by carrying on the "<i>Service des
chaises</i>." Others were plying a brisk trade among the
children by the sale of cakes, plaisirs, and parlor balloons.</p>

<p>Joining a group of acquaintances, Victor fastidiously
placed Mathilde's chair in a position sheltered from inconvenient
sunlight, in proper proximity to the music,
and where no dust could tarnish the hem of her floating
immaculate robe. In these commonplace "<i>petits soins</i>,"
common enough in the life of any woman of society,
Mathilde recognized a spirit of sincere devotion and
protecting affection, which gave her, at the same time, a
thrill of joy, and an undefined sense of apprehension
and lingering regret. The Contesse d'Hivry passed,
in the world's estimation, as a model of happiness, and,
in one sense, she was happy. Gifted with health, a
kindly, joyous nature, a due share of worldly advantages,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
and an easy philosophy which enabled her to
accept cheerfully all daily cares and petty vexations, she
was to be envied. But she had, as we all have, her own
particular demon, who was fond of drawing aside a dark,
impenetrable curtain, and showing her, in a vision of exceeding
loveliness, the might-have-beens, and the might-be,
of this deceptive life, and just as she would rush
forward to seize on these delicious illusions, they would
straightway vanish, leaving her to stare once more
hopelessly at the same dark, impenetrable curtain. As
the countess looked out beyond the great trees at the
velvet sward of the Tapis Vert, at the orange-shrubs in
their green boxes, at the rows of antique statues on their
solitary perches, leading to the great fountain, and then
the broad massive steps leading at last to the distant
château, she wondered whether the little demon of "<i>le
grand Monarque</i>," who had cooked in his majesty's
behalf so many pleasant scenes, had ever the audacity
to drop, unbidden, the dark curtain before his royal eyes.
Whatever had been done, or left undone, in the case of
"<i>le grand Monarque</i>," the demon had conjured up spectacles
for some of his successors, which had not been so
pleasant. It had not been the fate of all to look from
their bed of state, with dying eyes, on the finer alleys,
the shining lake, and the peaceful grandeur of the royal
grounds. The curtain had been drawn once for a sleeping
queen, and had revealed so dreadful a picture, that
she had fled from her bed at midnight to escape it. The
demon, wearied with the eternal scene of the marquis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
and marquise, in powder and high heels, bowing and
mincing before their Great King, had chosen to vary his
pleasures by calling up the old forgotten Gaul, with his
red beard and his ferocious eye, to storm and rage at
the château gates.</p>

<p>Mathilde had wandered so far away with her demon
and his pictures, that she was astonished, in turning her
eyes, to find Victor gazing at her with a look of troubled
inquiry. The music had changed its character, and the
triumphal strains of Roland à Roncevaux had given
place to a plaintive melody of the Favorita, and Mathilde,
glad to know her secret thoughts thus interrogated
by Victor, threw them aside and became once more the
gay and talkative Contesse d'Hivry.</p>

<p>"How gay you are now," said Victor, acountess, just as the last strains of the Favorita had
died away, "when I am quite the reverse. I never can
listen to that duo without feeling its meaning,&mdash;from
association, perhaps; for it is connected with a happy and
still painful part of my life. Shall we walk now?"
said Victor, as the countess made her adieus to her
friends, and, taking his arm, they sauntered away to the
Jardin du Roi.</p>

<p>"You sang that duo once," said Mathilde, half-inquiringly,
"and I know more than you think of your past
life, for I will tell you with whom?"</p>

<p>"You knew her, then?" asked Victor.</p>

<p>"Yes, I knew Pauline D'Arblay, slightly, but I have
never seen her since her marriage, as Pauline Dusantoy."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>

<p>"She is quite unchanged, at least she was when I last
saw her, some years ago, and I think that she can never
change," said Victor, enthusiastically. "She must always
be beautiful, as she is good, and her native purity,
I believe, must always resist the attacks of the world,
and leave her unscathed from contamination."</p>

<p>"Where is she now?" asked the countess, after a few
moments of silence; for in proportion to the warmth
evinced by Victor in recalling these memories of the
past, his companion was chilled into quiet reflections.</p>

<p>"In Algiers, I suppose," replied Victor, "where her
husband, General Dusantoy, has been for years past."</p>

<p>"My enthusiasm for Pauline is only surpassed by my
affection and reverence for her husband. I have known
Dusantoy and have loved him from my earliest childhood,
and have received from him more proofs of undeviating
friendship and unwearied devotion than I can
ever repay. He has saved my life, too, though he unwittingly
took from me, what I believed at that time to
be all that made life desirable," said Victor sadly, as
they approached the palings of the Jardin Du Roi,
through which the red and yellow roses and peonies,
confident in their gorgeousness, were nodding their heads
insolently at the <i>gens d'arme</i>, who paced listlessly before
the gate. The verbenas and pansies, equally brilliant
but less flaunting, were dotted about in compact
groups in the parterres and on the lawn. The statue,
surmounting the column in the centre of the lawn,
blackened and defaced by the wear and tear of years,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
looked down grimly from its pedestal, as if to impose
silence on all beneath. So that the jardin, in its absolute
repose, found little favor in the eyes of children and
nurses, who respectively chose for their gambols and
their flirtations some more joyous and expansive locality.
Its sole occupants on this occasion were an elderly
priest, too much absorbed in his breviary to be conscious
of the rustling of Mathilde's dress as she passed
him, together with a pensive soldier, who possibly
sought diversion from the pangs of unrequited affection
by tracing with a penknife, on the stone bench
which he occupied, an accurate outline of his sword.</p>

<p>"You knew Pauline d'Arblay as a child," said the
countess to Victor, as they seated themselves on a bench
at the extremity of the lawn.</p>

<p>"Yes, we were brought up together,&mdash;that is, our
families were very intimate. She was the only child of
her parents, and I was the youngest of a large family;
but as my brothers and sisters were much older than
myself, and Pauline was nearer my age, we were always
together, and, until I was sent to college, she was my
constant playmate."</p>

<p>"You must regard her as a sister, then," said Mathilde.
"Remembrances of childish intimacy and souvenirs
of soiled pinafores and soiled faces, I should think,
would always be destructive of romance."</p>

<p>"It might be so, if the transformation of later years
did not suggest other sentiments,&mdash;sentiments which,
unhappily for us, were only understood when too late<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
for our mutual happiness. I had scarcely seen Pauline
since our days of hide-and-seek in the château grounds,
until I finished my course at St. Cyr, and returned a
sub-lieutenant, to find that Pauline, the child of the
pinafore, as you say, had expanded into a lovely and
lovable girl. At that age, however, I believe that few
can experience a serious passion. Curiosity and inexperience
of life prevent concentration on any one object,
and make us incapable of estimating things at their
proper value. At college, too, I had formed a romantic
friendship for one of my classmates,&mdash;Dusantoy,&mdash;and
the ardor of this sentiment occupied me entirely, to the
exclusion of all others. Dusantoy had a rich uncle, who
had purchased a large estate in the vicinity of our châteaux.
He came to visit his uncle, but passed his time
naturally with me. Pauline shared our walks and our
drives. We read to her as she embroidered or sewed,
and she sang to us in the summer twilight. We were
very gay and <i>insouciant</i> in those days, little dreaming
that our innocent affection would give place to a mad
passion, that would one day separate us eternally, and
fill our lives with unsatisfied longings. It was not until
some time after, that a winter passed by us both in the
gay world of Paris revealed to me the nature of my
love for Pauline. A jealous fear took possession of me.
Seeing her the object of universal homage and admiration
induced me to declare my love. She had already
discarded wealthy and brilliant suitors; and for my
sake. But, alas! I was the cadet of the family, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
only a good name, my sword, <i>et voila tout</i>! Pauline's
mamma was more prudent than her daughter and myself.
Circumstances favored her, and separated us. I
was ordered to Africa, and Pauline returned to the château;
but we parted hopefully and confidently, vowing
eternal constancy. When we next met, she was the
wife of another man, and that man was my best friend,
Dusantoy."</p>

<p>"<i>Mon pauvre ami</i>," said Mathilde, almost inaudibly,
and her hand unconsciously rested on his. He pressed
it to his lips, and they were both silent. Victor's
wound was deep as ever; but the poignancy of such a
grief is already much diminished when the consoling
voice of another woman and the pressure of her hand
can soothe for an instant the anguish of the past.</p>

<p>"You know, dear Mathilde," continued Victor, "the
history of Pauline's misfortunes,&mdash;the sudden death of
her parents, her father's embarrassments and insolvency,
and how on his death-bed he implored his only child to
save the honor of his name by accepting the hand of a
man in every way worthy of her, and who, at his uncle's
recent death, had come into possession of an immense
fortune, a portion of a Conte d'Arblay's forfeited estate.
I was in Africa when the news came to me that
Pauline was affianced to Dusantoy. But I heard it
without a murmur; for I heard it from Dusantoy's own
lips. He had been sent to Algiers on an important
mission, and came to confide in me in all the rapture
and ecstasy of his love. Nothing makes one so selfish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
and inconsiderate as an absorbing happiness. Besides,
poor Dusantoy believed my love for Pauline to
be purely fraternal. In my grief and despair, I believed
once that I must tell him that he was robbing me of my
sole treasure and hope in life; but, fortunately for him,&mdash;for
us both, perhaps, for I should never have ceased
to repent such an act of cowardice,&mdash;I was seized with
brain fever, and for some time my life was despaired
of. Meanwhile, Dusantoy, with characteristic devotion,
postponed his return to France and to Pauline, that he
might watch over me; and to his untiring assiduity and
unceasing care I undoubtedly owe my recovery. But
that is not all. Another accident befell me, which
would unquestionably have proved fatal to my existence
had not the skill and courage of Dusantoy again
interposed to save me. At the beginning of my convalescence,
when I was first able to walk a few steps in
the open air, I was one day pacing the court-yard of
the house where I lodged, when a low, suppressed roar
struck my ear, and turning my head, I saw that a large
lion had entered the open door-way, and was standing
within a few paces of me. My first emotion was not
that of terror,&mdash;not the same which I see on your face
at this moment, <i>chère contesse</i>" said Victor, laughing;
"for I recognized the animal as a tame, well-conducted
lion belonging to a gentleman living in the outskirts of
the city, and was about to approach him, when the sight
of blood trickling from a wound in his side, and the
menacing look of his eye, warned me to retreat. Escape<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
by the outer door was impossible, as well as entrance
to the house, for the lion barred the passage
which led to both doors; but I thought of a gate leading
to a side street, which was now my only means of
flight. With feeble, tottering steps I had gained this
point, and in another instant should have made my escape;
but, by a singular fatality, the gate was bolted.
I  had neither strength to force it nor agility to scale the
wall. The lion, irritated by his wound, and excited, as I
found afterwards, by previous pursuit, followed me with
another ominous roar and a look of hostility far from
encouraging to one in my position.</p>

<p>"Of all that followed I have but a confused idea. I
was weak and ill,&mdash;my brain reeled; but I remember
that, as the lion was about to spring, a violent blow
made him turn with a snarl of rage, and spring towards
a new adversary,&mdash;Dusantoy,&mdash;who stood, gun in hand,
in the centre of the court-yard. Then the report of a
fire-arm, and I can recall nothing further. Dusantoy
was an admirable shot, took cool aim, and hit the lion
in the heart. Pauline and I fancied that we felt the
recoil of the weapon in our own hearts for many a long
day afterwards. But perhaps it was mere fancy," said
Victor, lightly, as he watched the cheek of the countess
growing paler as he spoke.</p>

<p>"To end my long story," continued Victor, "after
these experiences I took a voyage to reëstablish my
health; and, when I returned, I spent a week in the
same house with General Dusantoy and his wife. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
was heroic on my part; but I could stay no longer, and I
have never seen them since. And now you understand,
<i>chère contesse</i>, why I have never married."</p>

<p>"I understand for the past? Yes," said Mathilde,
rising from her seat; "but the future"&mdash;her sentence
terminated in a shrug.</p>

<p>The last rays of sunlight were gilding the head of the
statue on the lawn; the priest had closed his book, and,
with the swift, noiseless tread of his order, had glided
from the garden; the melancholy soldier had girded his
sword about him, after leaving its dimensions gracefully
reproduced on the bench where he sat, and had followed
the priest; the evening air was damp and chill, and Victor
drew Mathilde's shawl around her with tender care.</p>

<p>"You are tired, dear Mathilde," said Victor. "You
are pale; I have wearied you with my long stories,
<i>Appuyez vous bien sur moi</i>," and he drew her arm
through his, as they turned their steps homeward.</p>

<p>"You have made me so happy to-day!" said Victor,
as they approached the house of the countess. "Will
you give me some souvenir of this afternoon,&mdash;the
ribbon that you wear?"</p>

<p>"We will make an exchange then," said Mathilde,
laughingly, as she handed the ribbon. "I will give a
ribbon for the flowers in your button-hole; and we will
see who is most true to their colors."</p>

<p>A passionate pressure of the hand and a lingering
kiss on Mathilde's primrose gloves were the only reply,
and they parted. The delicate odor of the primrose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
gloves lingered with Victor, as he sauntered homeward
in the dim twilight. The earnest, almost appealing,
look of Mathilde, as he parted from her, haunted him.</p>

<p>"Could I ever forget and be happy?" he asked of
himself. The very idea seemed to him an unpardonable
infidelity,&mdash;a culpable forgetfulness of past memories,
which lowered him in his own estimation. At the corner
of the Rue Arc en Ciel he encountered Mlle. Lisa,
hanging contentedly on the arm of Ulysse. Poor
François and his flowers were forgotten at that moment,
and Lisa had abandoned herself to the delights of
allaying a jealousy successfully roused in the heart of
the gallant Ulysse by her recent tactics.</p>

<p>"<i>Mon colonel</i>," said Ulysse, "a lady has called twice
to see you in your absence. The last time she waited
a long while in your room, and finally left a note,
which she said was important and must be handed to
you at once."</p>

<p>"A lady! Who can it be? My venerable maiden
aunt, I suppose," said Victor, shrugging his shoulders,
"who has lost her vicious, snarling poodle,&mdash;a wretched
brute that always bites my legs, when I dare to venture
them in my aunt's snuff-colored saloon, and that I am
expected to find for her now, by virtue of my name of
Villefort."</p>

<p>"The lady is young, handsome, and in widow's
weeds," said Ulysse, half in reply to his colonel's muttered
soliloquy, as he ran before him and vanished
into the court-yard of No. 29, in search of the note.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p>

<p>The twilight deepened and thickened on the silent little
street. The oil lamp, hanging from the rope at the
corner, was lighted, but its feeble rays only penetrated a
short distance, leaving the rest wrapt in mystery and
gloom, and the gate opening from the Contesse d'Hivry's
garden, François' portal of happiness, through which he
passed into the blissful presence of his Lisa, was scarcely
discernible. The evening was clear and fine, however,
the stars were beginning to glimmer in the sky,
and a faint band of light in the east was growing every
moment into glistening silver, under the rays of the coming
moon.</p>

<p>After parting with Victor, Mathilde entered the
<i>salon</i>, and, throwing herself languidly into a chair, recalled
with feminine minuteness the events and conversation
of the afternoon, until oppressed with the light
and warmth of the house, she sought refuge in the cool
air of the <i>balcon</i>, and, leaning on the balustrade, looked
dreamily through the honeysuckle vines at the parterres
and lawn beyond. The meditations of the countess,
however, were not exclusively romantic, in spite
of the languid grace of her attitude, and the poetic abstraction
of her gaze. She was fortifying herself against
an attack of imprudent tenderness, by sternly picturing
to herself all the practical disadvantages of a marriage
of inclination. Could she incur the lasting displeasure
of her aunt and uncle by marrying any one save her
cousin Armand? Could she sacrifice the half of her
fortune, which was the penalty of such a caprice of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
heart, and sink into comparative poverty? The souvenir
of a single phrase, however, in the tender inflection
of a manly voice,&mdash;"<i>Appuyez vous bien sur moi</i>,"
was ever present to her memory quickening the beatings
of her heart, and bringing the warm blood to her
cheeks. The moon had risen, pouring a flood of silver
light over François' roses, and the pots of cactus
on the garden-wall. The countess strolled into the garden,
and, fancying that she heard a whispered conversation
proceeding from the little gate leading into the
Rue Arc en Ciel, she turned her footsteps in that direction.</p>

<p>"Is that you, Lisa?" asked the countess, rightly suspecting
that the muslin dress, fluttering in the moonlight,
could belong to none other than the daughter of the
worthy Mme. Ledru, and that she was about to surprise
a <i>tête-à-tête</i> between the coquettish Lisa, and her
gardener, the enamored François.</p>

<p>"Yes, madame," said Lisa, "can I be of any service?"</p>

<p>The countess shared poor François' partiality for
Lisa. Her bright eyes and shining hair were pleasant
to look at, and her quick wit and cheerful voice made her
a nice companion, and then she enjoyed the inestimable
privilege of living in the same house with Victor de
Villefort. Perhaps some bit of intelligence concerning
him would escape her,&mdash;whatever it might be, Mathilde
knew that it would be of thrilling interest to her. If
there was to be a morning-parade the following day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
Mathilde would go to the <i>Terrain de Man&oelig;uvre</i>, to
see her hero "<i>en grande tenue</i>," in the staff of the General.</p>

<p>"What a beautiful moonlight, Lisa! Will you walk
with me towards the lake? Fetch my shawl first from
the house."</p>

<p>"Here it is, madame," said Lisa, quite breathless, as
she returned with the shawl, and wrapped it around
Mathilde. François unbarred the gate and they stepped
into the street.</p>

<p>"I should like to know, madame, what has befallen
the Colonel de Villefort this evening," said Lisa, divining
with tact the role she was destined to play.</p>

<p>"What has happened?" asked Mathilde, with ill-feigned
unconcern.</p>

<p>"We cannot imagine, madame. But this afternoon,
during the absence of Colonel de Villefort, a lady in
deep mourning, young and handsome, called to see him.
Finding that he was not at home, she left a note for him,
and when the colonel read it, he was wild with excitement,
and called to Ulysse for his horse. The horse was
lame, and not fit for use, and the colonel swore, for the
first time, I think since he has been in our house. That
is saying a great deal for a <i>militaire</i>, madame. Ulysse
has never seen the lady before. The colonel never receives
any lady but his aunt the Marquise de Villefort,
and that is also saying a great deal for a <i>militaire</i>,&mdash;is
it not, madame?"</p>

<p>"Well, did he get a horse?" asked Mathilde, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
severity which astonished Lisa, in the unconsciousness
of her childish babble.</p>

<p>"Yes, madame; there is the horse of a queer baron,
who lives with us, who often puts his horse at the disposal
of Monsieur le Colonel. The horse stumbles too,
but the colonel mounted him and rode off in furious
haste."</p>

<p>"Who can she be?" asked the countess with an anxiety
impossible to repress. "Did he take this direction
when he rode away?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, he rode toward the lake. But take
care, take care, madame!" shrieked Lisa, as the furious
clatter of a horse's hoofs on the pavement warned her
of danger. They had barely time to take refuge in an
open door-way, before a riderless horse dashed past them.</p>

<p>"'Tis the baron's horse,&mdash;and the colonel, madame.
<i>Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!</i> What has become of him?
Let me run for Ulysse."</p>

<p>"And I will go on to the lake," said the countess; "perhaps."</p>

<p>"Not alone, madame," exclaimed Lisa.</p>

<p>But the countess had already disappeared under the
shadow of the houses, and Lisa, equally fleet of foot,
vanished in the opposite direction, in search of Ulysse.
Mathilde hurried on,&mdash;whither she knew not. A blind
instinct stronger than reason warned her that delay
would be fatal, and that the life, grown to be so precious
in her eyes, was awaiting her coming, flickering
and failing, perhaps, as it hovered near death, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
was for her to avert. She redoubled her pace, and flew
through the silent street, where she had passed but a few
hours before leaning on Victor's arm. She saw the lake
before her, calm and silvery. There was a hill to descend,
and at the foot, by the side of the lake, was a loose pile
of stones. She sprang forward to pick up something in
the road. It was a riding-whip which she knew well
and had handled a hundred times. For an instant she
was motionless, her head swam, and her eyes closed to
shut out the sight of a prostrate form, lying at her feet
so still and calm in the white moonlight. She knew
that, too. She knew well the blonde hair stained with
blood, trickling from a wound near the temple; and with
a wild cry for help, Mathilde raised the head, half-buried
in mud and water, and gazed despairingly at the closed
eyes and rigid features of Victor de Villefort.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>


<h3 style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">III.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> autumn days had come again, and the sun shone
on heaps of dried brown leaves, which went whirling
about in the Rue Arc en Ciel, with every gust of wind.
Mlle. Lisa was in her accustomed seat in the door-way,
No. 29, with shining hair and rosy cheeks, absorbed in
the customary knitting, but still capable of casting sly
glances in the direction whence François or Ulysse
might finally appear. She was not fated to languish
long in solitude, for the faithful François, never sufficiently
confident of his personal attractions to present
himself empty-handed before the object of his admiration,
was soon standing by her side, fortified with a propitiatory
offering of grapes.</p>

<p>"O François," exclaimed Lisa, "how glad I am to see
you! Has Mme. la Contesse really gone?"</p>

<p>"Yes, she has gone," replied François. "Monsieur
Armand and the aunt of madame have accompanied her.
But you should have seen her pale face, all covered with
tears. It would have made you weep, too, Mlle. Lisa,
for it made me. Just think, mademoiselle, she never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
once tasted of the grapes that I picked for her this morning,
and placed so neatly in a little basket."</p>

<p>And poor François groaned audibly over this conclusive
proof of the countess's changed and melancholy
condition.</p>

<p>"Ah, poor madame, she has been so ill! But why
did she go, then?" asked Lisa.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Armand and her aunt told her that she
would never get well here, and that she needed change
of air, and so they hurried her away,&mdash;only giving her
time to write a few lines to your colonel, whose life is
not worth saving, if he cannot love Mme. la Contesse.
Here is the packet for Colonel de Villefort."</p>

<p>"Yes, it was very brave and good of madame," said
Lisa, "to find the colonel, and to pull his head out of
the water. He must have suffocated, so says the doctor,
if madame had not found him when she did. But there
is some mystery about the handsome lady in deep mourning.
I know who she is. She is the widow of General
Dusantoy, who lately died in Algiers; and she came every
day to inquire for Colonel de Villefort, when he was not
expected to live; but since he is better, I have seen no
more of her."</p>

<p>"Well, I will say again," said François, "that if your
colonel finds the lady handsomer and better than Mme.
la Contesse, then madame had better left his head in the
water."</p>

<p>Whilst Victor and his affairs were thus discussed below-stairs
with the intelligence and fairness usually developed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
in such discussions, he sat in his room above, pale
and thin, the shadow of his former self,&mdash;twisting his
blonde mustache, and gazing moodily through the window
at distant hills, all brown and yellow with autumn
leaves and autumn sunlight. His meditations were far
from cheerful. People were perpetually saving his life.
Here was a new dilemma: Pauline free once more,&mdash;free
and true to her early love. Happiness once more in
his grasp; but Mathilde&mdash;was not his honor half-engaged,
as were his feelings a few weeks since? Could
he so readily forget all that had passed between them,
and all that he owed her? Could he repay the debt of
his life by vapid excuses or by cold desertion? He
gazed mechanically at colored prints of Abelard and
Heloise, hanging side by side on the wall, and hoped
that inspiration, or at least consolation, might descend
on him from these victims of unhappy passion. But
in Abelard's face he looked in vain for anything beyond
conceited pedantry, and Heloise was too much absorbed
in her own mighty resignation to trouble herself concerning
the woes of others. A tap at the door roused
him at last from this unprofitable contemplation, and in
reply to his "<i>entrez</i>," the bright face of Mlle. Lisa appeared
at the open door.</p>

<p>"<i>Bon jour</i>, monsieur; here is a letter from Mme. la
Contesse d'Hivry, who has gone this morning with her
aunt and Monsieur Armand," and Lisa paused to notice
the effect of her abrupt announcement.</p>

<p>"Gone!" said Victor, with unfeigned astonishment.
"Where has she gone?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>

<p>But Lisa observed that the hand of the colonel, as he
opened the packet, was, in spite of recent illness, ominously
steady, and that the surprise naturally occasioned
by the news of the countess's departure was quite unmingled
with the grief and despair which mademoiselle
had kindly hoped to evoke. If she had dared, however,
to remain until the opening of the packet, her curiosity
and interest would have been rewarded by observing
Victor's start of pained surprise as a faded flower fell
from the open letter, and his sigh of genuine regret as
the memory of the last happy day passed with Mathilde
d'Hivry came to him in full force, effacing, for the
moment, all trace of his recent reflections, and investing
the image of Mathilde with all the poetical charm of an
unattainable dream of happiness. She was no longer
an obstacle in the fulfilment of his life-long hopes,&mdash;hopes
persistently cherished, yet cruelly baffled. He
looked wistfully at the faded flower as he crushed it in
his hand, and recalled their last parting, and though the
souvenirs of the day&mdash;the flower from his button-hole,
and the ribbon which she had worn&mdash;had been lightly
exchanged and laughingly given, he knew well that the
worthless relic, which he now crumbled into dust and
threw from the window, would have been tenderly kept
and treasured in good faith, had his destiny so willed it.
Victor turned sadly to the letter which lay before him,
in Mathilde's delicate writing. It began cheerfully
enough, however, as her letters were wont to do.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span></p>

<p>"I cannot leave you, dear Victor, without a word of
parting, and I fear that a personal interview between
invalids, like ourselves, might not conduce to our mutual
recovery. In my own case, absolute change of air
and scene are ordered, together with perfect quiet and
rest. The one is easily gained by going to Italy; but do
we ever attain the other? or would we attain it, if we
could? When we next meet, for we must meet some
day, <i>mon ami</i>, we shall know, by looking in each other's
eyes, how obedient we have been to our physician's advice,
and how great has been its efficacy. The climate
of Paris will heal in your case, dear Victor, all that
time has left unhealed, and I shall prepare for your
coming, by making a visit of explanations as well as of
adieus. Lest you find this enigmatical, I must explain,
that certain rumors concerning us, so rife in our little
town, have reached the ears of one who daily awaits you
in Paris. I shall see Pauline Dusantoy, and dissipate
all doubts, by announcing my immediate departure for
Italy. I send you a faded rose-bud, which you may remember
in all its freshness, and which I have no heart
to throw away. But you know how jealous Armand is.
Adieu, dear Victor, my hope in the future is, that the
life which I have just seen trembling on the brink of
eternity, may be crowned with full and perfect happiness.
Adieu."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Colonel de Villefort was still weak and easily moved,
and a choking sensation in the throat made him quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
uncomfortable, as he placed carefully in a little drawer
the letter which he had just read. He was still haunted
by a wistful look of soft and winning eyes, and he seemed
to hear the whispered adieu of a silvery voice, whose
pure tones had so often charmed and soothed him. Is
the adieu eternal? he asked himself. I think not, for I
want no nobler and truer friend for my Pauline than the
Contesse d'Hivry, and Pauline will hold sacred as myself
the debt of gratitude due to the woman who has saved
my life. But the idea of marrying Monsieur Armand!
To be sure he is handsome, rich, well-connected, and has
a certain charm in conversation, but quite incapable of
appreciating so noble a being as Mathilde; and then
what want of taste on her part! Victor's impatience
was changing rapidly into indignation, at the thought of
the Contesse d'Hivry presuming to marry, or trying to
be happy, when another knock at the door changed the
current of his thoughts. This time it was Ulysse
and not Lisa who was the bearer of a letter, covered
with armorial bearings, and addressed with many flourishes
to Colonel de Villefort.</p>

<p>"What does the German baron want now?" said
Victor, with an impatient shrug as he glanced at the
writing, "after breaking my neck with his wretched
brute of a horse? He sends many compliments of congratulation
to Monsieur le Colonel for his rapid recovery
after the deplorable accident, etc., etc., etc. And as he
understands that Monsieur le Colonel contemplates a visit
to Paris, the moment that his health permits, may Monsieur<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
le Baron hope for his gracious intercession in his behalf,
that he may at last receive the reward of merit, the
much-desired cross of the Legion of Honor. Just as I
supposed," said Victor, laughing. "It would save me
much trouble and mental agony to give him mine, only
I remember that Pauline has a weakness for these baubles."</p>

<p>"<i>Mon colonel</i>, may I say a word?" asked Ulysse,
awkwardly, turning the door-knob to keep himself in
countenance. "Mlle. Lisa"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Is that the word, my good Ulysse?" said Victor,
waiting in vain for Ulysse to complete his sentence. "I
understand that you should think it the only word worth
uttering, and I think you quite right. There is only
poor François, who may object to have his heart broken.
Lisa is a nice girl, and I have promised her that you
should not leave me."</p>

<p>"Thank you, <i>Mon colonel</i>," said Ulysse, glowing
with exultation and triumphant pride.</p>

<p>"Now pack my portmanteau. I shall go to Paris
to-morrow in the early train."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />


<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="The_Romance_of_a_Western_Trip" id="The_Romance_of_a_Western_Trip"><span class="smcap">The Romance of a Western Trip.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg"
width="51" height="85" alt="t" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">T</span>HE two following letters, received by me in the
year 1852, will explain themselves.</p>

<blockquote>

<p style="margin-top: 2em;">"<span class="smcap">My dear W&mdash;&mdash;</span>: When I left you at
the depot in Boston, and was whirled away
westward, I knew not from what point I should address
you. I promised you, on the last evening that we
passed together, that from time to time I would, for
your delectation, give you an account of any adventure
I might chance to meet with in my wanderings; as, also,
to try my hand at pen-and-ink sketches of men and
manners.</p>

<p>"Could you appreciate my surroundings, you would
give me credit for a truthful adherence to my word.
As to where I am at this present writing, I cannot say.
In order to understand why I make so strange a statement,
I must begin my story some weeks back, and
narrate an incident that befell me, and led to the penning
of this epistle.</p>

<p>"The month of May, in our northern climate, needs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
no laudation as to its charms; and, after a sojourn of
many years in your crowded city, I was fully prepared
to appreciate all the beauty of this spring-time among
the wilds of Michigan. Therefore, after leaving Detroit
for the interior, I soon found (as the days were growing
much warmer) that it would be wisdom for me to discard
most of the luggage with which I had encumbered
myself; as, by so doing, I could, as it were, cut loose
from dependence upon vehicles of all descriptions; and,
when my desires pointed that way, or a necessity arose,
I could make use of those powers of locomotion with
which nature has endowed me. Therefore, at the termination
of the stage-route at H&mdash;&mdash;, I selected a few
indispensable articles, and, transferring them to a knapsack,
sent back my trunk to an acquaintance at Detroit,
with a request to hold it subject to my order, and prepared
myself for rough travelling in the interior, or, as
a New Englander would denominate it, 'the backwoods.'</p>

<p>"At the country tavern, in which I abode as a guest
from Saturday until Monday, I made inquiries of the
landlord as to the route I was to take, and the nature of
the roads between H&mdash;&mdash; and the town of N&mdash;&mdash;, which
I desired to visit. My host, a shrewd, bright-eyed little
man of forty, and a former resident of New Hampshire,
lowered his brows, and assumed a dubious look as he listened
to me; and, on my asking for an explanation of this
change of countenance, informed me that, had I money of
any amount about my person, I had better look to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
availability of my pistols, and pay particular attention to
the company I might fall in with; for, within the past two
years, a number of travellers had been relieved of their
possessions, and two of them murdered on the roads I
should be under the necessity of passing over. The
country being sparsely settled, the officers of the law
had been unable to trace the perpetrators of these acts
of felony. I listened to these details with much uneasiness,
for, on leaving Boston, I had, by an acquaintance,
been intrusted with a package of three hundred dollars,
to deliver to Judge Perry, of N&mdash;&mdash;, to meet some payments
becoming due on a purchase of pine lands; in
addition, I had upon my person some means of my own,
the loss of which would indeed be a calamity of a serious
nature, as I was too far away from friends to avail
myself of their good services. I assumed an air of ease,
however, which I was far from feeling, and left my loquacious
friend, laughing defiance at all the dangers of
the way. I had been unable to obtain a conveyance
at anything like a reasonable rate; therefore, as the
weather was so charming, had determined to undertake
the journey of seventy miles on foot, trusting to obtain
a ride from such travellers I might chance now and then
to meet going westward. For two days, I pressed cheerfully
forward, being kindly welcomed to a supper and bed
in the cabin of the settlers. The roads were rough, and at
places illy defined, and I was often at fault as to my route;
this, and want of practice as a pedestrian, made my progress
slow. As the evening of the third day drew near, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
judged I must still be some twenty or twenty-five miles
from my destination. I was ascending a hill over the
worst road that I had yet encountered. The dwarf pine
clothed the whole declivity, and rendered the approaching
night more gloomy than it would have been in the
more open country. I was greatly fatigued from my
long day's walk, and, coming to a large boulder that
had evidently rolled from the higher ground above, I
seated myself to gain strength, and lifted my hat to let
the wind cool my heated forehead. Down, far away to
my right, I could hear the gurgling and splashing of a
torrent, while the sough of the breeze among the pines
made a weird music that added somewhat to a depression
that had been, for the last hour, gradually stealing
over me. The romantic visions I had formerly entertained
of nature in her solitary moments had all departed,
and I longed for the companionship of man.
Some five miles back, I had been at fault as to my
route; but, trusting to good fortune, had taken the road
I was now upon. As I sat meditating, I all at once
recollected that I had been cautioned, by a man of
whom I had inquired, against taking the way that led
to the hills; for, by so doing, I should go astray. Undecided
as to whether it would be better to retrace my
steps, or go on, in hopes of finding a lodging for the
night, I had arisen, and was hesitating which way I
should turn, when I heard the tramp of horses' hoofs,
and down, from the higher ground on my left, rode two
men.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>

<p>"The obscurity had become so great while I had lingered,
that I could form but an indefinite idea as to their
characteristics. The foremost, mounted on a dark-bay
horse, was slightly built, and evidently young. His felt
hat was so slouched over his face that all I could note
was, that he wore beard and mustache long, both of
intense blackness.</p>

<p>"His companion was a much more powerful man, and
sat upon the roan mare he bestrode in a careless manner;
his face, also, was hidden by an equal amount of
hair, and, in addition, warm as was the weather, his neck
was muffled in a large woollen comforter. My presence
evidently took them by surprise, for they abruptly
checked their horses, and the younger man pulled
sharply upon the bridle, half-turning his steed, and
seemed about to retrace the way he had come, without
greeting me. He, however, recovered his self-possession,
and with a 'Good-evening, stranger,' continued on
until he was at my side. I was truly thankful at this
encounter, for I felt my doubts as to my movements
would now be solved. In a few words, I stated that I
had wandered from the road I should have taken, and
asked their assistance to set me right. The younger
man seemed to labor under restraint, and spoke but little;
the other, however, offered to show me the way, and
stated they were going in the direction I desired to pursue.
They spoke in a manner and used language that
convinced me they were men of superior culture from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
those one might expect to meet in the wild and sparsely
settled district in which I was now travelling.</p>

<p>"'We have no time to spare, if we would get out of
these pine-lands and beyond the river-ford before the
darkness becomes troublesome,' said the larger man, as
he urged his horse to a quick walk along the road up the
hill. 'You had best follow me, while my companion can
bring up the rear.'</p>

<p>"Without hesitation, I acted upon his suggestion, as I
was anxious to reach a place of rest. 'You should consider
yourself highly honored to be so escorted and
guarded from the dangers of the road,' said my guide, as
he half-turned in his saddle, with what I then thought a
jocular, but have since recalled as a sinister, laugh.
'Have you any valuable property about you, that you
can feel grateful for the convoy?' Without a thought of
the wisdom of silence on this point, I answered: 'More
than I should care or can afford to lose, for I am a thousand
miles from home, and among strangers.' The next
moment I felt as if I could have bitten out my tongue
for its imprudence; for flashing upon me came the remembrance
of the landlord's tales of robbery and violence.
We had turned from the main road to the right,
into a narrower track, and were descending the hill toward
the river, as I judged; for each moment the noise of its
waters were more audible. In a brief time after my last
remark, I felt that the horseman behind me was pressing
closer than was needful, and I partly stepped from the
path, intending to let him pass; for I instinctively felt I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
would rather have them both in front. As I did so, I
almost unconsciously placed my hand upon my revolver.
The younger man stooped from his saddle as he came
abreast of me, and, speaking in a cold, hard tone, exclaimed,
'My good fellow, we will take charge of your
watch and money.' He leaned forward as he spoke, as
if to grasp my collar. At the same moment he who
rode in front leaped to the ground, and turned toward
me. I saw my danger in an instant, and, quickly drawing
my pistol, fired at the head of my nearest foe. The
flash of the powder gave me a more distinct view of his
face than I had yet had. As he recoiled from me, I noticed
a peculiar droop of the left eyelid, and heard the
expression, 'My God, I am hit!' At the same moment
a crushing blow descended upon my skull, and a thousand
stars seemed falling around me, and all was blackness.
My return to consciousness was occasioned by a
sudden contact with cold water, and I awoke to find
myself struggling in the midst of a rushing torrent.
Instinctively I grasped at a support, comprehending
my situation in an instant. I had been hurled by my
assailants into the stream we had been approaching, and
they undoubtedly supposed that I was beyond the
chance of recovery. The moon was not yet up, and I
could discern nothing except the general outlines of the
banks of the stream, which, rising high on each side,
showed me I was at the bottom of a ravine. It was
many minutes ere my efforts were crowned with any
degree of success; at last, as I was hurled along, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
hands came in contact with the drooping bough of a
tree, and, weak as I was from the blow I had received
and the benumbing effect of my immersion in the icy
current, the principle of self-preservation enabled me to
put forth almost superhuman strength, and to retain my
hold on this anchor of hope.</p>

<p>"After many abortive attempts, I succeeded in dragging
myself up, as it were out of the jaws of death,
upon the rocks which composed the banks of the stream.
As soon as I felt I was safe from the danger of a watery
grave, my strength left me, and I fell back almost utterly
devoid of life. My head felt as if a thousand triphammers
were at work upon it; a deadly sickness came
over me, and I found that I was relapsing into insensibility.
By a great effort, however, I overcame this
lethargy, and crawled on my hands and knees up over
the piled-up rocks and bare roots of trees, until I found
myself upon the soft moss and dead leaves beyond.
Here I lay for a long time, slowly recovering. On an
examination of my person, I found my watch and purse
gone, as well as the money-belt containing the three
hundred dollars in gold with which I had been intrusted.
But what I felt to be a more severe loss than all else
was a valuable diamond ring, that had once been my
dead mother's, and given to me by her in her last illness.
Some hundred and fifty dollars in bank-bills and
a letter of introduction to Judge P&mdash;&mdash;, placed two days
before in one of my boots, had escaped the search of the
highwaymen. None of my bones were broken; but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
frightful swelling upon my head proved the force of the
blow dealt me, evidently from the loaded handle of a
riding-whip. The pain was intense, and, not knowing
how serious might be the injury I had received, I determined
to seek some shelter while I was yet able to
do so. I cannot describe the agony I endured in the
next three or four hours. Though weak and suffering,
I succeeded in finding by accident a narrow by-path,
or trail, leading through the forest, and continued on,
shivering with cold, and frequently obliged to throw
myself upon the ground, in order to gain strength and
rally my wandering senses. The moon came up, and
my knowledge of the time of its rising proved to me
that I must have been insensible and in the hands of the
two ruffians for at least two hours. I was now in a
level country once more, having left the hills behind me,
and, as the moon rose higher in the heavens, I could
distinguish my surroundings without difficulty. I
stumbled along the path I was treading, faint and ill,
and at last, as I began to think I could go no further,
came to a clearing, and, at my left, beheld a
rough log-house among the charred stumps of the trees.
I reached the door, and, after many efforts, awakened
the sleepy inmates. A good-natured face greeted my
sight, as a bushy head was protruded from a narrow
window at my right, and a kindly voice asked, 'What
is wanted?' Each instant growing fainter, I was
hardly able to articulate; and, before I could explain
my position, I sank insensible upon the threshold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
When I say that it is almost three weeks since that
occurrence, and that from then until now I have not
been in the open air, you will understand how desperate
was the illness that followed. My honest host and his
good wife have watched over me as if I had been a son
instead of a stranger; and to their tender nursing I owe
my recovery, for no physician has seen me. Far away
from any settlement, upon one of the least frequented
cross-roads in the wild section in which they dwell,
sometimes weeks would elapse without a wayfarer
passing their humble abode. Now, once more, I am
able to arise and sit in the sunshine; and I hope soon
to be in a condition to seek out the authors of my sufferings.
As I have lain on my bed, too weak to move, I
have thought much, and, strange as it may appear, I
feel an innate conviction that I shall not only discover
the two men who endeavored to murder me, but that I
shall also recover the property I have lost. The reason
that I entertain this opinion is this: The very fact of my
long insensibility after the blow upon my head, and the
subsequent disposal of my body by casting it into the
mountain torrent, all go to confirm me in my belief that
they thought me dead. Consequently, having no fear
of my reappearance, they will not seek to conceal themselves,
or seek refuge from detection by flight. The
old lady (whom I have found a great gossip), I presume,
thinks it a 'God-send' my being here; for she
can now give vent to her loquacity; and, were it not
that this letter was already frightfully long, I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
quote some of her decidedly original remarks for your
entertainment. I accounted for the plight I was in by
stating that I had missed my footing in the darkness,
and fallen into the stream, striking my head upon a
projecting rock as I descended. At night when my
host has returned from his labor, I have gleaned from
him a full description of the country for miles around,
and find that I can reach N&mdash;&mdash; in a day's ride, and
that it is one of the most noteworthy places this side of
Detroit. As soon as I dare, I shall proceed there, and
my next letter will undoubtedly be mailed from that
point. I shall not tell you that I wish I had remained
in Boston; for to do so would be useless and foolish.
I am now desirous of going forward to the accomplishment
of the object I first had in view when I left
you, but shall remain, however, in this part of the country,
both to regain my health and strength, and to seek
out and punish my assailants."</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>
<p style="margin-top: 2em;">"<span class="smcap">My dear W&mdash;&mdash;</span>: When I finished my last epistle, I
little thought I should allow six weeks to elapse before
I again took up the thread of my story; but, my mind
and time have been so fully occupied, that I must crave
your indulgence. It is now the latter part of July, and
as you know, at this season of the year one does not feel
disposed to be loquacious. That you may fully comprehend
my position, however, I must be somewhat more
minute in my descriptions than I could wish to be. The
sun was near its setting on as lovely a day as I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
ever seen, when I approached the house of which I am
still an inmate. The kind-hearted man who had given
me shelter and care during my illness, brought me to
the village of N&mdash;&mdash;, and seemed to regret parting from
me. I walked up the pretty street towards a large,
white house standing upon an eminence at its termination,
which had been pointed out to me as the residence
of Judge Perry. As I paused at a gate leading into the
finely-kept grounds, I could, without an effort of the
imagination, fancy that I was once more in dear New
England, for all evidence of newness seemed to have
been obliterated. I turned and looked back upon the
scene; the cottages quietly nestling amid a multitude of
shade-trees, now clothed in their loveliest garments of
green; far away the encircling hills, and, a little to my
left, a pretty stream creeping down the valley, its
waters turned to molten silver by the glance of the
sinking sun. While lost in revery I had not noticed the
approach of an elderly gentleman, who now came forward,
and placed his hand upon the latch of the gate at
which I was standing, at the same time greeting me
with the remark of 'A delightful ending to as beautiful
a day as one need wish for.' I responded, eulogizing
both the weather and scenery. Whilst speaking,
I took cognizance of my companion, and felt sure, from
the descriptions I had received, that I was addressing
the owner of the residence; and he, in answer to my inquiry,
answered in the affirmative, and said, 'You are
Mr. James H&mdash;-, I presume. I have been expecting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
you for some time, having received a letter from my
friend in Boston, advising me of your intention of visiting
me. I heartily welcome you, and trust that on
further acquaintance we shall be mutually pleased with
each other; but I am keeping you here at the gate, when
I should show you truer hospitality by inviting you
within.' I accepted his courtesy and was soon in a
pleasant bed-chamber, where I made such a toilet as my
limited means afforded. As I descended the stairs in
response to the summons of the supper-bell, I felt the
awkwardness of my position; placed as I was, without
a suitable wardrobe, in a family of such evident social
standing. Trusting soon to remedy this deficiency, I entered
a large apartment at the left, and found my entertainer
ready to lead me to the supper-room. I made
some excuses as to my appearance, which he turned off
with a jest, and, opening a door, ushered me to the well-spread
table. As we came forward, a young lady arose
from beside an open window, where she had evidently
been awaiting us, and I was introduced to my entertainer's
only daughter. You have frequently bantered me
on my stoical indifference to female beauty. And now,
when I tell you that she whose hand I took was one of
the most lovely of women, you will not have occasion to
make allowance for undue enthusiasm. I shall not here
attempt to describe her, further than to say, she was a
blonde, with glorious eyes and a wonderful wealth of
hair. Her voice was music itself, and her every movement
denoted the grace of a well-bred lady. As we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
seated ourselves at the table, I regained my self-possession,
which had been disturbed at this unexpected
vision of loveliness. We chatted cheerfully as we partook
of the tea and toast, and I soon felt as if with
friends of long standing. When the repast ended, the
daughter lovingly placed her hand on her father's arm
to detain him, and my eyes encountered upon it a jewelled
ring that flashed like a thing of life in the lamplight.
Could I be dreaming? For an instant my brain
whirled and I grew giddy, for I had discovered that
which I so much prized, and had lost,&mdash;the last gift of
my dead mother. This ring, from the peculiarity of its
construction, and the antique setting of the stones, I
could not mistake, and yet I could in no wise account
for what I saw. One glance at that lovely face, whose
every line spoke of innocence, was enough to drive away
all suspicions as to her complicity with the men who had
sought my life. I cannot detail to you the incidents of
that evening; for, short as has been the time since, I have
forgotten them. I was as one in a maze, and talked mechanically,
and only awoke to a recollection of what
courtesy demanded, when Judge Perry remarked 'that
as I was evidently much fatigued, and not yet in my
usual health, they would allow me to retire.' I sat at
my chamber window gazing out on the moonlit valley
until long after midnight, but I could illy appreciate the
beauty of the scene. I was seeking to arrange some
plan of action by which I might trace up this first clew
to a discovery I now felt most certain. At last, wearied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
with fruitless thought, I determined to await the course
of events, and to trust to time for additional light.</p>

<p>"The next few days were agreeably occupied in forming
a more intimate acquaintance with Helen Perry and
her father. I put forth what powers of pleasing nature
has endowed me with, and my success seemed complete.
Ere long I was on such terms of friendship with them
as I desired; and then I learned from Helen that she
had lost her mother many years before,&mdash;soon after
their emigration from Eastern New York to their present
home. I had thus far passed the time each day until
two or three o'clock with the judge in his office, after
which I wandered with Helen in the tasteful grounds
surrounding her home, or upon the low-lying hills beyond.
Her education had not been neglected, and her
reading had been extensive. Thus we could converse
upon the merits of the literature of the day, and in such
topics discovered we had kindred tastes. She was ever
frank and cheerful; and, short as had been our acquaintance,
my heart was beginning to beat faster at her approach,
and each morning, as I awoke, I looked eagerly
forward to the hour that would find her disengaged from
household duties, and with leisure to devote to me.</p>

<p>"Once or twice the judge spoke of an absent friend, a
Doctor Wentworth, in a manner which caused me some
uneasiness; for, as he did so, he cast upon Helen a good-natured,
sly glance that meant much, and always produced
a blush upon her sweet face. It was after dinner
on Tuesday, that we came out upon the lawn to inspect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
a rose-bush, which Helen wished transplanted, when her
father remarked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'By the way, my dear, I received a letter from Edward
this morning, and he tells me he shall be here to-day;
so, as in duty bound, and like an ardent lover, I
presume he will at once fly to you. I should advise
that you forego your accustomed ramble, and remain at
home to welcome him. I have no doubt our guest will
be pleased for one day to escape the task of following
you as an escort.'</p>

<p>"By the terrible sinking of my heart that these words
occasioned, I knew in an instant that I loved her; and,
half-glancing at her as I turned away (with difficulty
hiding my emotion), thought I saw the bright flush
upon her animated face dying away, and a deadly pallor
taking its place. I dared not remain and listen to her
reply, and therefore wandered on past the summerhouse
in which I had passed so many pleasant hours with
her, until my steps were stayed upon the bank of the
stream whose waters had now no music to my ears. I
had heretofore been unconscious of the hopes that had
gained access to my heart. Day by day I had, as it
were, allowed my purposes to slumber. Her charms
had bound me a willing captive, and all unwittingly I
had cast aside thoughts of the future, and forgotten that
the life of inaction in which I was indulging could not
last. I had found ample joy and occupation in watching
the play of her expressive features, and in listening to
the words that came from her lips. After my first few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
hours of astonishment and wonder at the discovery of
my stolen ring upon her hand, I had ceased, even when
alone, to dwell upon the mystery connected with it.
Now I was brought back to a remembrance of all I had
vowed to do as I lay ill and suffering in the rude log
cabin of the settler. It was long before my calmness
returned, and my heart ceased to beat wildly. The afternoon
had waned as I turned back towards the house
and friends I had so abruptly left. It was in a more collected
frame of mind that I ascended the steps, and entered
the parlor. I am sure that, on encountering those
there assembled, not the quiver of a muscle betrayed the
agitation I felt. Helen was half-reclining upon a sofa,
and leaning upon its back was the form of a tall and
rather slightly-built man. She started up as I entered.
Could it be that a brighter light beamed in her eyes as
they encountered mine? I knew not, for the judge, who
was seated near, was prompt to rise also, and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Mr. Palmer, we are glad of your return. Both
Helen and myself were beginning to fear you had been
spirited away. Allow me to make you acquainted with
Doctor Wentworth. Doctor Wentworth, Mr. Palmer,
our guest. I trust that you will learn to value the hour
that brings you together.'</p>

<p>"I looked the physician full in the face, as I took his
hand. The sun, streaming in through the western windows,
fell full upon his features, bringing out every line
in a marvellous manner, and distinctly exposing their
play, as he acknowledged my greeting. The countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
was one to attract the attention, and yet not pleasant
to look upon. His forehead was high and fair; hair
and mustache black as night, chin smoothly shaven and
dimpled, and yet the eye repelled me. As I looked at
him, I had an unaccountable impression that we had met
before, but I could not tell where, or why it seemed as if
the circumstances attending it had been of a disagreeable
nature. As, after the first words of conversational
politeness, he turned to Helen, I had a few moments for
reflection, and suddenly flashed upon me the recollection
of the scene in the wood,&mdash;the man leaning from his
horse to grasp my collar, the tones of his voice, the momentary
glance I had of his face as I fired my pistol at
him, and the peculiar droop of his right eye that I had
noticed. Could it be possible? Had I gained one more
clew to the mystery? Was the man before me the
would-be assassin? No! no! I was mad to indulge
such a thought. This physician, the friend of Judge
Perry, a gentleman, and evidently, from the judge's own
words, the accepted suitor of his daughter, could be no
vulgar highwayman; and yet, as he maintained a brisk
conversation with Helen, and allowed me full opportunity
for close observation, the more convinced did I become
that he was the man. As she raised her hand, I
saw the gleam of the diamond upon it. At last the
chain of evidence for me was complete. What so natural
as that her lover should present this to her? I
thanked God that I was to be made the instrument by
which she was to be rescued from such a marriage. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
forgot my own private desire for vengeance. My love
for her&mdash;this beautiful and innocent girl&mdash;was of so
true a nature, that every other consideration was subordinate
to the one for the furtherance of her welfare.
By a powerful effort I controlled my feelings, and assumed
an air of ease that I could not feel.</p>

<p>"The doctor was all animation, and talked at a rapid
rate, while I thought I had never seen Helen so dull.
'By the way, doctor,' remarked the judge, after we had
left the tea-table and entered the parlor, 'have you recovered
from the accident you met with a few weeks
ago? Pistol-shots are anything but pleasant reminders,
and you had a narrow escape.' I was gazing directly at
him while the judge spoke, and for an instant, even as a
summer breeze would ruffle a placid lake, a frown gathered
upon his brow, and was gone. 'I am as well as I
could wish to be,' was the answer, 'and have almost forgotten
the occurrence.' Pleading a dull headache, I retired
to my chamber at an early hour. I wished to be
alone, that I might take counsel with myself as to the
course I ought to pursue, in order to bring this scoundrel
and his associate to justice. The longer I dwelt
upon the matter, the more convinced I became that my
proper course was to make the judge my confidant.
He was of years' experience and discretion, and also a
deeply interested party, through his daughter's connection
with Wentworth.</p>

<p>"I slept but little that night, and was in the grounds,
when my host came out for a stroll in the morning air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
I knew that it would yet be an hour before the breakfast-bell
would ring; therefore, after speaking of the beauties
of the morning, I took his arm as if for a promenade, and
said, 'If you can spare me some thirty or forty minutes,
and will come where we can by no possibility be overheard,
I will tell you what I know is of vast importance to
you.' He looked surprised, but acceded to my request at
once, recommending the arbor already in view as a desirable
place for private conversation. We seated ourselves,
and, with but few preliminary remarks, I gave him a full
account of my adventures since leaving Detroit. He
did not once interrupt me; but, as I proceeded, his face
became more and more ashen, until, as I concluded by
denouncing the doctor as one of my assailants, it was as
white as that of a corpse.</p>

<p>"For a minute after I had ceased speaking he remained
silent; then, drawing a long breath, he seemed to regain
command over himself, and said: 'I can but believe all
that you have told me, for there are many circumstances,
with which you are evidently unacquainted, that go to
corroborate your story. Can you remember the day of
the month upon which your murder was attempted?'</p>

<p>"'The twenty-second,' I replied.</p>

<p>"'And on the twenty-fourth,' he said, 'Dr. Wentworth
returned home after an absence of some days, in charge
of Hugh Chapin, an intimate friend of his. He could
with difficulty sit upon his horse, and was apparently
suffering severely. He stated that he had been injured
by the accidental discharge of his pistol, but that, as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
ball had only inflicted a flesh-wound in the shoulder, it
would soon heal. The explanation was plausible, and
no one doubted his word.'</p>

<p>"'Was there any mark upon the ring by which you
could identify it?'</p>

<p>"'On the inner-side, below the centre-stone,' I answered,
'was the letter P, in Roman characters, and above
it was some fine scroll-work, and close observation would
show the name of Susie, in minute lettering, amidst it;
any one gazing upon it in an ordinary manner would fail
to perceive it. My mother's maiden name was Susan
Palmer, and this ring was presented to her by my father
previous to their marriage. I feel sure that an inspection
will prove my description to be true, although I have
not seen the jewel since I lost it except upon your
daughter's hand.'</p>

<p>"'I am satisfied,' said my companion; 'I have seen the
initial P, as you describe it, but as it corresponded with
my Helen's family name, I thought it intended for it. I
can readily identify the larger of the two men, and the
one who inflicted the blow that nearly cost your life, in
the person of a resident of a farm-house some three
miles from us, one Hugh Chapin, a bachelor and the almost
inseparable companion of Dr. Wentworth. I have
never been pleased with this intimacy, for I have felt an
aversion to this man from my first knowledge of him.
As I could give no reason for it, I have said little to
Wentworth on the subject. They came here about the
same time, four years ago, and Dr. W., displaying considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
skill in his profession, soon acquired a good
practice, and has enjoyed the confidence of the community.
This Chapin purchased the house and farm he
now occupies soon after his arrival, and has always
seemed to have the command of money, although I learn
that he is but an indifferent farmer, and often absent
from home for weeks together. I employed Dr. W. in
a severe illness I had some two years ago, and after I recovered
he was much at my house, and Helen saw much
of him. He proposed for her hand, and at first she
seemed inclined to reject his suit, but, thinking the match
a desirable one, I persuaded her not to do so. I have
since often fancied that perhaps I did wrong in thus using
my influence, as she has since their betrothal seemed loth
to accord him the privileges of an accepted lover. His
profession has often called him away, but I now see it
may have frequently afforded an excuse for an absence
in which were performed deeds too dark even to contemplate.
The sheriff of our county is a brave, shrewd
man, and I will lay the facts of this case before him, and
we will devise the best means of bringing these men to
justice. I need not point out to you the wisdom of silence;
we have cunning knaves to deal with, and must
use care, so they may gain no clew to our intentions.
Knowing that you had been intrusted with three hundred
dollars to pay into my hands, I have wondered at
your silence on the subject; but your explanation has
made all plain at last. It will be difficult to dissemble
in the presence of this scoundrel, Wentworth, I know;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
yet for a brief time we must submit to the infliction of
his presence, and allow him to visit Helen as heretofore.'</p>

<p>"When we returned to the house, my heart was lighter
than it had been since my arrival at N&mdash;&mdash;. I will pass
over the record of the next few days, for nothing of importance
took place. The judge and myself held frequent
consultations with the sheriff in my host's office;
care being taken that these meetings should attract no
attention. The doctor was occupied with his patients,
as the warm weather was developing disease. Once
only had his confederate, Hugh Chapin, made his appearance
in the village. I had seen him as he rode up
the street to the door of Dr. Wentworth's office, where
dismounting, and securing his horse, he entered. I
would have given much to have been a private spectator
of their interview, but only remained book in hand
in my seat at the window. You may be sure I comprehended
nothing printed upon the page before me. Not
many minutes elapsed after Chapin came forth and rode
away, ere the sheriff dropped in upon us. The moment
he made his appearance, I saw, by the twinkle in his eye,
he had pleasant intelligence to communicate. Glancing
around to see that we were alone, he cast himself into a
chair, giving vent to a gratified chuckle. 'We have
them at last,' said he, 'thanks to the intelligence of the
boy the doctor employs to wait upon him, and whom I
frightened and bribed into playing the spy. A nice plot
of robbery has just been concocted by the two worthies
closeted up yonder. Old Seth Jones to-day received a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
payment upon the farm he sold Thompson, and will take
it to Pollard whose place he has purchased; having to
travel some twenty miles of bad road, it will be dark
before he can reach his destination, and Chapin and
Wentworth are intent upon relieving him of his money;
the rocky gully between Harrison's and Thompson's is
the point selected for operations; and I, with my men,
shall take care to be there in time to have a hand in the
game.'</p>

<p>"That was an anxious evening for me. I sat with
Helen and her father until after ten, and, despite the
efforts we all made, the conversation languished. I saw
she felt a weight upon her that she could not cast off.
As I gazed upon her face, while she bent over some feminine
employment, I could perceive the great change
that had been wrought in her in the few weeks I had
known her. She had grown thin and pale, and a look of
suffering had taken the place of one of cheerfulness. I
asked myself if it could be that I had awakened her
love, and that she had discovered this fact and allowed
her betrothment to Wentworth to eat like a canker at
her heart. I felt an almost irresistible desire to tell her
how dear she was to me, and that if she returned my
affection, all would be well with us. By a powerful
effort, however, I choked back the words that trembled
on my lips, and retired to my chamber, where I alternately
paced the floor and sat by the open window until
near morning. The night was intensely dark, and I
could distinguish only the outline of the trees upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
lawn. It was three o'clock, and a faint streak of light
began to illumine the eastern horizon, when I at last
heard the tramp of horses upon the bridge that crossed
the stream down the valley. I could control my impatience
no longer, and, opening my door, descended the
stairs with rapid feet, but the judge fully dressed was
before me in the hall, proving that he, too, like myself,
had impatiently awaited news of the result of the sheriff's
ambuscade. We hurried down the street, and, in
the dull light of the dawning day, met a party of six
men having Hugh Chapin in charge. He was securely
bound, and riding upon a horse in the midst of his captors.
I noted the absence of Wentworth at once, and
felt the most bitter disappointment, but soon learned the
occasion of it. In an attempt to escape, he had been
shot through the head, and was then lying dead at a
farm-house near the scene of action.</p>

<p>"I can now condense into a few sentences what more I
have to relate. On being confronted with me, Chapin
made a full confession of his own and Wentworth's
crime. It was he who struck me upon the head as I
fired at his companion, and, after binding up Wentworth's
wound, he robbed and then conveyed me to a
lonely part of the stream and cast me in; my long insensibility
had cheated them into the belief of my death.</p>

<p>"Helen made no pretext of regret at the awful judgment
that had overtaken her betrothed; on the contrary,
her face now wears an expression of repose which
the dullest observer could not fail to perceive. Need I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
add that I had a long conversation with her last night
during which she acknowledged her affection for me,
and promised to be my wife provided her father sanctioned
our wishes. The judge has since listened to my
petition with a pleased smile, and answered that in
due time we should be made happy.</p>

<p>"When our nuptials are performed, then will end my
western trip and its attending romance."</p></blockquote>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>


<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">THE TWO GHOSTS OF NEW LONDON<br />
TURNPIKE.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="The_two_ghosts" id="The_two_ghosts">THE TWO GHOSTS</a><br />
<small>OF</small><br />
<span class="smcap">New London Turnpike</span>.</h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg"
width="51" height="85" alt="t" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">T</span>HERE is a certain ancient and time-honored institution,
which, in the advancement of recent
discoveries and the march of modern improvements,
seems destined soon to pass from the use,
and then, in natural sequence, from the memories
of mankind. For even the highest type of civilization
is prone to ingratitude, and drops all thoughts of its best
agencies as soon as it has outlived its absolute need of
them. Towards this Lethean current, whose lazy waters
glide so silently and yet so resistlessly along the borders
of the Past, gradually undermining and crumbling
away the ancient landmarks and the venerable institutions
known and loved of the former generations, the
whale-ships are already drifting.</p>

<p>For year by year, as they set sail with their hardy
crews, every succeeding voyage took them nearer to the
court of the Ice King, the chill of his breath grew
deadlier, and the invasion of his dominions more desperate.
But, lo! when Jack Tar was almost at his wit's
end, a cry arose upon the prairie, and the disciples of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
commerce dropped their harpoons and left their nets to
follow the guidance of the new revelation. Jets of oleaginous
wealth sprang and spirted, and blessed was he
whose dish was right-side-up in this new rain of pecuniary
porridge. Instead of the old launchings and weighings
of anchors, came the embarkation of all sorts and
sizes of solid and fancy craft on the inviting sea of speculation,
and men ran hither and thither, outrivalling
the tales of the bygone voyagers, by stories of vast
fortunes made in a day, and of shipwrecks as sad as any
on the ocean. And so, in place of dingy casks and creaking
cordage and watery perils, there sprang up the reign
of pipes and drills, and for the laden ships, black and oozy
with their slippery cargo, we began to have long trains of
bright blue tanks speeding over all our western railways;
and the whaling vessels, with their smooth, tapering sides,
and blowsy crews, and complicated mysteries of rigging,
seem already like forsaken hulks, hopelessly stranded
upon the shores of antiquity.</p>

<p>But all this belongs to the Present, and any such
prophecy uttered in the days with which our story has
to do would have been regarded as the wildest of ravings.
For then the whale-ship was a reality and a
power, the terror of all mothers of wayward boys, and
the general resort of reckless runaways and prodigals.
The thought that it could ever be superseded by any
undiscovered agency had not yet made its way into the
heads of even the sage prognosticators who studied the
prophets and the apocalypse, and were able to dispose of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
all the beasts and dragons, and to assign them appropriate
places in the future, with the utmost certainty and
satisfaction.</p>

<p>It is certain that no such forebodings startled the
complacency of two young men who sat, in the gathering
twilight of a mild spring evening, on a fragment of
drift-wood in a little cove of New London harbor, with
the waves sweeping up almost to their feet, and the
western sky still flushed with the departing glory of
sunset.</p>

<p>They were a stout, bronzed, muscular couple, loosely
clad in the common sailor-suits of the period, and both
with the shrewd, resolute cast of countenance that distinguished
the irrepressible Yankee then no less than
now. The darker of the two was the more attractive,
for he had the jolly twinkling eye, and gayly infectious
air that goes with the high animal temperament, and
always carries a bracing tonic with it like the sea-breeze.
Wherever John Avery came, all the evil spirits
of dulness and mopes and blues, that conspire so
fearfully for the misery of mankind, had to give way,
and one burst of his spontaneous merriment would exorcise
the whole uncanny troop. John was a born sailor,
with all the dashing frankness, and generous, hearty
temper characteristic of the class, and not deficient in
the faculty for getting into scrapes that is also an invariable
endowment of his prototypes.</p>

<p>The other was a less open face, sharper in its outlines,
and with more angles than curves. Had it been less<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
kindly, it might have been the face of a rascal, and yet
an artist could easily have idealized it into that of a
hero. For all these variations and contrasts of characteristic
expression, that have such influence among us,
are, after all, wonderfully slight affairs, and a few touches
either way, upon the vast majority of faces, would
give a seraph or a demon at the shortest notice. The
bright, plump countenance of Jack was an open book,
known and read of all men, while that of his cousin
Philo was a study far more perplexing, and in the end
less satisfactory. But the conversation of the two was
sufficiently plain.</p>

<p>"Sails on Thursday, does she, Phil?" said the cheerful
voice of John as his practised eye sought out a certain
ship from among the crowd of vessels in the harbor.</p>

<p>"All hands aboard at nine o'clock's the order," replied
Philo, taking off his cap, and turning his face to the
wind.</p>

<p>"And the Sally Ann don't sail till Saturday. I say
Phil, old fellow, I wish we were going together,"
cried John with one of his bursts.</p>

<p>"It's better as 'tis," said Philo, thoughtfully. "There's
a better chance for one of us to come back, you know,
than if we were in the same ship."</p>

<p>"'<i>Come back.</i>' Why, of course we shall come back,&mdash;that
is, I hope so, both of us. That wasn't what I
meant. I'd like you for a shipmate,&mdash;that's all," was the
eager response.</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;I understand," answered Philo. "We shan't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
both come home, <i>of course</i>; but there's hopes for both of
us, and a pretty strong chance for one of us at least."</p>

<p>And then a seriousness fell upon the cousins, and for
many minutes they sat and watched the tide creeping
up to them like the lapping, hungry tongue of some slow
monster, thinking such thoughts as will sometimes come
unbidden to the heart of youth, and become more and
more intrusive and importunate as we grow older.</p>

<p>These boys were offshoots of a sturdy Puritan stock,
and the pluck and backbone of their ancestry suffered
no degeneracy in them. John had been an orphan from
infancy, and had grown up in an atmosphere of loving
kindness and tender mercy under the auspices of his
Aunt Betsy,&mdash;Philo's mother. She it was, who, in view
of his orphanage, had winked at his boyish misdemeanors,
indulged his naturally gay disposition in every way
that her strict and somewhat barren orthodoxy allowed,
and when his sea-going propensities could no longer be
controlled by the mild influences of her molasses gingerbread
and sweet cider, she had made him a liberal
outfit of flannel shirts and blue mixed hose, and, tucking
a Bible into the corner of his chest, bade him God-speed
on his first voyage.</p>

<p>It was with some surprise that she saw him come
back from a three months' cruise, with no more serious
damage than a scar across his forehead; but still she felt
reproached at the sight of it, and on Jack's next start
rectified her previous neglect, by sending Philo along
with him in the capacity of mentor and protector,&mdash;an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
office which she, in the devotion of her heart, would
most joyfully have undertaken herself if the art and
practice of navigation could have been adapted so as
to admit of the services of an elderly lady. But becoming
convinced of the utter impracticability of this plan, she
wisely settled herself down to be comfortable with tea-drinking
and knitting-work, with great confidence in
Philo's sobriety and force of character, as applied to preserve
her darling Jack from harm; for Aunt Betsy,
like many other excellent people, was not free from favoritism,
and her adopted son was the child of her affections,
while Philo had the secondary place, and was expected
to consider it his highest happiness to fiddle for
Jack's dancing, and otherwise to hold the candle in a
general way for the benefit and pleasure of that superior
being. Had Jack been less jolly and generous, or Philo
less amiable and forbearing, this maternal arrangement
would have been a fruitful source of jealousy and contention;
but the two natures were so fortunately balanced
that even the one-sided weight of Aunt Betsy's
partiality worked no such derangement of the family
peace, as might have been supposed. The boys had
made three short voyages together, and were now about
shipping for their first long absence in different vessels
only because Philo's superior education and business
aptitude qualified him for the position of supercargo,
which had been offered him on board the Skylark.</p>

<p>Philo was already developing the great Yankee trait
of penny-catching, for even then he had saved quite a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
pretty sum out of the very moderate pay of a foremast
man in those times, and this, in addition to his patrimonial
inheritance of a few hundred dollars, made a nice
nest-egg for the fortune that he hoped to realize in late
life. Jack, too, had his property interest, for he had just
come to man's estate in the eye of the law, and his little
property, carefully hoarded, and with its due interest
had been, only the day previous, paid into his hands in
good gold, accompanied by much sound advice and the
warmest good wishes from his benignant guardian,
'Squire Tupper, who, thanks to Aunt Betsy's interposition
had found him the most dutiful and least troublesome
of wards.</p>

<p>Philo renewed the conversation by inquiring whether
Jack had thought of any particular mode of investment,
and stating his own intention of purchasing an interest
in the Skylark, if on his return it should appear advisable.
But the former topic appeared to push itself
uneasily uppermost, and he soon came abruptly back
to it,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I shall do that thing if I live to see home again;
and, if anything should happen that I don't, I want my
money to go to you, Jack, except half the income, and
that I want to have settled on mother as long as she
lives."</p>

<p>"You'd better say all the income, and the principal
too, for that matter, Phil," cried the hearty Jack, with
a little break in his voice at the last words.</p>

<p>"No," replied the cousin, soberly. "There's enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
besides to keep the old lady comfortable as long as she
lives, and more would only worry her. If she gets
something to show that I didn't forget her, it'll be better
than if she had it all to take care of; and she'll be just
as well suited to have it go to you."</p>

<p>"But think of my getting what Aunt Betsy ought to
have," remonstrated Jack, sturdily.</p>

<p>"It's best," said Philo.</p>

<p>"And to hear you talk as if you was bound straight
for Davy Jones' locker," pursued Jack.</p>

<p>"I shan't go any straighter for talking about it, as I
know of," answered Philo, looking steadily towards the
dim horizon as if his fate lay somewhere between the
water and the sky.</p>

<p>"Well, then," shouted the impulsive Jack, "if it must
be so, I'm glad I can match you at the other end of the
same rope. You're as likely to come home as I am,
and, if I'm never heard from, all I've got shall go to
you."</p>

<p>"Then we'd better make our wills in form, if that's
your wish," said Philo, rising from the log.</p>

<p>"We'll make all fast to-morrow," remarked Jack,
cheerfully; "though it makes one feel queer to be doing
such business at our age."</p>

<p>"It can't hurt anything; and we're no more likely to
meet with bad luck for having things in ship-shape," replied
Philo, as they walked up towards the little town,
whose twinkling lights winked like fireflies out of the
darkness.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>

<p>"Let's do it to-night, and have it over," exclaimed
Jack, who found an unpleasant creeping sensation gaining
upon him as he dwelt on the subject.</p>

<p>"Well," said Philo.</p>

<p>The cousins turned into the main street of the village,
now a busy mart of business, but in those days broad
and grassy, with a row of respectable gambrel-roofed
houses, each with its liberal garden at the side. Pre-eminent
in respectability was the abode of 'Squire Tupper,
with its large, clean yard, small, patchwork-looking
windows, and ponderous brass knocker, which disclosed
the terrific head of some nondescript animal in most
menacing attitude. Upon this brazen effigy Jack
sounded a vigorous rap, since 'Squire Tupper was the
prime magnate and authority of the small town, in all
matters requiring legal adjustment; and any well-instructed
resident would as soon have thought of having
a funeral without the minister as of making a will
without the advice of the 'squire.</p>

<p>The summons was answered by a pretty blonde girl,
dressed in the nicest of blue stuff gowns, the whitest of
muslin tuckers, and with her pretty feet displayed to
advantage by fine clocked stockings and neat morocco
shoes. All these little matters and her dainty air gave
her the appearance of a petted kitten, or, rather, of some
small, ornamental image, made of cream candy, and
kept in a Chinese doll-house.</p>

<p>She turned rosy at sight of Jack, who came instantly
out of his solemn mood, and, in the frank, saucy way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
habitual to him, swung his arm around the neat waist,
and, spite of some tiny remonstrances and vain struggles,
planted a big sailor kiss right in the centre of the demure
mouth. All this was natural enough; for, besides
being the 'squire's ward and connected in that sort of
cousinhood which extends to the forty-ninth degree of
consanguinity, Jack had now regularly "kept company"
with Molly for several months, and all his Sunday
nights on shore were piously devoted to "settin' up"
with her in the prim, sanded best parlor, where it is
not to be supposed that he abstained totally from such
"refreshment" as Mr. Sam Weller was accustomed to
indulge when opportunity offered.</p>

<p>But his demonstrativeness served to discompose Molly's
ladyhood on this occasion; and the presence of
Philo with his business-like face added so much scandal
that she disengaged herself as quickly as possible from
Jack's audacious grasp, and, with such dignity as a
white kitten might assume in the presence of two intrusive
pups, ushered them into the family "keepin'-room,"
and withdrew, as if she wished it understood that
she washed her hands of them and their kind from that
time forth. But Jack slipped out after her, and probably
made peace; for they returned together,&mdash;he very
brisk and shining, and she blushing like Aurora.</p>

<p>Philo, however, meant business, and said as much in
plain terms, that set Miss Molly into a perfect maze of
conjecture as she went to call the 'squire. Her only solution
of the mystery was that Jack had now come for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
the momentous <i>pop</i>, toward which events had been
tending; and that Philo had accompanied him in the character
of second. She felt a little piqued that she had
not been able to bring him to the point herself; but then
it was certainly very straightforward in him to come
right to her father in that way; and so the little lady
rushed out to the wood-pile in a perfect flutter of delicious
perplexity, and imparted the fact that the two
young men had called <i>on business</i>, with such decided emphasis
that the 'squire immediately took the cue, and prepared
himself to be especially benignant and paternal.</p>

<p>Relieved of Molly's inspiring presence, Jack felt all
the solemnity of the affair returning upon him, and, as is
usual with these strong, mercurial natures, it loomed before
him more and more grim and ghastly, till, by the time
that the 'squire made his appearance, he had become almost
persuaded that his last hour was really approaching.
This state of mind imparted to his countenance an
expression of such touching melancholy as made the
old gentleman take him for the most despairing of lovers,
and wrought upon his sympathies amazingly.</p>

<p>'Squire Tupper was the embodiment of magisterial
dignity, owlish wisdom, and universal benevolence.
With a fine, showy person that was in itself the guaranty
of unimpeachable respectability, he had gone on in
life, and come to hold the position of an oracle; not on
account of anything he ever said, but because of a general
way that he had of looking as if he could on all occasions
say a great deal if he chose, which is a sure way to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
attain the distinction of being considered remarkably
well-informed, though it is one that is greatly neglected
of late years. The world laughs at witty people, and
despises them; and 'Squire Tupper was a bright example
of the truth that it takes a thoroughly dull man to
be profoundly respected.</p>

<p>He now saluted the cousins with grave urbanity, and
deliberately placed his stately form in the arm-chair,
taking a fresh cut of tobacco as a preliminary to business.
If Molly had enough of mother Eve about her to
cause her to peep and listen behind the door, we don't
know as it concerns us. We don't say she did; but
would be slow to take the responsibility of declaring
that she didn't. Young ladies, who may chance to peruse
this veracious history, are at liberty to decide this
point according to their own estimate of the temptation,
and the average feminine power of resistance.</p>

<p>Jack plunged desperately into the middle of the subject,
and then tried to swim out toward the introduction.</p>

<p>"We thought we'd stop in, sir, this evening, as we've
made up our minds to do a certain thing; and it seemed
as if we&mdash;I mean I&mdash;felt as if I should like to have it
done, and over with."</p>

<p>"I see, I see," replied the 'squire, with the utmost consideration
for Jack's embarrassment, and the delicate
nature of his errand. "You've spoken to Molly about
it, I suppose?" he added, encouragingly.</p>

<p>"Why, no. Didn't think it was worth while, as you
was at home," answered Jack.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>

<p>"Ah, I see! Jes' so, jes' so! Very thoughtful in
you, Jack,&mdash;very, indeed." The 'squire paused, and
took a pinch of snuff, nodding his satisfaction, and proceeded:
"It's highly gratifying to me, Jack, to see you
so thoughtful as to come to me first on this business;
though it isn't what all young men would do. I'm glad
to see that you respect the parental relation, and respect
my feelings, though you've no parents of your
own; still you've had an excellent bringing up by your
Aunt Betsy, and I've tried, in my humble way, to do
what I could." (Graceful self-abasement was one of the
'squire's strong points.) "And now I say you've acted
just right, because I am better capable of judging what
is for Molly's good than she can be herself; and, of
course, I'm the person to be first consulted; and it's
most creditable and gratifying"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Why, it isn't about Molly, at all!" cried Jack in
bewilderment.</p>

<p>O happy, doting pride of fatherhood! What a falling
off was there, and what blankness, followed by confusion,
overspread 'Squire Tupper's countenance, as the
nature of his blunder and its extreme awkwardness became
apparent to his puzzled faculties.</p>

<p>"No&mdash;no&mdash;certainly not&mdash;not in the least!" gasped
he, catching after his dignity, as a man drowning grasps
at straws.</p>

<p>"We came to see if you could attend to making out
our wills, this evening," said Philo.</p>

<p>The 'squire looked from one to the other with such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
dazed incredulity that both the young men applied
themselves to explanations which brought his senses
back into the world of facts.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, certainly,&mdash;very creditable and prudent
in you to wish to make things all snug before you go.
Excellent idea; though you're both rather youngish to
be doing such business. Still it's highly gratifying to
see you take it up in this way,&mdash;certainly,&mdash;just let me
get the materials." And the 'squire plunged with great
eagerness into the subject, briskly opening an old-fashioned
secretary, and setting out upon the table a heavy
stone inkstand, a sand-box, some large sheets of paper,
and a bunch of quills; and then, being quite restored to
his accustomed equilibrium, begged them in the most
impressive magisterial manner, to state their wishes, and
commenced making his pen, while Philo explained the
subject-matter of the conversation previously recorded.</p>

<p>"I see, I see!" said the 'squire, deliberately, when he
had elaborated the point of the quill, and tried it repeatedly
on his thumb-nail. And, without further ado, he
drew his chair to the table, and headed the page in a
large, round hand: "<i>The Last Will and Testament of
Philo Avery</i>;" following it up with the regular formula
for such cases made and provided.</p>

<p>"<i>In the name of God, Amen.</i></p>

<p>"I, Philo Avery, of the town of New London and
state of Connecticut, being of sound mind and memory,
and considering the uncertainty of this frail and transitory
life, do, therefore, make, advise, publish, and declare
this to be my last will and testament," etc.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>

<p>Scratch&mdash;scratch, went the 'squire's pen, interrupted
only by occasional dips into the ink, while the two testators
sat and looked on in unwinking silence, and the
tall candles flared and sputtered as their sooty wicks
dropped down into the tallow. Hardly had this happened
when Molly tripped shyly into the room, bringing
a pair of silver snuffers on a little tray, and with one
dexterous nip relieved each smoking luminary of its incumbrance,
at the same moment casting her demure
eyes upon the page which her father was now covering
with sand. If she was not ignorant of the old gentleman's
palpable blunder (and remember the narrator
takes no responsibility on that point), she was certainly
very innocent and unconscious, and, as Jack looked at
her, he anathematized his own stupidity in not taking the
opportunity which the 'squire had so temptingly opened
for him, and determined that he would rectify the omission
speedily.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, the quill travelled over another broad
page, and the documents were ready for the signatures.
And then it was necessary that Molly and the hired-man
should be called in as witnesses, and the former made
very wide eyes of wonderment (little budget of deceit!)
when she learned the nature of the papers, and wrote her
name in a tiny, cramped hand, with many little quirks
like the legs of spiders, and this was supplemented by
the laborious autograph of Silas Plumb, the teamster, a
young man of limited education and bushy hair.</p>

<p>And when all this was done, the cousins exchanged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
the wills, and tucked them into their respective side-pockets,
feeling greatly relieved, and the 'squire, after receiving
his fee in a benevolent, deprecating manner, as
if it was quite a trial to his feelings, but must be undergone
as a duty, brought out some excellent port wine,
and pledged them both in liberal glasses, with wishes
for their prosperous voyage and safe return. And at
the mention of this sorrowful topic, poor Molly's spirits
suffered such charming timid depression, and were affected
to such a degree that when Philo took leave, it
was necessary for Jack to lag behind, and finally allow
him to go away alone, since nothing else would serve to
restore the languishing damsel to comparative cheerfulness.
At this interval of time, and without the advantage
of being an eye-witness, it would be a vain attempt
for anybody to undertake a minute account of how,
standing in the low "stoop," with its little round posts
like drumsticks, and huge tubs of thrifty, rough-leaved
plants, Molly made herself perfectly irresistible with
her shy regrets, and how, when her grief and apprehension
at once welled up from her heart to her face, in the
midst of bashful palpitations and broken sobs, her
proud little head wilted weakly over on Jack's shoulder,
and she begged him not to go sail-ail-ailing away, and
be drownd-ed-ed&mdash;and have that horrid old will-ill-ill
for his sole memento. Neither would it be easy to portray
how Jack soothed and petted, with all the little endearments
that are such delightful realities for the moment,
but so silly and absurd to remember, and finally,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
when nothing else would answer, committed himself
past all remedy, as what man could help doing, with
such a dainty little figure leaning close, and the sweetest
of mournful faces buried in his collar. And then, there
were more tears and kisses, and at the end a long, quiet
talk of all that should be realized when that one voyage
was over, and he should be ready to resign his sea-faring
life.</p>

<p>At last Jack tore himself away from all these enchantments,
and rushed home for a couple of hours of
delicious dreamy tumbling about in bed before daylight,
which seemed to come much sooner than he had
calculated, and aroused him to complete his preparations
for departure.</p>

<p>Everybody knows what a queer, altered aspect certain
actions and feelings take after one night, and the
dawning of the clear, practical light of the next day.
Ideas that have seemed most urgent and actual will at
such times appear extremely unreal and visionary, and
be quite eclipsed in interest by the trifles that come in
between and demand immediate attention. Jack found
it so, in the hurry and bustle of the next day, what with
the preparations for sailing, and all the little matters
that such a start involves. The doings of the previous
night seemed quite distant and foreign to his own personality;
and it needed the big-folded document, with
its formal phraseology and crisp rattle, to convince him
that the acts of the evening before had not been a rather
memorable dream. Once, in the course of the day, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
took out the will, read it hastily over, and then tucked it
away in a little brass-bound box, that answered for him
the same purpose that a Herring's Patent does for prudent
young men of the present day.</p>

<p>But however it might be about the wills, and the
chances that the Great Reaper should overtake either of
the cousins before the return-voyage, Molly was a present
and delightful reality; and that very evening Jack
made her another visit, justified 'Squire Tupper's presumption
of the former occasion, and amid Molly's tears
and kisses, and big sighs and little sobs, wished most
heartily that the Sally Ann had made her cruise, and
that the future programme was ready to be carried into
effect. But then, he might be lucky enough to pay for
waiting; and if anything should happen to Philo in the
interval,&mdash;of course, he hoped there wouldn't, poor fellow;
but accidents will happen, and if anything so sad
should occur, why, then he would be in a position to
keep Molly in the style she deserved and was accustomed
to; and to buy out a share in some nice little craft, that
should bring home to them treasures as rich, after their
kind, as those that the ships of Tarshish brought to
King Solomon. But all this was mere conjecture, and
Jack renounced it with a feeling of reproach for having
indulged it even for a moment.</p>

<p>The next day the Skylark sailed, Philo starting away
from the old house with his chest on a wheelbarrow, and
leaving Aunt Betsy on the doorstep, with her lips
pressed very tight, and all the grim fatalism of her religious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
faith making stern struggle against the natural
motherly instincts of her heart. For she did love
Philo; and even the reflection that he wasn't going to
wait upon Jack, according to his established usage, was
lost in genuine grief for his departure.</p>

<p>Jack rowed out to the ship with him; and it would be
doing both an injustice to ask whether the cordial regrets
of their separation were mingled with any remembrance
on the part of either, that in case they should
never meet again, one of them would be a few hundred
dollars richer for the death of the other.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>On the morning of May 5th, 1805, the Sally Ann
sailed out of New London harbor. On the evening of
September 12th, 1808, she dropped anchor in the very
spot which she had left three years and four months before.</p>

<p>The first object, aside from the familiar shore, that
met Jack's recognition, as they sailed up the bay, was
the ship Skylark, arrived just six weeks previously, and
the first man he saw, as he stepped on land, was his
Cousin Philo. There could hardly have been a more cordial
greeting than that which the bystanders witnessed;
and yet a close look into the heart of each might have
disclosed a shade of something strangely inconsistent
with the outward semblance of happiness that both
wore.</p>

<p>For three years is a long time for some thoughts and
impulses to mature in, and day after day out at sea, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
only the monotony of the ever-undulating waves, and
the easily exhausted resources of variety to be found on
shipboard, give great opportunity for brooding, and
such speculations as come naturally to people who are idle
and isolated. Seeds of the devil's planting possess a peculiarly
vital and fructifying property and are sure to come
to maturity sooner or later. One can easily imagine the
thoughts that might have come to these two young men
in the long, solitary watches, come perhaps like suggestions
from the world outside, wafted on the wings of the
wind, or caught up in chance hints and scraps of sailor talk,
but coming nevertheless straight from the God of mammon,
and, with their slow canker working a steady and
sure corruption. And yet, neither had probably ever allowed
these thoughts to take any such positive form as
to be capable of recognition. They were always, even
in the moments of their strongest domination, veiled in
some perfectly innocent mental expression, such as <i>if</i>
anything should happen, or <i>supposing</i> such an affliction,&mdash;meditations
which the most sensitive conscience could
not possibly challenge, but which had a way of creeping
in upon the minds of these two far oftener than they
would have done, but for the existence of the wills.</p>

<p>Philo had an inborn love of lucre that was strong
enough to give spice and fascination to these ponderings
of possibilities, while Jack was constantly under the
stimulus of his fondness for Molly, and desire to make a
handsome provision for her. And by these means, this
indefinite <i>if</i>, acknowledged at first only as a remote and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
dreaded contingency, gradually took to itself substance,
and began to figure in the plans and projects of each as
if it were almost a positive certainty. Always, however,
with the proviso that it was a very sad possibility, to be devoutly
deplored and hoped against, but still accepted and
treated as an actuality. And such an effectual devil-trap
did this <i>if</i> prove to be, that this meeting of the two
cousins was, in the hidden consciousness of each, in the
nature of an unexpected shock that made a sudden scattering
of many schemes and purposes, all based, to a
great extent upon that wicked and fallacious <i>if</i>. And
while all this was lurking under the demonstrative
warmth and gladness of their greeting, probably no
greater surprise nor horror could have befallen either
than to have had the veil of his self-deception for one
moment lifted, and to have had a single glimpse at the
truth within him, or a single intimation of the lives that
they two should lead through the next half century
under the evil consciousness of that ever impending <i>if</i>.</p>

<p>But nothing of this supernatural character befell
them, and after a few warm greetings among the crowd
on the pier, Jack hastened toward the town. There
were some changes in the familiar streets; buildings
newly built or altered, signs changed, and a barber's
pole freshly painted. All these he observed carefully
as he walked on. When he came in sight of 'Squire
Tupper's, the radiant, blushing face of Molly disclosed
itself for an instant at the window, and speedily reappeared
in a flutter of delicious expectancy at the half-open<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
door, for the news of the arrival was already all
over town. She gave a series of little screams as Jack,
with such a big black beard, and so very brown, came up
and saluted her with a strong bearish hug and a general
smell of whale-oil.</p>

<p>For Jack was considerably altered by reason of a certain
manly reticence that seemed to have grown on
with his whiskers, in place of the old boyish dash and
frankness. Molly had become steady and womanly, too,
and now saw with vast pride the dignified way in which
Jack deported himself, how he met the 'squire's gracious
welcome with equal ease and affability, and talked
of his voyage and its adventures in such a quiet, modest
way as showed him to be every inch a hero. And when,
after a short stay, he spoke of Aunt Betsy, and would
not prolong her waiting, Molly was quite resigned to let
him go, contenting herself with dwelling upon his improved
looks, and indulging in charming little maidenly
reveries that centred in the anticipated joys and splendors
of a certain day which she had settled in her own
mind as not far distant.&mdash;Alas, Molly! Indulge your
reveries, poor girl. Dream on, and let your dreams be
sweet. Play over and over in anticipation your pretty
little drama of white dresses and bridesmaids and wedding-cake,
and make it all as gay as possible, for little
else shall you have by way of reward for your many
months of constancy to Jack Avery, save his occasional
attentions and the satisfaction of being for years the
wonder and mystery of all the gossips in town. Yes;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
for years. It may as well be said now as any other
time. The day when Molly's dreams should be realized
withdrew itself from time to time, and at length took
up its permanent position in the distant horizon of uncertainty.
"Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,"
but Molly Tupper was not merged in Molly Avery,
and there were no prospects of that consummation more
than had appeared for the last&mdash;well&mdash;we wont say
how many years. For tender and devoted as Jack was
for a long time, there was a change in him, that brought
something of constraint and reserve between them, and,
with all her delicate feminine tact, she could never lead
him into any direct avowal of his wishes on the subject.
And since Molly was the very paragon of maidenly
modesty and trusting devotion, she came to indulge the
conviction that Jack knew best, and had some wise
though inscrutable reason for delaying matters. And
in time, even those indefatigables, the village gossips,
wearied of wondering and surmising, at their perennial
tea-parties, and the whole thing settled down into a discouraging
calm.</p>

<p>And yet Jack had no design of doing an injustice.
He was really fond of Molly, and fully intended to
marry her. But for that ever-present <i>if</i>, and the complications
it involved, the event would have taken place
in due time. His reflections sometimes took a very
painful turn, as he pondered the subject. Here was this
beautiful, affectionate girl, to whom he had long been
pledged, waiting his time with all the truth and constancy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
of her loving nature. And here he was, living a
dreary and almost hopeless bachelor life, and standing
in the way of any advantageous match which might be
otherwise open for her acceptance. But, in case of his
marriage, the will arrangement must be broken up, and
he should have the mortification of making that suggestion
to Philo; which seemed an almost impossible thing
to do, for not a word with reference to it had ever passed
the lips of either since the night when the agreement
was made, and both had come to regard it with something
like a superstitious dread, as a theme whose discussion
might portend some fatal result.</p>

<p>And then, again, thought Jack, life was such an
uncertainty, and a few months of waiting might make a
vast difference. Suppose, in his foolish haste, he should
throw up the will arrangement, and marry Molly, and
it should turn out, after all, that a little delay would
have improved their condition so much. Though life
insurance was still unknown, and its cool calculations
and scientific averages would have been then regarded
as the extreme of impiety, and its risks as a wicked
tempting of Providence, Jack had made out in his own
mind a tolerably accurate table of averages, which
showed quite conclusively against his cousin's chances
for longevity. It is hardly to be supposed that Philo
had neglected the same satisfactory proceeding, or that
his results were very different.</p>

<p>And thus this corrupting temptation, that is the root
of all evil, had crept upon these two noble young hearts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
distorting and defiling them with its slow taint. And
even now, either of them might truthfully have questioned,&mdash;</p>

<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 25%;">"What shall I be at fifty,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If nature keeps me alive,<br />
&nbsp;If life is so cold and bitter,<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When I am but twenty-five?"</p>

<p>It would be too dreary a task to follow them year by
year. Let us make leaps and take glimpses at them by
intervals.</p>



<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Twenty-five.</i> What we have seen.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2em;"><i>Thirty.</i> Aunt Betsy, weak and childish for many
months, has gone to her long home, with a final admonition
to Philo that he must make Jack the object of his
best watch and care for the entire period of his natural
life.</p>

<p>Molly is still pretty, though a little thin and with
a perceptible sharpening of the elbows. Her color is
not quite so high, nor her figure so plump. She keeps
house for the 'squire, with devotion and good management
that are the admiration of the town; continues
to love and trust in Jack with unabated fervor, though
some young women, whom she remembers to have held
in her arms when they were babies in long clothes, are
long since married and have babies of their own. Still
she receives the sometime visits of her laggard lover
with the same grace and sweetness, confident that it will
all come right in time; has dropped the old familiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
"Jack" for "John" or "Mr. Avery," which is a hint
that we ought to do so, too.</p>

<p>That unfathomable individual has been for some time
a partner in a grocery establishment, carrying on a
good business, and realizing fair profits; devotes much
of his leisure to revising the imaginary insurance table,
and has brought it down considerably closer; maintains
a great regard for his Cousin Philo, and has much affectionate
solicitude for his health; gives occasionally to
various benevolent objects; is extremely regular in all
his habits, and is generally regarded as a very nice
young man, who has turned out much better than was
expected of him.</p>

<p>Philo has purchased a farm in an adjoining town, and
is improving it with great care; is considered rather
"near" in his dealings, and is generally quite distant
and reserved. Suspicions are entertained that he has
been disappointed in love, though nobody pretends to
know the particulars; always takes a great interest in
his Cousin John, whom he suspects of a tendency to
dropsy. John, on his part, thinks Philo consumptive.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Thirty-five.</i> No great variation.</p>

<p>Both the farmer and the grocery-man are moderately
prosperous; though neither ventures much into speculation,
because each is mindful of possibilities in the
future that will give great additional advantages. The
insurance table has been reduced to one of the exact
sciences.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p>

<p>Molly, poor girl, has faded a shade or two. She still
keeps house, and raises an annual crop of old-maid
pinks and pathetic-looking pansies, together with sage
and rosemary and sweet marjoram, which she dries and
puts in her closets and drawers, in order that their
delicate, homelike fragrance may keep out the moths
and pervade her apparel. But, as she moves so briskly
and cheerfully about her little tasks, or bends over some
bit of sewing or other ladycraft, grave doubts intrude
themselves; and, if she were one whit less patient and
self-forgetful, she would sometimes throw aside all these
little occupations, and, like Jephthah's daughter, bewail
her virginity. And, as she sits on Sunday mornings in
church, alone in the pew except the 'squire,&mdash;now an
old man who takes incredible quantities of snuff and
drops the hymn-book,&mdash;as she sits thus, and watches
the happy matrons, no older than she, coming in one
by one, with their manly husbands and groups of rosy
children, there comes up, sometimes, a great rising in
her throat, which she is fain to subdue by taking bits of
her own preserved flag-root, which she carries always
in her pocket. Or, when she sees some pretty bride
arrayed in the customary fineries, she sighs a little, as
the thought that she has lost her best bloom comes uneasily
to the surface; and then she sometimes looks
timidly around to see if Mr. Avery has come to church.
But Mr. Avery isn't often there; the insurance table
takes up a good deal of his attention on Sundays.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>

<p>Molly has long ceased to dream about the white
dresses and orange-blossoms. She would be glad, indeed,
to make sure of a plain dark silk and only two
kinds of cake; and of late even her hopes of these have
become empty and melancholy as a last-year's birds-nest.
Yet she clings still to the shadow of her old coquette
girlhood, and rejuvenates herself with a new bonnet
every spring, with as much seeming cheerfulness and
confidence as if she were fifteen instead of thirty-five.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Forty.</i> Decided changes.</p>

<p>'Squire Tupper rests in a grave marked by the most
upright and respectable of tombstones. And then all
the chattering tongues, that had before wagged themselves
weary with gossip and conjecture, took a renewed
impetus, and it was settled in all quarters that Molly
would now be married as speedily as the proprieties
of mourning would permit. And John himself, it
would seem, thought as much; for, without any undue
haste, he did make some motions looking that way.
He bought a new gig, and took Molly out to ride
several times, besides sitting very regularly in her pew
at church. And, having thus evinced the earnestness
of his intentions, he made himself spruce one Sabbath
evening, and proceeded to call on her, with the express
design of asking her to fix the long-deferred day.</p>

<p>But what was his surprise on finding, as he came
upon the stoop where he and Molly had so often exchanged
vows of eternal fidelity (which had, indeed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
been tolerably tested), the best parlor gayly alight as
in the days of his early courtship, and to hear a male
voice in very animated conversation with Molly.</p>

<p>Curiosity and pride alike forbade him to retreat; but
how was his surprise intensified to dismay when Molly,
looking remarkably bright and young, ushered him into
the presence of Mr. Niles, a most respectable gentleman
resident in town, whose wife had been now three months
dead. He was as smiling and interesting as Molly.
And presently that outrageous damsel spoke up in the
easiest way in the world,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You dropped in just the right time, <i>Cousin</i> John, for
now you shall be the first one to be invited to our
wedding. It is to come off a week from next Wednesday
in the evening. We have just settled the time, and
I shall have to stir around pretty lively to get ready."</p>

<p>It was all true, and there was no help for it. John
Avery had presumed a trifle too much upon the elastic
quality of Molly's love for him, and now, at the eleventh
hour, her seraphic patience had given way, and let him
most decidedly and disgracefully down. When her
father was dead and she left in loneliness, and John still
delayed to make direct provision for altering the state
of things, Molly felt that she had passed the limit of forbearance,
and with a sudden dash of spirit, in which she
seemed to concentrate all the unspoken pain and suppressed
sense of wrong that had struggled in her heart
through all these years past, she actually set her cap for
this forlorn widower with six children, caught him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
rushed him through a violent courtship, evoked from
his stricken heart an ardent and desperate declaration,
accepted, and married him, all in the space of eight
weeks.</p>

<p>And this was John's first intimation. Will any woman
blame her if she <i>had</i> been a little studious to conceal
the preliminaries from him, till it should be time to
acquaint him with the result, or if she wasn't especially
tender of his nervous sensibilities in making her disclosure?</p>

<p>But he was bidden to the wedding, and must needs
go,&mdash;which he did, looking very glum, and kissing the
bride with far less gusto than he had done in former
times. But it was a very festive occasion, notwithstanding,
for the bridegroom appeared in a blue coat
with brass buttons, and his hair was greased to preternatural
glossiness, while all the six children stood in a
row, their stature being graduated like a flight of steps,
and the cake was all that Molly had ever pictured it in
the wildest flight of her imagination. And Molly herself
in a perfect cloud of gauze and blaze of blushes renewed
her youth prodigiously.</p>

<p>It was all over, and John Avery walked slowly homeward
with a glimmering consciousness that the things
of this life in general were rather shaky and uncertain,&mdash;indulging
even a brief doubt as to the reliability of his
system of averages.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Fifty.</i> Both of our old bachelors are beginning to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
grow gray and morose. Philo stoops considerably, but
is otherwise in excellent physical preservation; reads
all the medical books about abstinence and frugality as
the means of promoting long life, and practises rigidly
upon their principles. John is equally tough and temperate.
Neither shows the least sign of giving out for
fifty years to come. Both have increased in substance
and have the reputation of being "forehanded." The
insurance table has been reduced to the very last fraction;
but, spite of its scientific accuracy, seems to be one
of those rules that are proved by their exceptions.</p>

<p>Mrs. Niles is the most devoted of wives, the perfection
of step-mothers, and rejoices, besides, in a chubby
little boy of her own. All the seven are united in neglecting
no opportunity to rise up and call her blessed.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Sixty.</i> Ditto&mdash;only more so.</p>


<p style="margin-top: 2.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><i>Seventy.</i> The Ghosts?</p>


<p>Yes, indulgent reader, your patience hath had its perfect
work, if it hath brought you through all these preceding
pages, in order that you may witness this <i>denouement</i>
scene, in which the ghosts appear, with such
real and startling semblance in the eyes of some of our
actors, that, in comparison, the fifth act of a sensation
drama would have seemed mild as milk.</p>

<p>It is to see these supernatural visitants that we have
brought you all this long road. Let them show themselves
but once, and we will then be content, nay glad,
to drop our curtain, retire from the footlights, and whisk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
our actors back to the serene shades of private life.
Grant us, for a little time, the gifts of conjurers and
"meejums." Let our Asmodeus take you in charge,
and show you things that are beyond the range of mere
mortal perception. Ubiquity shall be yours while you
journey into the land of spirits, and the name of the
mischievous wizard and terrible practical joker who
conducts you thither shall be Jack Niles.</p>

<p>For we omitted to mention, in its appropriate connection,
that when Molly found herself laid under the responsibility
of naming her boy, she was debarred from
bestowing on him that of his father, since it had been
previously appropriated among the six, and her artistic
sense revolted from starting the poor, helpless innocent
out in the world under the honored designation of
Zophar Tupper, which his grandfather had borne with
such eminent respectability. And so, being influenced
by the tender grace of motherhood, and desirous of
showing her kind feeling towards the man whom she
had once so loved and had now so freely forgiven, she
felt that she could do it in no more expressive way than
by calling her baby John Avery. The compliment was
appreciated, and there may still be seen, among the family
treasures of the Niles tribe, a silver cup, of punchy
form and curious workmanship, marked with the inscription
"J. A. N. from J. A."</p>

<p>Jack the second grew up a tolerably correct copy of
the boyhood of his namesake. He was gifted with the
same gayety of temperament, and facility for getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
into scrapes. It had happened more than once that
heedless pranks of his had been leniently looked upon,
and concealed or remedied by the considerate care of
John the elder, who, spite of all the miserable warping
and drying up of all his kindlier sympathies under the
influence of that ever-impending possibility, still seemed
to find a congenial satisfaction in the society of this
frank, jolly youth, whose presence brought with it such
an echo of his own once careless, joyous life.</p>

<p>But, spite of warnings and admonitions, Jack was still
a sad boy, and his favorite mode of working off his surplus
activity was in devising and executing practical
jokes. His invention and audacity reached their culmination
in a most unprincipled scheme against the two
venerable Avery cousins.</p>

<p>Philo was now as sour, dry, and wizened an old man
as dwelt in the state of Connecticut, and those bleak
hills and stony slopes do not seem to produce very ripe
and mellow old age. But Philo was known as an especially
hard and grasping old sinner, living a sort of
dog's life, all by himself, and too stingy to open his eyes
wide. And it befell once that he and his strange, barren
mode of life were touched upon in the evening talk
of the Niles family, and then the mother, with her old,
modest sprightliness, went over the story of the two
wills made so long ago, and which must, in the natural
course of human events, soon come into effect. She had
grown to be an old woman, this blessed mother, but
none of the loving ones, to whom her presence had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
a joy and consolation for so many years, ever thought
of her gray hairs or caps or spectacles, except as the
emblems of more abundant peace and benediction.</p>

<p>She tells her story now,&mdash;about the early days of the
two old men, whose withered faces, and bent forms, and
eager, acquisitive eyes are so familiar to them all,&mdash;and
as she proceeds, Jack lapses from lively attention to a
mood of profound reflection, which is always a bad sign
for somebody.</p>

<p>In the evening twilight of the next day, a thin, yellow-haired
lad, mounted on a large, bony, sorrel horse,
presented himself with an appearance of great haste and
urgency before the door of Philo Avery's hermetic
dwelling. After a vigorous though fruitless knocking, he
made his way to the rear of the small, dismal brown
house, and spied an aged figure advancing from an adjacent
piece of woods, bending under the weight of a
large heap of brush.</p>

<p>"Be you Philo Avery?"</p>

<p>"Yes," answered the ancient, with evident suspicion.</p>

<p>"Then I've got a letter for you," said the thin youth,
and, thrusting it forth, sprang upon his high horse and
clattered away down the road.</p>

<p>A letter! Philo stood and watched the messenger
till he disappeared from sight, filled with a vague sense
that something strange was about to break upon him.
A letter sent to him was in itself a strange occurrence.
Who could write to him? and for what? Could it indeed
be the one thing so long looked for? and, if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
were, how sudden! Tremulous with excitement, he trotted
into the house, and, after many minutes of agitated
fumbling, succeeded in lighting a candle. Then he held
the letter close and tried to examine the address, for
Philo was a victim to that unaccountable oddity, to
which the greater portion of human nature is prone, of
making a close and critical scrutiny of any unexpected
or mysterious letter, before opening it for the conclusive
knowledge of its contents. But everything looks misty
before his eyes, and, after much squinting and peering, it
occurs to him that he has forgotten his spectacles. And
at last, after more delay and fumbling, he comes to the
subject matter, very brief but comprehensive:&mdash;</p>

<p>"John Avery died last night. Funeral at ten o'clock
to-morrow morning."</p>

<p>No date, no signature; but what of that? Over and
over Philo read the two lines, before his mind could
really grasp the intelligence they conveyed. It would
have made a striking picture,&mdash;that withered, bent figure,
in its coarse, well-worn clothes, stooping in the dim,
lonely room, and the hungry eyes devouring that bit of
news. It had happened at last, this thing for which he
has waited almost half a century. How many hundred
times he had imagined his own feelings when it
should come to him, and how different it all was! The
old man sinks into a chair and gives himself up to revery.
And sitting thus, there come stealing upon him
remembrances of long past scenes. He thinks of the time
when he and John were boys together, and of all his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
mother's love and care of both; of the parting on the
deck of the Skylark, and their long voyage. And then
came the slow-moving panorama of all the dull, dreary,
barren years that dragged their slow length onward between
his present self and all these boyish memories.
The hours pass unnoted as the poor old man goes
through the successive stages of his retrospect, and
finally arouses himself with a start when the candle, that
has been burning dim and flickering, gives a dying glare
and goes out in the socket. And then he arises, cramped
and stiff, and creeps trembling to bed as the cocks are
crowing for midnight. But the newly-made heir cannot
sleep. Haunting images visit him, as the Furies surrounded
Orestes. At length he rises and seeks the repository
of his valuables. He takes out the will, and
though he has known it, every word by heart, for a
whole generation's lifetime, he reads it mechanically
over. How strange the lines look, and the name of
<i>Zophar Tupper</i>, written with the old magisterial flourish!
Here, too, are the signatures of the witnesses, and he
finds himself wondering why John never married Molly
after all, and, even now, does not dream that he himself
was the obstacle, by his disagreeable persistency in living;
for our mortality is the last and severest lesson
that we learn in life.</p>

<p>Philo wonders if it is not almost daylight, and looks
out at the east window for the first streak of dawn;
reflects that he must start early, for it is nine miles to
the town, and his old horse is not over-active. He will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
have to dress up, too, for the funeral. How strange!
To pass away the time, he begins to get out his clothes
and lay them ready. From the depths of a great red
chest he brings up a pair of good, new pantaloons, that
he has not worn for ten years, and then a coat to match,
and a fine shirt with a ruffled bosom, that Aunt Betsy
made for him while she was still young enough to do
such things. And, lastly, he bethinks himself of a pair
of black linen gloves that he bought on the occasion of
the good woman's funeral, and from the darkest corner
of the chest he fishes them up. A little dingy and rotten
they are, to be sure, but still in wonderful preservation,
though they give way in two or three spots when
he puts them carefully on.</p>

<p>In these little occupations he wears away the hours
till the darkness begins to grow gray, and as soon as he
can see sufficiently he goes to the pasture and leads his
astonished old horse to the door. Then comes the terrible
process of shaving;&mdash;and what spectacle is more forlorn
than that of an old bachelor trying to shave a long,
stiff beard by a weak light and with cold water? Even
this is at length achieved; and then, after much brushing
and other unaccustomed elaborations of toilet, he
places the will carefully in his pocket, and, drawing on
the rusty gloves, takes a final survey of himself before
starting. The mouldy little mirror reflects a thin, yellow
face dried into long, fine wrinkles, straggling gray
locks, and watery, pale-blue eyes. The old-fashioned
clothes make the thin, stooping figure more awkward<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
and spindling, and a high, tight cravat completes the
scarecrow effect of the whole. Still Philo has done his
best, and is satisfied, as he mounts his ancient steed, that
he presents the very likeness of respectable sorrow.</p>

<p>And jogging decorously onward, as becomes his dismal
errand, he ponders how different this morning is
from all the other mornings of his life. In the silver-gray
dawn there come back all the strange sentiments
that had arisen out of the surprise and excitement of the
previous midnight. A thick mist creeps up from a little
stream that runs by the road-side, and its damp, clinging
chill seems to strike through and saturate his very vitals.
It occurs to him that the road is very lonely, and the few
scattered farm-houses very dreary and inhospitable-looking,
for it is a cloudy morning, and people are not
yet stirring.</p>

<p>All the influences and associations of the hour are
dreary and funereal. He tries to fix his mind upon the
inheritance into which he is about to step, but no bright,
alluring visions rise at his call, and his thoughts are
either perpetually recurring to the early memories that
so affected him the night before, or else to the suggestion
of his own form lying stiff and cold for burial in the
place of his cousin's. All the well-known landmarks of
the familiar way start into new and strange aspects; and
he recoils in affright from an old guideboard that has
stood in exactly the same place for forty years, but now
appears like some spectral gallows that spreads its arms
in ghostly invitation. He twists and pinches himself as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
he rides along, to be assured that he is in the world of
realities; but the night's experiences have unstrung his
aged nerves, and mind and body quiver helplessly alike.</p>

<p>And now, from the brow of a little eminence, he perceives
a gig slowly advancing from below, and, as it
nears him, he becomes conscious of a great familiarity
in its appearance. It is certainly very like the one that
John bought so long ago, before Molly was married,
and which he has used ever since. Curiously, too, it is
drawn by a white horse, and John has had a white horse
for ages past. This is indeed a coincidence. The thing
comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror of horrors! It is
John's own self,&mdash;his form,&mdash;his features,&mdash;his old
brown hat,&mdash;John indeed, but deadly pale, and with
wide, wild eyes fixed in a terrible stony gaze. No
natural look, no nod of recognition, but only that
hideous, glassy stare as he comes silently along, riding
up out of the white fog.</p>

<p>Philo can neither move nor cry out. He would turn
and escape, but his stiffened hand refuses to draw the
rein, and his horse has become, like himself, rigid and
motionless.</p>

<p>Prayers, oaths, and invocations rush, in a confused
huddle, through his bewildered brain, as he sits and
gazes, unable to remove his eyes from that horrid sight,
and while he is vainly seeking to frame his lips to some
sort of utterance, the wraith itself breaks the silence.</p>

<p>"Philo." The tone is broken and distant.</p>

<p>Trembling and choked, he tries to answer. The blood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
rushes to his face and almost blinds him, and he stammers
out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"John Avery,&mdash;aren't you dead?"</p>

<p>"Are you?" asks the wraith.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;I don't know," says Philo, and he didn't.</p>

<p>The ghost rises, steps down from the gig, and extends
his hand. It is very cold and clammy, but still a sound,
fleshly hand, though quite hard and shrunken from its
early proportions.</p>

<p>"Thank God!" shouts Philo Avery.</p>

<p>"<i>Thank God!</i>" responds John Avery, fervently.</p>

<p>"How came you here?" asks Philo, still a little incredulous
as to the real mortality of his companion.</p>

<p>"On my way to attend your funeral," says John.</p>

<p>"Why, no,&mdash;that can't be,&mdash;I'm going to yours."</p>

<p>"Heavens!" exclaims John.</p>

<p>"I guess it's a hoax," suggests Philo.</p>

<p>John takes out a letter and reads aloud: "<i>Philo Avery
died last night. Funeral at ten o'clock to-morrow morning.</i>"</p>

<p>"Just like mine, except the name," says Philo. "So
you thought I was a ghost."</p>

<p>"Didn't know what else you could be. You looked
queer enough for one," replied John.</p>

<p>"Well, I've lived long enough to see ghosts, but this
is the first of that kind of gentry that ever showed themselves
to me," cried Philo, in his high, cracked voice, and
actually convulsed with laughter. John joined in, and
the two ghosts made the whole region alive.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p>

<p>"It must have been somebody that knew about the
wills," said John, when they had grown calm.</p>

<p>"Yes," replied Philo; "and what cursed things they
have been?"</p>

<p>"Cursed&mdash;for both of us," said John.</p>

<p>"Have you got it along with you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, of course,&mdash;have you?" answered John, reddening
faintly.</p>

<p>"Why, yes,&mdash;and here it goes," cried Philo, with
sudden energy, pulling it out, and shredding it in strips.
John was not to be outdone. With equal eagerness he
pulled his out, and, in a few seconds, both the wills were
fluttering in fragments among the elderberry bushes by
the road-side.</p>

<p>"What a contemptible old screw I've been!" exclaimed
John, penitentially, as the insurance table came
into his mind.</p>

<p>"No worse than I," said Philo, thinking of all his
drudging, grovelling years.</p>

<p>"Why, do you know I've wished you dead," burst
out John.</p>

<p>"Well, suppose you have,&mdash;I've done the same by
you," answered Philo.</p>

<p>"May God forgive us both."</p>

<p>"<i>Amen</i>," said Philo, solemnly.</p>

<p>"And help us in the future," continued John.</p>

<p>"Amen again," said Philo.</p>

<p>The muffled clatter of a horse's hoofs sounded through
the fog, and presently the twinkling face of Jack Niles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
beamed upon the ghostly couple. Looking with well
simulated astonishment on the group, the empty gig,
and his venerable namesake standing in the middle of
the road, Jack paused and begged to know what was
the trouble, and whether he could be of service.</p>

<p>"I believe it was you," said Philo, looking at the mischievous
lad with sudden prescience.</p>

<p>"I know 'twas," said John.</p>

<p>And though Jack never owned it, that was a conviction
that never departed from the minds of the two, and
when they died, long after, he found himself bound by
substantial reasons to remember the Two Ghosts of
New London Turnpike.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">DOWN BY THE SEA.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />




<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Down_by_the_Sea" id="Down_by_the_Sea"><span class="smcap">Down by the Sea.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg"
width="51" height="85" alt="t" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">T</span>HERE is a lonely old house situated close down
by the sea, in one of the most secluded yet lonely
nooks, not far from one of the most noted
resorts on the seaboard; an old gray stone
house, showing the marks of the many wild
storms which have beat upon it in all the long years
which have passed over it; a house whose bareness
and desolation are enlivened but little by the heavy-trailing
ivy which creeps over a portion of it and in
which many wild birds build their nests. Old as it is, it
seems never to have been finished,&mdash;rather to have been
left without any of the last touches which complete a
building, and to have thus stood for many years, with
the wild winds and storms of the coast beating against
it. Here and there a shutter is torn from its hinges,
and lies where it fell under the window. The point is
entirely gone from cornice and colonnade, and the floor
of the latter, which had never been painted, is old and
worm-eaten. The grounds about it are an intricate tangle
of brushwood. Flowering shrubs, which had been
planted here and there, have grown up into wild and unshapely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
trees. Rose-bushes and wild vines choke up the
paths, and the gates and fences are broken and dilapidated.
There is one path, which leads down to the
beach, which has been kept open, and has, apparently,
been often trodden; but apart from this there seems to
be but little sign of life around the old gray house.
There is, indeed, one red-curtained window upon the
side which looks out to sea, and here a bright light is always
burning at night, and all night, and the sailors
have learned to watch for it as for a signal; and the
place is known to them as the Lone-Star House. Let
us watch around the house, and perhaps it will have a
story to tell,&mdash;such places often do have, lonely and
deserted as they seem; stories often full enough of
human love and heart-break. "It looks as though it
might be haunted," say the gay parties who ride by it
from the fashionable resort a few miles away. Yes, and
there is no doubt but what it is.</p>

<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 20%;">"All houses wherein men have lived and died<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are haunted houses. Through the open doors<br />
&nbsp;Phantoms unseen upon their errands glide<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With feet that make no noise upon the floors."</p>

<p>It is growing sunset now, and the sky is blossoming
most gloriously with many-colored clouds, as out of
the door of the old house a woman glides and takes the
beaten path to the beach. A great rough and shaggy
dog follows her, and the two together walk thoughtfully
along. They go down where the great waves are tumbling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
and tossing upon the rocks, and pace rapidly up
and down the shore, looking far out over the green
waters with their fleecy crowns of foam. She is a woman
of middle-age, verging near upon forty, one would say,
tall, and straight as an arrow, with large, unfathomable
gray eyes and a massive coronal of glossy hair,
streaked here and there with gray. She wears a cheap,
dark dress; but she has a handsome scarlet shawl
around her shoulders, of the most superb tint of which
you can conceive; and she looks like a woman who
would love rich and gorgeous coloring; and, indeed, it is
one of her passions. In draperies, in articles of dress
where such colors are admissible, and more than all in
flowers and leaves, she loves the deepest and richest
tints. Every night the sunset is a revelation to her.
She studies the gorgeous castles and cathedrals of gold,
which are builded in the western heavens with a glory
which the temple of Solomon could never attain; and
she watches, from her little turret window up in the old
gray house yonder, every morning for the rising of the
great high-priest in his garments resplendent. There
was, indeed, something warm and rich and tropical in
her blood, albeit it sprung from the cold New England
fount. She reminded one, as much as anything, of</p>


<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 10%;">"The wondrous valley hidden in the depths of Gloucester woods<br />
&nbsp;Full of plants which love the summer blooms of warmer latitudes,<br />
&nbsp;Where the Arctic birch is broided by the tropic's flowery vines,<br />
&nbsp;And the silver-starred magnolia lights the twilight of the pines."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p>

<p>She walks upon the beach till the sunset has burned
low in the red west, and then takes the path back to the
house. When about half-way across the garden, she
turns off a little from the main path, and, putting back
the bushes with her hands, makes her way for a few
paces and stops at a little grave,&mdash;a child's grave,&mdash;tufted
thick with purple pansies, sprinkled with white daisies.
She sits down for a moment beside it, plucks one
or two spires of grass which have sprung up among the
flowers, then hurriedly leaves it, calling her dog after
her, and going into the house, where the light soon
shines in the seaward-looking window. The woman's
name is Agnes Wayland, and here she has lived alone
for now nearly twenty years,&mdash;alone, except once in a
while of a summer she takes a quiet boarder or two,
who see little of her and know less, and of whom she
esteems it a great pleasure to be well rid, when the autumnal
equinox comes on. Winter and summer, in
storm and sleet, rain and shine, she stays shut in the
dim old house all day, and emerges only towards evening
for her walk upon the beach, and her peep at the little
grave, with its coverlet of pansies in summer and its
white drapery of snow in winter. Upon the night of
which I have been writing, she made her way back, as I
have said, into her own room,&mdash;a room where her prevailing
tastes could quickly be discovered. A peculiar
depth and brilliancy of coloring pervaded everything;
carpet and curtains were of the same vivid crimson,
and the large bay-window filled with plants was gorgeous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
as a festal-room of the fairies. Everything was old and
much worn, and had a look of old but not faded splendor.
A few books occupied a cabinet in one corner, and
a piano, which was always locked, stood in another.
An easy-chair was drawn up to a little stand, near the
window, and upon it lay an open Bible. This was the
place where she sat and read hour by hour and day by
day, always from the Bible, only varying her occupation
by weary hours over intricate and elaborate pieces
of fancy-work,&mdash;more beautiful and marvellous than
such pieces of work ever were made before, but always
things which required only mechanical kind of ingenuity,
and needed genius and taste only in the coloring,&mdash;and
these she sold at the nearest town, and so earned her
daily bread. After she had taken her accustomed seat
this evening, she was startled by a ring at the door,&mdash;a
sound so unusual that she trembled like a leaf as she
took the lamp and started to answer the summons. She
had got half-way down the stairs, when she stopped, and
called lightly to the dog, who was beside her in a moment,
and together they opened the door. A grave-looking
elderly gentleman stood there, who inquired if
he had the honor of addressing Mrs. Wayland.</p>

<p>"That is my name, sir," she answered, not opening
the door or bidding him enter.</p>

<p>"And mine is Ashly, madam. I am a clergyman, living
in Boston, and I am seeking a quiet place, near the
sea, in which to spend the summer. I have been told in
the village yonder that you sometimes receive a boarder,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
and I think your place will just suit me. I have recommendations,
if you wish."</p>

<p>But Mrs. Wayland did not need them. She was too
good a judge of character, despite her long seclusion,
not to see at a glance that he was what he asserted,
and that, if she must have boarders at all, he was
just what she wanted. So she invited him in, without
relaxing a particle in the coldness of her demeanor, and,
giving him a seat in a cheerless-looking and scantily-furnished
dining-room, told him in as few words as possible
what she would do for him and for how much she
would do it,&mdash;a straightforwardness which raised her
very highly in the reverend doctor's estimation, although
she designed, if she had a design in the matter,
quite a contrary effect. She had sometimes had some
trouble in keeping her boarders at a sufficient distance
to suit her, and she had found it necessary upon their
first arrival to have it distinctly understood that they
were to expect no sort of companionship from her; that
she gave them a room and their board, such as it was, and
she never took any pains to make it good or attractive,
and that that was all she wanted of them. But Dr. Ashly
had a great horror of a bustling and gossipy landlady,
and thought he had found a perfect treasure; and when
she had shown him the room he could have, if he liked,
he eagerly agreed to take it, and said if she had no objection
he would take possession forthwith, and not go
back to the village till morning. To this she assented
indifferently, and soon left him alone, calling the one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
house-maid to get him some supper, and, retiring to her
own room, was soon buried in her accustomed thoughts,
and scarcely aware of his existence. And as landlady
and lodger were equally pleased to let each other alone,
there was little intercourse between them for several
weeks. But one night, when the doctor had been for
a long walk on the beach, he saw, as he was returning,
Mrs. Wayland, in her usual evening exercise, pacing up
and down the beach, and was struck by her appearance
as she walked thus, and stood still for a time observing
her, and followed her at last, at a little distance, while she
made her visit to the child's grave. His kind heart was
very much touched by the sight, and he determined to talk
with her and give her his sympathy and friendship, if she
needed them. So he gathered some of the pansies off
from the grave, and, holding them in his hand, went into
tea. Mrs. Wayland had laid aside her shawl and was
already seated at the table. They usually had little conversation
at these times, and that of the most commonplace
character. This evening, as he came through the
door and she caught sight of the flowers in his hand,
she exclaimed, in a quick, excited way, "You have been
to my grave!"</p>

<p>She spoke as though he had intruded upon her most
sacred privacy, and he answered, apologetically, "Yes,
I have visited the little grave in the garden. I hope I
have not intruded. I have a little grave in the churchyard
at home, and such spots are very sacred to me."</p>

<p>Agnes Wayland was a lady, and she would not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
been guilty of a rudeness for the world, so she hastened
to reply,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, no, sir, you have not been guilty of intrusion, but
you are the first one who has ever visited my grave,
and I have watched it so fondly for so many years
that I almost felt jealous that any other eyes should
ever look upon it."</p>

<p>"And I have not only looked upon it," said the minister,
very softly and benignantly, "but I have dropped
a tear upon it."</p>

<p>"That is something that I have never done."</p>

<p>"Then I pity you with all my heart, my friend. If I
had not been able to weep over my child's grave, I think
my heart would have broken."</p>

<p>"Mine, sir, was broken before the child died," and, as
she said this, she arose hastily and left the room.</p>

<p>The minister was much interested and full of sympathy
for this lonely woman, whose lot was so isolated, and
as he lay that night and listened to the deep, hollow roar
of the sea, he thought of the great deeps of the human
heart, and the fierce passions which were ever tossing
it, and of the great calm of death.</p>

<p>A few days after he ventured as delicately as he
could to return to the subject, by referring to the little
girl he had lost, and of how her mother had followed
her, but a short time before, to the better land.</p>

<p>"You seem very cheerful, sir," said Agnes Wayland,
in a quick, impetuous way, "and yet you have had
trouble, it seems."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes, madam, I have had some very severe and dreadful
trials; but I am very happy and hopeful in spite of
them all, for I know that now they will soon be ended, and
that I shall recover all that I have lost when I reach the
heavenly land."</p>

<p>"How do you know that? I don't know it. When I
buried my only child down in the garden there, I thought
I had lost him forever. That was why, in my stony grief,
no tear ever fell upon his grave. I have been trying
these fifteen years to believe what you say you believe;
but it has no consolation for me. God took my child
away from me in my bitterest need, and he took him
forever. Was it a good God who did that?"</p>

<p>Her voice was cold and rigid, and a pallor as of death
was upon her face as she paused for a reply.</p>

<p>"A good God, madam! and whom he loveth he chasteneth!"</p>

<p>"No, indeed, sir, I don't believe that. He didn't love
me, and I didn't love him, and I don't love him now,&mdash;hate
him, rather. He has tried me too sorely."</p>

<p>"My dear friend, you know not what you say. I beseech
you, do not blaspheme your God."</p>

<p>"I have only said, sir, for once, what I have been
thinking all these dreadful years. When I buried my
child down there, I did not believe in any God for
years. I thought some vile and fiendish Fate was pursuing
me. Then you ministers were always saying to
me, 'Pray;' and I prayed. They said to me 'Study the
word of God;' and I studied it. It has been my only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
study for fifteen years, and it has brought me no consolation
yet."</p>

<p>"But you have found God in it,&mdash;have you not? You
do not deny a God?"</p>

<p>"I have found a God in it certainly, but only a God
who has separated me eternally from all I love."</p>

<p>"My dear friend, I assure you, you have not yet found
the true God, if you believe this."</p>

<p>"I have found I verily believe the God of the Bible,
and he has said the wicked shall go away into everlasting
punishment; and I am the most wicked of all God's
creatures."</p>

<p>Here Mrs. Wayland left him again standing upon the
colonnade, and hurried rapidly from him down the path
which led to the sea. Her conversation had revived in
her heart all the strong passions which slumbered there,
and which she usually held in close repression. As she
paced wildly up and down the beach, feeling in her
nearness to the sea a sort of comfort as though the
great ocean were her friend, she thought over her whole
lonely life. She thought of her happy and brilliant
youth, of its gayeties, its triumphs, and its great hopes;
she beheld herself the petted darling of a joyous circle
of companions and friends. She thought of her journeys
in distant lands, whither a loving father had taken her,
and of all the delights of those years when they had
wandered through all the sunny climes of southern
Europe, and so away on to the Orient, where she had
trodden with pilgrim feet all the sacred places of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
Holy Land. It was there she had first met her husband;
and she dwelt with fondness upon every little incident
which memory recalled of her intercourse with
him there, and of how they had sailed together upon
their return to their native land. It was then she had
learned to love the ocean. In those long days, when
they were out upon the trackless deep, they had
learned together the sweet mystery of loving. Night
after night they had paced the deck together, gazing
out upon the moonlighted expanse, and watching the
breakers rise and fall. The long voyage had been a
season of enchantment. It had passed into her being,
and become a part of her inmost life forever. She had
one of those natures to whom such things come but once
in a lifetime. When they had reached home, they had
been married, and, after a year or two of pleasant married
life, they had built the old gray house of which I
have told you, designing to pass their summers down
there within hearing of the grand, eternal anthem of the
sea. How well she remembered the hurry they were in to
get down here,&mdash;so great a hurry that they could not stop
to have the house entirely finished, and so in early May
they had furnished two or three rooms, and lived here
in a wild trance of what seems to her now, as she looks
back upon it, perfect bliss. Here they wandered up
and down the beach together hand in hand for hours
and beheld the waters glowing in the early tints of sunrise,
and reflecting the gorgeous splendors of sunset, and
rippling and shimmering in the bewildering moonlight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
Then she thinks of how gayeties began up at the village
yonder, and how they began to see much company and
to mingle in all the excitements of watering-place life.
Here they had met the beautiful syren who had stolen
her husband from her. With what angry hate she
dwells upon the soft, bewildering beauty of that woman,&mdash;her
rounded, dimpled form, her golden hair, and the
languishing blueness of the dreamy eyes! She seemed
in all her bewitching beauty, to the eye of Agnes Wayland,
more hateful and hideous than a fiend. She had
fascinated Mortimer Wayland almost from their first
meeting. Of a dreamy, sensuous temperament, and a
weak will, and with no great power of principle at his
back, the artful and wicked woman had ensnared him with
her wiles, and in the meshes of her charms he had forgotten
the grand and queenly wife, who to every eye was
so infinitely the superior of one for whom he was deserting
her, and the little year-old baby, who was just learning
to lisp "father" to him as he fondled him.</p>

<p>Of the wild tempest which tossed her soul at this time
she dreaded to think even now. It had been so near to
madness that it was a terror to her yet. But pride had
always been one of her ruling passions, and, instead of
pleading with him with a woman's tenderness, as some
might have done, she had treated him with coldness and
disdain, and with reproachful scorn had goaded him on
to take the last step in the dreadful drama.</p>

<p>He had deserted her, and with the blue-eyed woman
had sailed for a distant land. Never since that time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
now nearly twenty years, had she left, except for her
lonely walks, the old gray house. She shut herself up
like a hermit, and with wild and bitter grief cursed herself
and her God. Down into the deepest gloom of
despair she went, where never a single ray of heavenly
light and comfort reached her. Her child, indeed, she
had left; but although she loved him with all the concentrated
passion of her nature, he seemed little comfort to
her. She brooded continually upon the darkness of her
fate, and upon the fathomless depths of despair into
which she was sinking.</p>

<p>Then the child died, and her last human interest went;
and she made its little grave in the tangled garden, and
every year covered it thick with flowers. But in her
heart no white blossom of hope had ever sprung up, no
purple pansy of royal magnanimity and forgiveness had
yet blossomed there. And this night, after so many
years, she was living it all over again with tragic interest,
and no softened feelings of relenting or forgiveness
entered her stern heart.</p>

<p>"He is very happy," she thought to herself as she
wended her way back and stood by her little grave; "he
is very happy, for he can stand by his child's bed and
weep; and so could I, if I had his hope. O my darling,
my darling, darling boy!" and she stooped down,
and threw her arms caressingly over the little mound.</p>

<p>"Oh, if God would only, only let me meet you once
more! O my God, why cannot I forgive and be forgiven?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p>

<p>"My sister," said the kind old man, coming up and
hearing her last words; and feeling how vain it would
be to reason or expostulate with this woman,&mdash;"let us
pray;" and, almost before she knew it, they were kneeling
by the little one's grave; and before the old minister
had concluded his simple but touching prayer, the
woman, whose heart had been stone for so many years,
was weeping, weeping with passionate sobs like a little
child; and when he had concluded, she arose, and without
a word made her way into the house, and soon the
red light shone in the little window.</p>

<p>Somehow after this a more gentle feeling crept into
the heart of Mrs. Wayland. A softer light came into
her eye, and a more gentle tremor was in her voice as
she addressed the old minister, who saw that she was
touched, but was too wise to meddle farther than was
absolutely necessary with the good work which he was
sure was going on.</p>

<p>It was not many weeks from the evening of which I
have spoken, when, as she was returning from her evening
walk, she beheld a scene of bustle around the door of
her house; a carriage was driving away, and a trunk
stood upon the steps, while some figures seemed just entering
the door whom she could not distinguish in the
gathering darkness. "Dr. Ashly has some friends
come," she thought, with a feeling of impatience; "what
shall I do with them?" and she walked quickly to the
house. As she turned into the cheerless dining-room,&mdash;the
only room which was ever used below,&mdash;she saw,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
stretched upon a couch, the figure of a man propped up
by pillows, which seemed to have been hastily brought,
and looking pallid and wan. She walked quickly forward,
but when she had reached the middle of the room,
she stopped like one transfixed, and, with wild eyes full
of eagerness and something like joy, looked about her.</p>

<p>"Mortimer Wayland!" she exclaimed at last, grasping
the table for support. "Why come you here?"</p>

<p>"I have come home to die, Agnes. I could not die anywhere
else; I have been for years trying to do so,&mdash;but
God would not let me. I was forced to come and
seek your forgiveness, and God will not take me until I
have it; yet I dare not ask you to grant it; it is too
much!" At this the sick man shut his eyes wearily,
and said no more.</p>

<p>"Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who trespass
against us," solemnly said the voice of the old minister,
who was sitting near the couch upon which the man lay.</p>

<p>"Oh, sir, you cannot know what it is for me to ask of
her. Most wrongs may be forgiven; but mine against
her is so great that she cannot forgive me, I am sure,
unless God helps her. I have been suffering for it these
twenty years,&mdash;trying to expiate it; but I have failed.
I have suffered, I have struggled, I have almost died
many times, sir; but I could not atone for my sin, and
God could not forgive it, nor can she."</p>

<p>Then the minister's voice was heard again, and it
said, "Sister, remember the little child's grave in the
garden, and forgive and be forgiven."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p>

<p>Then Mrs. Wayland, who had stood like a statue all
this time, rushed forward, and, kneeling by the couch
poured forth her whole heart in a torrent of passionate
words,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O my husband, my darling, my only love, forgive
me for my coldness and my scorn! forgive me for not
helping you to withstand temptation,&mdash;I, who was always
the stronger! It was I who drove you away,
and for it I have suffered and agonized all these years.
I  have been so hard, so wicked and cruel, so unpitying
and unforgiving, that I have had no rest or peace
night or day. It is so blessed to feel that I forgive
you! so joyful to think that you will forgive me,&mdash;that
God will forgive us both!" and the woman laid
her head upon his breast, and rained upon his lips a
thousand passionate kisses.</p>

<p>Then Dr. Ashly would have left them; but the woman
called him back.</p>

<p>"Share in our great joy, dear friend," she said; "for,
had it not been for you, this would never have been.
A few weeks ago I should never have received him
whom I loved even as I had always loved, but whom
my pride would have banished from my door in the face
of all his pleadings; but you have softened my heart,
and to you we owe this joyful hour. And now you
must help me," she continued, with a woman's thoughtful
care, "to carry him to my own room upstairs, which
is the only comfortable room I have; and there I can
nurse him up, and soon have him well again."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p>

<p>And so he was carried up to the room where she had
sat alone so many years, and was soon as comfortable
as womanly care could make him.</p>

<p>"How natural it all looks here!" he said, glancing
around the room. "It is just as it used to be,&mdash;isn't
it, darling? And I remember it so well,&mdash;furnished,
to suit you, in crimson, which you still like, as I see by
your shawl."</p>

<p>"Yes," she said, with a little blush; "I have always
worn it for your sake. You used to say it was just the
color to suit me, and I have worn it all these years."</p>

<p>"Darling," said he, looking all about the room, "I see
no traces of any one but yourself here. Where is our
child,&mdash;our little baby boy?"</p>

<p>Agnes Wayland went softly up to him, and put her
arms around his neck, as she said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I thought, a few weeks ago, that he was down in
the garden under a bed of pansies; but now I know he
is in heaven, where you and I will soon join him."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">WHY MRS. RADNOR FAINTED.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />



<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p>




<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Why_Mrs_Radnor_Fainted" id="Why_Mrs_Radnor_Fainted"><span class="smcap">Why Mrs. Radnor Fainted.</span></a></h2>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-y.jpg"
width="55" height="85" alt="y" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">Y</span>OU have seen hazel eyes,&mdash;have you not? I
don't mean the quiet nut-brown ones, you meet
every day, but <i>bona fide</i> hazel eyes, opaline
in their wonderful changes,&mdash;that make you
wonder, when you turn away from them, what
color they will have assumed when you next look into
their depths; for such eyes have depths, sometimes
glowing emerald-like, with a steady, lambent flame, now
gleaming with a soft lustre like pearls, or melted into
sapphires by tears.</p>

<p>Such eyes had Mrs. Radnor,&mdash;cold, beautiful woman
that she was; insensible, I was about to say, only I remember
her fainting at sight of a pond-lily. How well
I recollect the day! There was a party of us passing
the midsummer at the old Richmond farm, a few miles
from &mdash;&mdash;; Mr. and Mrs. Ferdinand Radnor among the
rest. The latter, a haughty statuesque woman, with
nothing save her wonderful eyes to indicate anything
approaching a heart,&mdash;lovely as a dream, yet with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
beauty that repelled even in its fascination. Such hair,
too, as she had, rolling in golden ripples down to her
slender feet;&mdash;fine as silk, it was brown in the shade,
but glowed and intensified in the light till it seemed as if
a thousand stray sunbeams were imprisoned in the radiant
mass. We always called her the "Princess with the
golden locks." You remember her in the fairy tale,&mdash;do
you not? That one, I mean, whose hair was the wonder
and admiration of the whole world, and whose lovers
delighted to bind themselves with fetters so exquisite;
yet when they strove playfully to throw them off, they
found themselves with gyves and manacles of steel, under
which they were powerless.</p>

<p>Mr. Radnor was urbane and gentlemanly; but, possessing
only half a soul, he divided the interest of that
equally between admiring his own person and annoying
Mrs. Radnor by his attentions.</p>

<p>It was a sultry July day, and we were all of us on the
rose-terrace back of the house, some dozing,&mdash;I pretending
to read, though all the time watching the
"Princess" furtively from the shelter of my book.</p>

<p>She had a pile of cushions spread with a scarlet shawl,
and, like an Eastern beauty, lay languidly upon them.
Her dress of palest blue was open at the throat, and her
hands toyed listlessly with the heavy cord that confined
her waist. There was a blush-rose tint on her usually
pale cheek, and her hair, half escaped from its little net,
lay like flecks of gold on the scarlet cover. I think I
never saw repose, utter and perfect, before.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p>

<p style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 17%;">"Down through her limbs a drooping languor crept,<br />
&nbsp;Her head a little bent, and on her mouth<br />
&nbsp;A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon<br />
&nbsp;In a still water."</p>

<p>Suddenly the charmed silence was broken, for round
the corner of the house came Mr. Radnor, with his arms
filled with superb water-lilies, which he threw in a fragrant
shower over his wife. He was saluted with exclamations
of wonder and delight, and while he was replying,
I had leisure to observe his wife.</p>

<p>The change was frightful: an ashen pallor had
spread itself over her face, she was panting violently
for breath, and, at the same time, attempting to clasp
both hands before her eyes. I cried aloud and sprang
towards her,&mdash;but it was too late.</p>

<p>Mrs. Radnor had fainted!</p>

<p>At the same time, Anne Richmond threw herself upon
her knees beside her, and, hastily gathering the snowy
flowers from her dress and bosom, where they had fallen,
thrust them into Mr. Radnor's arms, saying hurriedly,
as she did so,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Pray, pray, take them away, sir, or your wife will die."</p>

<p>He obeyed blankly, and together Anne and I applied
the usual restoratives, and, after some minutes, were rewarded
by a faint color in her lips, then a quivering of
the mouth, and I heard her murmur faintly,&mdash;"I saw
him again, Anne. Oh, those dreadful flowers!"</p>

<p>Then her eyes opened,&mdash;those wonderful eyes, that
were then almost startling in their blackness. She looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
wildly round her for a single second, and, catching
sight of me, was herself again,&mdash;haughty, self-sustained
as before, even though lying helpless as a child on Anne
Richmond's arms.</p>

<p>And, after all, pride is better for a fainting woman than
all the sal volatile in the world, thought I, receiving her
languidly uttered thanks, and retreating.</p>

<p>We saw no more of Mrs. Radnor that day. Her husband
talked loudly of the extreme heat; and no one but
the two who had observed the expression of her face
when the perfume of the lilies first met her senses, knew
anything to the contrary. As for me, I was restless and
unquiet. There had been from the first a nameless
something about Mrs. Radnor which had excited my
deepest interest, and now my imagination was busy.
One thing the painful scene of the morning had convinced
me of, and that was, that some time in the past
she had been quickened into life by the breath of love,
and the flowers had played a terrible part in overwhelming
her with memories possibly long buried in
the deepest recesses of her heart; for&mdash;I acknowledged
it&mdash;Mrs. Radnor had a heart. I never doubted it from
the moment in which her face changed from its quiet
repose into that torturing expression of fear that it
wore when she fainted.</p>

<p>"Anne," I said that evening to Miss Richmond, as I
drew her into my chamber after the party had separated
for the night, "tell me something of Mrs. Radnor. I am
sure you are in some way concerned in her past."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes," she answered, with a little, fluttering sigh;
"there is one page of her life that no one living has
ever read but myself. Perhaps I do wrong in consenting
to turn it for you; but it may be a warning to you,
child. To-morrow we will go down to the lake together,
and I will tell you what has changed Mrs. Radnor, from
the brightest, sunniest girl that ever lived, to the breathing
statue that she has been for ten years."</p>

<p>She sighed again, as she kissed my cheek, and then I
heard her footsteps die away in the long corridor.</p>

<p>My room was in the second story, and directly over
those occupied by the Radnors, which opened on a balcony
leading down by a little flight of steps to the lawn.</p>

<p>The night was sultry and still. All the usual bustle
and stir of retiring had ceased, and, extinguishing my
candle, I curled myself on the broad window-seat,
watching the stars that seemed to smile in the hazy atmosphere.
It was late,&mdash;nearly midnight, I think; and
I drank with delight the heavy fragrance which that
hour always seems to draw from the heliotrope, great
masses of which grew under my windows. I do not
know how long I sat there. Waking dreams, such as
flit lightly in the tender stillness of summer nights,
wooed me with delicious repose. I fancied myself beneath
Eastern skies, and the faint stir of a bird in a
neighboring tree seemed to me the pluming of a bulbul's
wing; and through the gilded lattice of the harem two
starry eyes&mdash;and they were Mrs. Radnor's&mdash;glittered
and gleamed. The soft running of a brook through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
the grounds was the lapping of waves against Venice
stones. I heard the twinkle of a guitar, and, framed
by carved, gray stone work, her rippling golden hair
stirred in the night-breeze.</p>

<p>Then everything faded, and I slept a moment or an
hour,&mdash;I cannot say which, so softly had the hours
passed in softest sandals,&mdash;and it was with a start that
I sat upright and heard, with a keen thrill of fear, a
faint click, as of a drawn bolt, and immediately the distant
bell of St. Michael's pealing out.</p>

<p>One&mdash;two; and with the dying of the second stroke
there was a rustling sound beneath my window, and
then a shuddering whisper,&mdash;"My God! my God!
have mercy upon me!"</p>

<p>Shrouded by a half-closed blind, I peered out, and,
kneeling on the balcony below, I saw a white figure illuminated
by the strange, weird light of a waning moon.
The face was uplifted, and the expression might have
been that worn by Maria Therese in the solitude of her
chamber when the Archduchess Josepha died.</p>

<p>I drew back,&mdash;it seemed like profanity for any but
the God to whom she appealed to witness her despair,&mdash;for
it was Mrs. Radnor. I heard a long, deep-drawn
sigh, a footstep, and then the silky tones of her husband.</p>

<p>"My love,&mdash;why will you? The dew is very heavy."
Then a stir and the sound of a closing door.</p>

<p>I shivered in the ghostly light that had crept into my
window, and, softly closing my blinds, I laid down to
sleep if I could.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p>

<p>The first person I saw, on entering the breakfast-room
the next morning, was Mrs. Radnor, pale as the muslin
wrapper she wore, but as coldly self-contained as usual.
I felt the passionate sympathy, which had taken firm
hold on me since the scenes of the previous night, almost
vanish before her languidly uttered replies to my inquiries
for her health. It was only in watching the drooping
corners of her rarely beautiful mouth and the violet
circles beneath the wonderful eyes, that I could connect
the haughty being before me with the utterer of the
despairing cry of the night before.</p>

<p>The day wore on slowly enough to me, and it was
only when the lengthened shadows on the terrace, and
Miss Richmond, equipped for her walk, greeted my eyes,
that my impatience subsided.</p>

<p>The path led us through a shady grove of pines, that
sighed mournfully as one passed through them, then
across a sloping interval made green by recent rains,
and so down through a fringe of alders to a little seat
close by the margin of a charming lake on which myriads
of water-lilies were closing their cups of incense.</p>

<p>"Sit here," said Anne, pointing to a place at her
side.</p>

<p>"It is not always pleasant to think or speak of the
past," she began, after a few moments' silence, "although
day by day its scenes and actors appear to us.
There are some memories in every heart that thrill us
with grief unutterable, and when you know that one person
in the story which I shall tell you was dear to me as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
my own soul, you will not wonder if my lip falters or I
fail to dwell on the more painful portions of it."</p>

<p>Then for the first time I was aware of another unwritten
heart-history, and knew why the soft lips and
eyes of the woman beside me had so often uttered their
fatal no.</p>

<p>"Ten years ago," she said, "our house was full of
guests, and among them was Eleanor Orne,&mdash;the most
perfectly beautiful girl I ever beheld. Fancy Mrs. Radnor,
younger by as many years, with a bewildering
smile ever ready to play around the lovely mouth, with
expressions as rapidly following themselves in her eyes
as clouds on an April day, and you can form a faint idea
of her loveliness.</p>

<p>"There was also a young student of divinity, with an
eye as clear as a star and a soul pure as prayer itself.
Proud and calm he was; but it was a noble pride that
clothed him as with a garment, and a gracious calmness
resulting from a vaulting intellect, subdued and chastened
by firmest faith.</p>

<p>"He had been fond of me in a way, but from the night
that Eleanor came floating down the long piazza, attired
in some diaphanous gray that streamed around her like
mist, I knew how it would be. I marked, with one
great heart-throb, the perfect delight that flashed in his
dark eyes as they rested upon her face and form.</p>

<p>"After that they were always together. In the mornings
he was reading to her as she worked; on afternoons,
rocking together in the little boat on the lake;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
and then, in the purple twilight, singing dreamy German
music, of which they were both passionately fond.</p>

<p>"I soon knew that James Alexander loved her. I read
it in every glance, in every tone. But Eleanor? I was
not sure. Watch her as narrowly as I would, I could not
see that the rose in her cheek became a deeper pink when
he approached, or that her eyes were raised more tenderly
to him than to a dozen others who sought her smiles.</p>

<p>"There had been rumors of Eleanor's engagement and
approaching marriage, which had drifted to me from
her city home; but, when I saw her day by day allowing
him to become more attached to her,&mdash;for she could
not fail to perceive it all,&mdash;I rejected the rumor, and
with it the impulse which had prompted me to repeat it
to James, that he might, if not already too late, be upon
his guard.</p>

<p>"At last the end came. I dozed one day on a sofa in
an inner room, and watched with delicious delight my
dream of fair woman that a dark-velvet lounging-chair
brought out in clear relief. Eleanor sat there, with
downcast eyes and clasped hands. Suddenly a step,
hurried and joyous in its very lightness, sounded in the
hall; the door opened and closed again, and Alexander
stood before her with an open letter in his hand.</p>

<p>"'See,' he said, speaking rapidly, 'it has come at
last, and I may speak. It is a call to one of the largest
parishes in your own city, and I may say, what
you must have known for weeks past, that I love you,
Eleanor, deeply, devotedly; that I want you. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
darling, tell me that you are not indifferent to me,&mdash;that
you will be my wife.'</p>

<p>"It was too late for me to move; and something&mdash;perhaps
it was a kind of dull despair&mdash;kept me motionless,
with eyes riveted upon the group.</p>

<p>"'Speak to me, Eleanor,' he said, more eagerly, bending
over her as he spoke.</p>

<p>"I saw her face flush, and an almost imperceptible
shrinking from him, that made him quickly draw back.</p>

<p>"'Speak, Miss Orne,&mdash;Eleanor, I implore you.'</p>

<p>"'Oh, why have you said this to me?' she answered,
faintly. 'I cannot hear you, Mr. Alexander. I am to
be married next month.'</p>

<p>"I saw him reel for an instant as one would under a
heavy blow, and heard a deep sigh&mdash;almost a groan&mdash;burst
from him; then a silence so long and so profound
that I could hear my heart beat. At last he spoke, in a
voice husky and changed,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Forgive me. I did not mean to offend; but God
knows what a mercy it would have been if I could have
known this before. I may touch your hand once,&mdash;may
I not? And you will look up into my face? No,
not that! Grant me this, at least then, before our
long parting.' And he bent and kissed one of the sunny
curls that streamed over the chair. Then I saw him
raise one hand over her as in benediction, and, in another
moment, he was gone. I looked at Eleanor.
She had risen from her seat, and moved a step or two
towards the door.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p>

<p>"'O James, James, I love you!' she said, piteously;
and then I had just time to break her fall.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>"An hour later, I met him on the doorstep. 'I am
glad to have seen you,' he said slowly, 'and to thank
you for your kindness; for I am going away. You will
be good to <i>her</i>, Anne, for my sake,&mdash;will you not?'</p>

<p>"He turned from me, and passed down the walk. I
watched him until a sharp turn hid him from my sight.
I never saw him afterwards alive.</p>

<p>"The next day it rained, and the next; and it was not
until the third day that Eleanor and I took our usual
walk. As we left the house, she suggested that we
shape our way towards the lake. Agreeing, we walked
on slowly, and I tried to make James Alexander the
subject of our talk. At first she evaded me; and, when
at last she found my persistence was not in any other
way to be turned aside, said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'It is an unpleasant subject to me, dear Anne. I fear
I have much to blame myself for. <i>I</i> suffer enough; for,
in rejecting his love, I shut my eyes on a life that would
have been a continual delight, to open them on one from
which my very soul shrinks abhorrently, and yet to
which I am solemnly pledged.'</p>

<p>"'But it may not yet be too late,' I said, eagerly; for
God knows I loved James Alexander with no selfish
love.</p>

<p>"'Yes, it is too late,' she replied mournfully. 'I shall
never allude to it again, Anne; but I tell you now, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
I do not and can never love Mr. Radnor; but there are
family reasons that make the sacrifice of my hand
a necessity. I never realized, until within the last
few weeks, that it <i>was</i> such a sacrifice. I have been
so happy, that I dared not break the spell by telling
him the truth. And somehow the future seemed very
far; and I did not dream that this summer would ever
end.'</p>

<p>"Then there was silence between us for a space. At
last she spoke again,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'I hope he will not suffer long. Tell him some time,
Anne, what I have told you. He will not quite hate me,
perhaps, then, if he knows that I was not drawing him
on to gratify a foolish coquetry, but loved and suffered
like himself.'</p>

<p>"I was about to reply, but she laid her hand on my
mouth.</p>

<p>"'No,' she said. 'Let the subject go now forever.
And no one will dream by-and-by how fair a love lies
buried beneath my laces and jewels; or that, in the life
of the noted man that he will one day surely become, is
a romance that belongs to a dead past. It will all be
the same a century hence. What does it matter after
all?'</p>

<p>"But her words ended with a sigh that contrasted
strangely with the forced lightness of her tone.</p>

<p>"Just then we came out of the grove, and could see far
off the little waves of the lake dancing in the morning
sunlight. I paused a moment to pick some late wild<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
flowers, while Eleanor walked on quickly and disappeared
among the alders that fringed the lake. I was
following her slowly, when suddenly I heard one wild,
thrilling cry, and then my name three times repeated.
I flew almost down to the water, and there I saw Eleanor
unconscious; and, close to the shore, among the lilies,&mdash;white
and pure as their own petals,&mdash;a face upturned
to the sky, swaying gently with the motion of the
water. I need not tell you whose." Anne faltered.</p>

<p>"Do not go on," I said, with my own eyes and voice
full of tears.</p>

<p>She raised her head quickly.</p>

<p>"I had schooled myself to it, dear, before I came, and
I must finish. I am telling you of another's life, not
mine.</p>

<p>"Then there was a brain fever for Eleanor, that no
one believed she would ever rally from, in which she was
either unconscious, or else singing snatches of German
songs, with a pathos that was heart-rending.</p>

<p>"It was remarkable that neither to her mother nor to
any one who watched over her did her words ever betray
anything that could connect her illness with anything
more than the bare horror of the discovery she
made. She was married the next spring; and when I
saw her, a month afterward, I should never, save for
merest outline and coloring of beauty, have recognized
her. Until last night, the past has never been alluded
to by either of us. Then she confessed to me, that during
the last ten years her life has been haunted by a perpetual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
remorse. The sun has set, dear, we will go
home."</p>

<p>It was dusk when we crossed the pine grove, and the
branches of the trees seemed, to my quickened imagination,
to be singing a sad refrain to the story I had
heard. We walked slowly,&mdash;Anne with head uplifted
and a serene look upon her fair face that made me realize
the refiner's work.</p>

<p>As we drew near the house there came forth a rolling
symphony from the parlor organ, and then a voice
that I had never heard before, in the <i>Agnus Dei</i> of the
Twelfth Mass.</p>

<p>We paused, and Anne said quietly,&mdash;"She has never
sung since he died until now."</p>

<p>We waited until the pure, pathetic tones had died
away. Silence and the spirit of the hour was upon us.
Overhead the large, calm stars hung low and bright. A
gleam of light in Mrs. Radnor's rooms flashed for an instant,
and disappeared; and a white figure came out
upon the balcony of her apartment.</p>

<p>"Kyrie Eleison," said Anne, in a hushed voice. "Let
us go in."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></p>



<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">UNDER A CLOUD.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p>



<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Under_a_Cloud" id="Under_a_Cloud"><span class="smcap">Under a Cloud.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-o.jpg"
width="56" height="87" alt="o" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">O</span>NE bitter cold day in January, four years ago,
I had occasion to wait for a street-car in Chicago,
on one of those aside lines where the cars
pass but once in every ten or fifteen minutes.
There was a German lager-bier saloon close
by, and I entered it for shelter. As I stood by the
stove, enjoying the grateful warmth, I observed near
me a young man, in very seedy apparel, engaged in
reading the <i>Staats-Zeitung</i>. Something in the air of the
young man awakened my curiosity, and led me to address
him. Although reading a German newspaper, he
was not a German in appearance, and I put to him the
question, "<i>Sind Sie Deutsch?</i>" by way of experiment.</p>

<p>"No, sir," he replied, "I am not German, but I speak
and read the language."</p>

<p>I drew a chair near him, as he laid aside the newspaper,
with the air of one willing to enter into conversation.</p>

<p>"Where did you pick up your German?" I asked.</p>

<p>"I picked it up," said the young man, with an air of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
some pride in the statement, "where I picked up my
Latin and Greek,&mdash;at college."</p>

<p>At this I ran my eye over him curiously. He had
not the appearance of a scholar.</p>

<p>"You look surprised," said he. "Despite my present
appearance, and the place you find me in, I am a graduate;
but at present, I am under a cloud."</p>

<p>"So I should imagine."</p>

<p>I also imagined that the young man was probably
shiftless, and no doubt addicted to liquor; but I did not
say so. As if he read my thoughts, he spoke again:</p>

<p>"People are always ready to think ill of a seedy man,
I suppose. Probably you think me a good-for-nothing,
and would give me some valuable advice about hanging
around beer-saloons; but the fact is, I am an employé
of this establishment."</p>

<p>He spoke with a bitter irony, that ill-concealed a sort
of shame in the confession.</p>

<p>"May I ask in what capacity?" said I.</p>

<p>"You may, sir; and I may answer or not, I suppose.
I think I will decline to answer. As I said, I am under
a cloud. I am not proud of my employment, but I do
what I do because I can't do better, and idleness is
synonymous with hunger and cold for me and mine."</p>

<p>"You are married, then?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir,"&mdash;with sudden reserve.</p>

<p>"Don't be offended at my inquisitiveness," said I. "I
spoke to you first out of mere curiosity, it is true; but
I speak now out of interest in you. If I could help you,
I would. There is my card."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p>

<p>He took it with a respectful inclination of the head.</p>

<p>"I've heard of you," said he, as he glanced at the
name. "I can't give you my card, sir, because I don't
own such a thing." He smiled. "My name is Brock
St. John."</p>

<p>"I hear the car coming," said I. "I'll see you again,
Mr. St. John. I don't set up for a philanthropist; but
I like to do a good turn when I can. Good-morning."</p>

<p>And I went my own way.</p>

<p>Henry Kingsley,&mdash;or rather a character of his creation,&mdash;in
one of his novels, remarks that he suspects
there is some of the poetical faculty about him, because
he is accustomed to walk out of nights when anything
goes wrong.</p>

<p>This is also my case.</p>

<p>To "fetch a walk" about the streets, late in the
evening, has long been a favorite antidote for trouble
with me. When the night is stormy, the value of this
remedy for fretting cares is tenfold increased. There is
an exhilarating sense of power in overcoming the opposing
forces of the elements, and breasting along at a
brisk pace against a furious storm of sleet or rain. As
Leigh Hunt said, you have a feeling of respect for your
legs under such circumstances; you admire their toughness
as they propel you along in the teeth of the storm.
As your blood begins to warm up, and to whirl through
your veins with an exhilaration beside which that of
wine is tame and effeminate, the "blues" that have
been gibing you vanish like magic. Always, after such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
a bout, I return home and "sleep like a top," no matter
what discomforts or sorrows have been running their
sleep-dispelling race through my head before starting
out.</p>

<p>On the night of the day that I met St. John I started
out about eleven o'clock for such a walk. The winds
were holding high carnival that night, and a fierce
storm of mingled hail and rain swept through the almost
deserted streets. I forged along (as the sailors say), with
my head down, block after block, fighting the forces of
nature, with the same pleasure that Victor Hugo's hero
felt, no doubt, in like effort. True, my fight was to his
as a cock-fight is to an encounter of lions; but the limit
of power is the limit of delight in overcoming in any
case. The boy who declaims "the Roman Soldier"
at school to the rapture of his gaping audience is as
happy in his achievement as the tragedian who thrills a
theatreful. Gilliatt conquered storms, and so did I; he
was on the high seas, and I was in the streets of Chicago.</p>

<p>Sounds of music and dancing fell on my ear. They
came from the beer-saloon of the morning. Curiosity
impelled me to enter.</p>

<p>The air was reeking with tobacco-smoke and the
fumes of lager-bier. The seats about the half-dozen
tables were crowded with Teutonic guzzlers; and, at
the lower part of the room there was a cleared space
where a half-dozen couples were whirling in a waltz
with that thorough abandon which characterizes your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
German in his national dance. On a slightly raised
platform against the wall was a band composed of a
violin, a clarionet, and a trombone.</p>

<p>The violinist was my acquaintance of the morning.</p>

<p>He caught sight of me as I elbowed my way toward
the dancing-floor, and blushed violently. Then an expression
of angry pride settled on his countenance, and he
continued his playing with stolid indifference to my gaze.</p>

<p>When the dance was over (and St. John kept up the
music till the surprised Teutons who played the wind-instruments
were sheer worn-out with their prolonged
exertions), I went up to the young man, and shook
hands with him.</p>

<p>"At work, eh?" I remarked, with a miserable effort
to seem cheerful and easy.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. You have found me out. You know now
how I keep the wolf from my door."</p>

<p>"Yes, Mr. St. John; and I do not forget that it <i>is</i> to
keep the wolf from your door. Still, I hope you are
thoroughly misplaced here,&mdash;I <i>hope</i> you are!"</p>

<p>He grasped my hand with a quick, strong pressure.</p>

<p>"I must prove to you that I am, that's all," said he;
"come to&mdash;to where I live, to-morrow, and let me tell
you the whole story."</p>

<p>He took my pencil and wrote the address in my note-book.</p>

<p>"To-morrow afternoon," said I, "I will call."</p>

<p>The next day I found my way to the wretched tenement
house in North Clark street, where St. John lived,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
and climbed three pair of stairs to the door of his room.
I rapped, and the young man opened the door.</p>

<p>I have seen a good deal of poverty in my day, and I
was prepared to find it here, as I did. But I was not
prepared for the sight of such a beautiful young face as
that which met my gaze here, and to the possessor of
which St. John introduced me as his wife. She seemed
like some little girl that was lost. The unmistakable air
of the true lady showed itself in every detail of her
dress and manner,&mdash;in the small, white collar at the
neck of the calico dress, in the smooth-banded hair that
matched the brown eyes, in the quiet demeanor that told
of natural and unconscious self-respect. It showed itself,
too, in the perfect neatness of the room, in which
there was a cheerful, homelike air, despite the poor and
barren nature of its furnishings. The room was kitchen
and bedroom, dining-room and sitting-room, in one; but
the bed was smooth and clean, and the little cooking-stove
was without spot.</p>

<p>Mrs. St. John was engaged in the unpoetic occupation
of mending her husband's only coat. He was in his
shirt-sleeves.</p>

<p>"Aggie expected to get the coat done before our guest
came," said St. John, with a smile. "If you are at all
particular, I'll put it on with the needle sticking in it,
and she can finish it after you are gone. But I am accustomed
to sitting in my shirt-sleeves."</p>

<p>"So am I," was my reply; and, accordingly, I pulled
off my own coat, and sat in my shirt-sleeves, too. In
the act, my cigar-case fell out of my pocket.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>

<p>"Light a cigar, sir, if you like," said St. John, with a
brisk assumption of the airs of a genial host; "my wife
don't allow me to smoke, but my guests always do. She
is fond of cigars, is Aggie."</p>

<p>The little wife looked up with a demure and childlike
air.</p>

<p>"He never offers to smoke, sir," said she, "because"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Because I can't afford it," put in St. John. "I was
a great smoker in college; but those were my wild days.
Thank you."</p>

<p>The last remark was in acknowledgment of an offered
cigar. We were soon puffing great cloud-wreaths toward
the ceiling, and an air of restraint that had rested
on us at first, despite our efforts to avoid it, was speedily
vanished. Cigars are social.</p>

<p>"And now, sir," said St. John, "you shall hear the
story I promised you. I hope it wont bore you."</p>

<p>"If it does I'll cry out," said I.</p>

<p>The little wife laughed quietly.</p>

<p>"I graduated; I married; I came to Chicago," began
St. John, sententiously.</p>

<p>"<i>Veni, vidi, vici</i>," said I.</p>

<p>"Quite the contrary; I <i>was</i> conquered. I had that
idea which young men from the east, just out of college,
are apt to have, that in this great western city there
was a comparative lack of intellectual culture, and that
a man of my education must speedily and easily get
into a position of prominence, where my talents would
earn me a fine living. But I very soon found where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
my mistake lay. I had not been bred to work,&mdash;real,
practical, marketable work,&mdash;either mental or physical.
The professions were open to me, as to any other beginner,&mdash;nothing
more. I could not step out of college
into a lucrative practice at the bar; but I could enter a
law-office, and study. So of the other professions. If I
had any one idea more prominent than another, it was
that I could secure an editorial situation at once on one
of the newspapers here. I was surprised to find that
there was absolutely no demand for such services as I
had to offer.</p>

<p>"'Do you know anything about the newspaper business?'
was the first question put to me, by the first
publisher to whom I made application.</p>

<p>"That was the very last question that I had expected
to have asked of me. Of course I imagined myself competent,
or I should not have applied for editorial employment;
but I knew the publisher meant, Had I had
actual experience on the press? I felt so sure of myself
that I was tempted to answer him 'Yes,' but the
fact is I was never brought up with such a reverence for
the truth, as to always keep at a respectful distance from
it; so I told him I had not, but I could quickly learn.</p>

<p>"'We are in no need of students,' said he; 'and, even
if we took you to teach you, your pay would not settle
your washing-bill.'</p>

<p>"One editor was good enough to let me try my hand
at writing a political article. I sat down in his sanctum
and went to work. At the end of two hours I handed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
him what I had written, quite confident that I had settled
the question of utility. It was an essay that
would have brought me honor at college. He read it
and smiled.</p>

<p>"'I don't want to hurt your feelings at all," said he,
'but you have been two hours about a piece of work
that a ready writer would knock off in half an hour, and
now it is done it is good for nothing. You make the
mistake so many have made before you, that an editor
does not need to be bred to his business. <i>My</i> alma mater
was a printing-office,' said he, proudly, 'and I crept
up the ladder round by round. When I commenced
editorial labor, I dropped type-setting, at which I earned
two dollars a day, to handle the reporter's pencil at
seven dollars a week. If you think you could do anything
as a reporter, I'll show you our Mr. Pyke, the
local editor.'</p>

<p>"Mr. Pyke was a rough one.</p>

<p>"'Posted around town,' said he.</p>

<p>"I told him I was a new-comer.</p>

<p>"'Know short-hand?'</p>

<p>"'No, sir.'</p>

<p>"'What line are you strongest in?'</p>

<p>"What line?' said I, not exactly understanding.</p>

<p>"'Yes, what line? Speeches, fancy-work, police,
sensations, picking up items around town&mdash;or what?'</p>

<p>"'I really don't know,' said I; 'I've never had any
experience, practically, in the newspaper business.'</p>

<p>"At this Mr. Pyke turned round on me with a queer
look in his face.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p>

<p>"'Oh, that's it,' said he; 'you want to work at a
trade you haven't served an apprenticeship to. There!
it's the old story. If you'll go up in the composing-room,
they'll give you a stick and put you to setting
type, I reckon. You better try it. Go and ask for our
foreman, Mr. Buckingham, and tell him I sent you,&mdash;will
you? Why, you couldn't tell where the <i>e</i> box is!'</p>

<p>"The man's manner was not so rude as his language,
sir. He seemed perfectly good-natured, and was scribbling
away with a lead-pencil all the while he was talking,
much as if he were a writing-machine."</p>

<p>"Doubtless he is, to a great degree," said I; "that is
just where the apprenticeship does its work. I know
Pyke, and I've seen him write a column of city matter,
carrying on conversations with half-a-dozen different
people who dropped in during the time, without interrupting
him at all. But I don't mean to interrupt <i>you</i>;
go on, please."</p>

<p>"Well, sir," St. John continued, "before I had thoroughly
learned the lesson that I finally learned so well,
I was almost literally penniless. Such had been my
high confidence in the easy and prosperous path before
me in Chicago, that when I came here I took board at a
first-class hotel, with my wife. I had very little money,
and one day I waked up to the consciousness that I had
less than five dollars remaining of that little, and still no
work. Two hideous gulfs yawned before me,&mdash;starvation
and debt. My horror of the one is scarcely greater
than my horror of the other. Debt converted my father<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
from a well-to-do man into a bankrupt, and my mother,
who owns the little that is left of our old homestead in
Massachusetts, was and is in no condition to help me. I
would beg in the streets, sir, before I would look to my
poor mother for help, after the long years of self-denial
she practised to get me through college. My wife is an
orphan. You may judge the color my future was taking
on. I left the Tremont House, and, falling at once
from the highest to the lowest style of living in apartments,
came <i>here</i>. I had no confidence left, now, in that
future which had before seemed, so foolish and inexperienced
was I, a broad and flowery path for talent and
education to tread. I never intend to whine over anything
in this world if I can help it, but I can assure you
this was a pretty dark old world to Brock St. John
about that time. The prospect of earning a dollar a day
would have cheered me wonderfully. I cared more on
account of Aggie than myself, of course. A man can
bear ups and downs, kicks, cold shoulders, and an empty
stomach, if he is alone; but the thought that I have
dragged <i>her</i> down to this is almost unbearable at
times."</p>

<p>"You have <i>not</i> dragged me, Brock," spoke up the little
wife; "I came of my own accord!"</p>

<p>"That you did, Aggie," said the husband, his eyes
moistening; "I am slandering you. But to go on: The
day after we moved in here, and set up house-keeping in
careful preparation for the cold winter coming (I had
to pawn clothing to get these poor goods," he added,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
looking about the room with a smile), "the German
musician, who lives next door, came in to ask us if his
practising on a trombone annoyed us. We were so
hungry for a friendly face just then, that we would have
let the good-natured German blow his trombone through
our transom-window after that exhibition of fellow-feeling.
That afternoon, I dropped in to see him, in continuance
of the acquaintance. There was a violin hanging
on the wall, and I took it down and played a tune on it.</p>

<p>"That was my introduction to my first situation in Chicago.
Stumm got me my place at the beer-saloon; and so,
through the knowledge of an art which has always been
to me nothing more than an amusement, I get enough to
live, in this time when all the hard-earned culture, which
cost me so much labor, fails me utterly. I am thankful
for this, heartily thankful; but I don't need to tell you
sir, how it galls me to do this work,&mdash;to sit three or
four hours of every evening in a dense and vulgar atmosphere,
fiddling for my daily bread. No wonder I am
seedy; no wonder I get to look like a loafer, listless,
without pride, spite of Aggie's wifely care. If I knew
an honest trade, I should be a happy man. I would
gladly barter my knowledge of Latin, Greek, and German
for the knowledge of type-setting."</p>

<p>"So that you could prove to Pyke that you know the
<i>e</i> box from the <i>x</i> box?" queried I.</p>

<p>He laughed.</p>

<p>"But you talk the words of bitterness when you talk
in that way, St. John. You can barter your knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
of German for <i>cash</i>, and keep it too. Have you ever
sought for pupils!"</p>

<p>"Only a little. I have no acquaintances, you know.
My only way to get pupils was to advertise, of course.
I tried it three days, and got not a solitary reply. There
are scores of teachers advertising. It seemed useless
for me to waste money in that way."</p>

<p>"Well," said I, "I think I can set you in a way of
getting up a class. My own German is very rusty, and
I will be pupil number one. Then I know of two or three
friends who want to study the language. I think we
can get you up a class among us."</p>

<p>He made me no protestation of gratitude,&mdash;such
protestations are usually humbug,&mdash;but I saw his gladness
in his face.</p>

<p>The little wife sat squeezing her fingers for joy.</p>

<p>Before a month had passed, St. John had a large class
in German, and bade adieu to fiddling. He proved an
excellent teacher. Long before I left Chicago to resume
my residence in this city, he had got nicely out from
under his cloud, and was living in a snug house in the
West Division.</p>

<p>There was a little baby playing on the floor at his
house last summer when I called to see him, on my way
to Lake Superior. That baby bears my name, I am
proud to say.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p>

<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">COMING FROM THE FRONT.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p>



<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="Coming_from_the_Front" id="Coming_from_the_Front"><span class="smcap">Coming from the Front.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p style="margin-left: 35%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">"<span class="smcap">Head-Quarters. Dep't and Army of the Tennessee.</span><br />
"<i>East Point, Georgia, September 22, 1864.</i>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p>

<p style="margin-left: 8%;">"SPECIAL ORDERS.<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"No. 214.</p>

<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">[EXTRACT.]</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p style="margin-left: 8%;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"XI&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Having tendered his resignation, the following-named<br />
officer is honorably discharged from the military service of the<br />
United States, with condition that he shall receive no final payments<br />
until he satisfies the Pay Department that he is not indebted<br />
to the Government.</p>

<p style="margin-left: 8%;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"1st Lieut. &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;, Ills. Vol. Inf'try.<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"By order of Maj. Gen'l O. O. Howard.<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"(Signed) <span class="smcap">W. T. Clark</span>, <i>Ass't Adj't Gen'l.</i>"</p>
</blockquote>

<div style="margin-top: 3em;"><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg"
width="51" height="85" alt="t" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">T</span>HINK of that! After forty-one months of
hard-tack and hard marching, interspersed with
enough fighting to satisfy the stomach of an
ordinary man; after so long an experience of
the beautiful uncertainty of army life; after
polluting, with the invading heel of my brogan, the sacred
soil of several of our erring sister States; after
passing many breezy and rainy nights under the dubious
shelter of shelter-tents; after sitting through long and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
weary days in the furnace-heat of narrow and dirty
trenches;&mdash;after all this, I am at last permitted to bid
farewell to "the front," to go home and doff the honorable
blue for the more sober garb of the "cit," and
drop into my wonted insignificance. That little "extract"
has a sweeter perfume for me than any triple
extract for the handkerchief ever elaborated by the renowned
M. Lubin. It is fragrant with thoughts of
home and loved ones far away in the Northland, of
starry nights and starry eyes, of fluttering fans and
floating drapery, of morning naps unbroken by the
strident <i>ra-tata-ta-ta</i> of the bugle. I grow quite sentimental
over it, notwithstanding the unpleasant condition
with which it is qualified, and which involves such
a fearful amount of writing and figuring on mysterious
close-ruled blanks, and so much affidavit-making and
other swearing,&mdash;especially at the blundering clerks in
the departments at Washington.</p>

<p>But this troubles me little now. Time enough to attend
to it after I get home. That is all I can think of,&mdash;<i>home</i>,
and how to get there.</p>

<p>How I should get there, and whether or not I ever
would get there, were questions not easily solved. It is
the purpose of this sketch to show some of the beauties
of travelling on railroads that are under military control,
and especially to set forth the writer's experience
in going from Atlanta to Nashville.</p>

<p>It was a terribly hot morning when I reached the depot
at Atlanta, amid a cloud of dust and a maze of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
wagons and mules and commissary stores and frantic
teamsters. I threw my valise into the nearest car and
hastened to the Provost Marshal's office for my pass.
There was an anxious crowd already in waiting: resigned
officers and officers on leave; jolly, ragged privates on
furlough, eager to see their wives and babies; sutlers
and "sheap-cloding" men; flaring demireps, seeking new
fields; mouldy citizens in clothes of antique cut, fawning
abjectly and addressing every clerk and orderly as
"kernel;" dejected darkies, shoved aside by everybody,
with no "civil rights bill" to help them. While I was
waiting for my turn, the train kept me constantly worried
by pulling up and backing down and threatening to
leave. At last I found an opportunity to exhibit my
"Extract," and, after reading it as slowly and carefully
as if it had been a dispatch in cipher, the Provost Marshal
very deliberately wrote a pass, read it over two or
three times, and then, looking at every one in the room
but me, asked "Who's this for?" as if I had not been
standing at his elbow with my hand held out for half an
hour.</p>

<p>I left the official premises in a highly exasperated
state of mind. In the mean time the train had been
plunging backward and forward in a wild and aimless
way, and I was unable to find the car my valise was in.
After much wear and tear of muscle and temper and
trousers, in climbing over boxes and bales of hay, I discovered
it, and found that it had been taken possession
of by a crowd of roystering blades on furlough, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
canteens were full and fragrant, and in whose talk and
manner appeared the signs of a boisterous night ahead,
with the possibility of a fight or two by way of special
diversion. As I was no longer in "the military service
of the United States," I was, of course, a peaceable
citizen, so I took my quarters in a more peaceful car. It
was a cattle-car and not remarkably clean; but the company
was good, and through the lattice-work around the
upper part of the car one could get a view of the surrounding
country; though looking through it gave one
a sensation very much like being in a guard-house.</p>

<p>"Will we never get off?" was the question asked
dozens of times,&mdash;asked of nobody in particular, and
answered by a chorus of incoherent growls from everybody
in general, while some humorous young man suggested
that if any one wanted to get off, he'd better do it
before the train started.</p>

<p>"Now we're off!"</p>

<p>"No we're not," said the humorous young man, "but
it's more'n likely we will be before we get to Chattanooga."</p>

<p>This was not particularly encouraging to timid travellers,
in a country abounding in guerrilleroes, and where
accident insurance companies were unknown.</p>

<p>Between Atlanta and Marietta we passed line after
line of defensive works, protected by <i>abattis</i> and <i>chevaux-de-frise</i>,&mdash;feed-racks,
I heard a bronzed veteran of rural
antecedents call them,&mdash;built by the rebels at night,
only to be abandoned on the next night to the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
Flanker. While they wrought line upon line, Sherman
and his boys in blue gave them precept upon precept,
here a little and there a great deal. All this rugged
country is historic ground. The tall, tufted pine-trees
stand as monuments of the unrecorded dead, and every
knoll and tangled ravine bears witness to a bravery and
heroic endurance that has never been surpassed.</p>

<p>Leaving Marietta,&mdash;deserted by its inhabitants and
turned into an immense hospital,&mdash;we approached Kenesaw,
so lately crowned with cannon and alive with gray
coats, now basking in the afternoon sunlight, as quiet
and harmless as a good-natured giant taking his after-dinner
nap. We approached it from the inside, to gain
which side the compact columns of Logan and Stanley
and Davis hurled themselves against its rugged front so
fearlessly, but, alas, so fruitlessly, on that terrible 27th
of June.</p>

<p>Farther on we came to Alatoona Pass, taken at first
without a struggle, but afterward baptized in blood and
made glorious by a successful defence against immense
odds.</p>

<p>It was sunset when we reached Kingston,&mdash;a straggling
row of dilapidated shanties. As the train was to stop
some time, I started out in search of supper. There was
no hotel, so I had to depend upon sutlers, or peripatetic
venders of pies. I entered one sutler's store, and found a
few fly-specked red handkerchiefs and some suspenders.
Another contained nothing but combs and shoe-blacking.
Turning away mournfully, I espied an aged colored<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
man limping up the street with a basket on his arm.
I rushed madly at him, and, finding that he had apple-pies,
was soon the happy possessor of a brace of them.
I congratulated myself and gratefully sat down upon a
stone to eat, and&mdash;well, <i>such pies</i>! It was utterly impossible
to tell what the crust was made of. In taste
and toughness it resembled a dirty piece of towel. The
interior&mdash;"the bowels of the thing," as some one inelegantly
called it,&mdash;consisted of a few slices of uncooked
immature apple and a great many flies cooked whole.
The cooks were altogether too liberal with their flies. I
am not particularly well versed in the culinary art myself,
but I venture boldly to say that the flies that were
in those two pies would have sufficed, if judiciously distributed,
to season two dozen pies with the same proportion
of apple in them.</p>

<p>And of such was my supper at Kingston. The whistle
sounded, and we got aboard and were off for Chattanooga.
Night fell peacefully upon Kingston and its
dirty peddlers of unwholesome pies, as a curve in the
road hid it and them from our reproachful gaze.</p>

<p>As the darkness increased, and we went dashing at
break-neck speed over a road that had had little or
no care bestowed upon it since the opening of the campaign,
I thought of the humorous young man's remark,
and of how unpleasant and inconvenient it would be
to have this long train thrown off and its contents, as
Meister Karl hath it, "pepperboxically distributed" in
the adjacent ditch.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p>

<p>And then to have one of Wheeler's men take advantage
of a fellow, as he lay there with a broken leg, and
rob him of the few dollars he had borrowed to go home
on! Well, we had been taking our chances for the last
three years, and it was no new thing to take them now.
With this comforting reflection, I sat down on my valise,
and, wrapped in my great-coat, awaited the coming of
"the balmy." It was rather unsatisfactory waiting.
Something in my head kept going rattlety-bang, jerkety-jerk,
bumpety-bump, in unison with the noise of the
cars; and when I did get into a doze, I was harassed by
the dim shadow of a fear that we were about to leave
the track and go end-over-end down an embankment.
At last weariness overcame me, and I slept soundly,
half-lying on the dirty floor, half-leaning on my valise,
coiled up in one of those attitudes in which only an old
campaigner can sleep at all; I woke amid an unearthly
whizzing of steam, to find the train standing still, and
myself mysteriously entangled with various arms and
legs that didn't belong to me. I extricated myself and
looked out. Through the thick darkness of the early
morning there glared upon me the light of what seemed
to be innumerable fierce, unwinking eyes. I began to
think that I had taken the wrong train and brought up in
the lower regions; but a little reflection and rubbing of
the eyes disclosed to me that we had reached Chattanooga
in safety, and that those fierce eyes were the head-lights
of the locomotives that had arrived during the night, and
were now blowing off their superfluous steam in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
wild, unearthly manner. As soon as it was daylight I
inquired about trains going North, and learned that
there was no telling when a train would go, as Forrest
was said to be in the neighborhood of the road. So
there was nothing to do but to go to the Crutchfield
House and wait. Alas for the man whose purse is slim,
under any circumstances! Alas and alas for him if he
was obliged to wait in Chattanooga at Crutchfield prices!
It was a dollar that he had to pay for each scanty meal,
a dollar for the use of a densely populated bed, and a
dollar must be deposited with the clerk to secure the
return of the little towel he wiped his face on. Besides
the pecuniary depletion that he suffered, he was bored to
death with weary waiting, with nothing to do and nowhere
to go. Chattanooga was far from being a
cheerful place, especially in the rainy season, when nothing
was visible out of doors except the lonesome sentinels
pacing their beats in dripping ponchos, and with
guns tucked under their arms, and here and there a team
of steaming mules, struggling to draw a creaking, lumbering
wagon through the detestable clay.</p>

<p>For amusement, there was a billiard-room, where one
had to wait eight hours for a chance to play. If he failed
to see any fun in this, he could step into another room,
and squander his currency for, and bemuddle his brains
with, a sloppy sort of beverage that the gentlemanly
proprietor would assure him was good, new beer. I
would rather take his word than his beer. At night, if
his tastes ran that way, for a small outlay one could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
witness what was called a dramatic exhibition, but
which was really more anatomical than dramatic.</p>

<p>In this enlivening village, an ever-increasing crowd
of us was compelled to wait for five long days. Resigned
officers were far from being resigned, and officers
on leave were vexed and impatient because it was impossible
to leave.</p>

<p>At length the joyful news spread that a train would
leave for Nashville at two o'clock in the afternoon. I
rushed to the depot, and was just fairly aboard a car,
when some one, more forcibly than politely, told me to
"git out o' that car." As he spoke as a man who had
authority, and knew it, I got out, and learned that I
was on the wrong train, and in a fair way to have been
carried to Knoxville. I forgave the man his abruptness
of speech, and went in search of the right train. Catching
a glimpse of Capt. S., whom I knew to be going
North, in one of the cars, I got in without farther question;
and soon a fearful jerk, that piled us like dead-wood
in one end of the car, started us towards Nashville.
Rattling along at the usual reckless rate, we
found ourselves, soon after dark, at Stevenson, Alabama.
Here we were to stay all night; for the managers of
affairs still had the fear of Forrest before their eyes, and
dared not run trains at night. It was raining, and the
darkness of Erebus covered the face of the earth. Notwithstanding
this, Capt. S. and myself plunged out into
the night, determined to get something to eat, or perish
in the attempt. After wandering blindly for a while,&mdash;tumbling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
into ditches, and falling over boxes and barrels,
that turned up where they were least expected,&mdash;we
finally brought up among the ropes of the tent of a
sutler. We entered, and found the proprietor dozing
over a dime novel. We were sorry to disturb him in
his literary pursuits; but we were hungry, and had to
be fed. We eagerly demanded various articles of food,
which he sleepily informed us he hadn't got. Questioning
him closely as to the edible part of his stock in
trade, we learned that it consisted of some Boston
crackers and a little cheese. We filled our haversacks
with these, regardless of expense. Having bought so
generously, the proprietor became generous in turn,
and, bringing forth a square black bottle, proffered it to
us with the remark: "You'll find that a leetle the best
gin this side o' Louisville. Take hold!" The captain
took hold; but the silent, though expressive comment,
that was written on his countenance when he let go,
induced me to decline with thanks. A decent regard
for the man's feelings prevented any audible expression;
but, as soon as we were out of the tent, the captain solemnly
assured me that he was poisoned, and that he
would utter his last words when he got comfortably
fixed in the car. Getting back to the car was almost as
perilous an undertaking as finding the sutler's store;
but, fortunately, we were guided by the voice of Capt.
W. crying, in heart-rending tones, "Lost child! lost
child!" Capt S. interrupted one of his most pathetic
cries by striking him in the pit of the stomach with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
loaded haversack, and demanding to be helped aboard.
Once more snugly ensconced in our car, we proceeded
to sup right royally on our crackers and cheese. S.
forgot all about his last words until some time near the
middle of the night, when he woke me to say that he
had concluded to postpone them till he got home, where
he could have them published in the county paper.
Barring this interruption, I slept soundly all night, having
more room than on the trip from Atlanta, and not
having the thunder of a running train sounding in my
ears.</p>

<p>At breakfast-time we drew out the fragmentary remainder
of our last night's repast, and were about to
take our morning meal, when we discovered that both
crackers and cheese had a singularly animated appearance.
Symptoms of internal commotion manifested
themselves in all of us except S., who thought that, as
the gin had not killed him, he was proof against anything.
His stoic composure acted soothingly upon the
rest of us, and we concluded that it was too late to feel
bad, and consoled each other by repeating the little
rhyme,&mdash;</p>

<p style="margin-left: 40%; margin-top: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;">"What can't be cured<br />
&nbsp;Must be endured."</p>

<p>By eight o'clock the fog lifted, and we started on our
journey northward. Wild and contradictory stories
were afloat in regard to the whereabouts and doings
of the terrible, ubiquitous Forrest. Revolvers were
brought out and capped and primed afresh, and watches<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
and rings were hidden in what were deemed inaccessible
parts of the clothing. There was considerable anxiety
in regard to the bridges over Elk and Duck rivers, and
when we had passed them both safely, the train quickened
its speed, every one breathed more freely, and the
belligerent men put away their fire-arms.</p>

<p>We hastened on without accident and with decreasing
fear, though the <i>débris</i> of broken and burned cars
that lined the road-side, suggesting some unpleasant reflections,
and at the close of the day entered the picket
lines at Nashville, and were safe.</p>

<p>Then came a foot-race, from the depot to the hotel,
for a prize that nobody won, for all the hotels in the
city were already full from cellar to garret. Capt. S.
and I sat down upon the cold, hard curb-stone and
mingled our weary groans, while W., more plucky and
better acquainted with the city, went in search of a
boarding-house. Having returned, with the cheering
intelligence that he had found beds and supper, we followed
him gladly, and, after eating a supper, the quantity
of which I would not like to confess, retired to our
rooms, and were soon&mdash;to use the captain's elegant
language&mdash;"wrapped in that dreamless, refreshing
slumber that only descends upon the pillow of the
innocent and beautiful."</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p>



<h1 style="margin-top: 8em; margin-bottom: 8em;">A NIGHT IN THE SEWERS.</h1>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p>


<h2 style="margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="A_Night_in_the_Sewers" id="A_Night_in_the_Sewers"><span class="smcap">A Night in the Sewers.</span></a></h2>


<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img style="margin-bottom: 1.5em;" src="images/image1.jpg" width="100" height="18" alt="fancy line" />
</div>

<div><img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-p.jpg"
width="55" height="85" alt="p" />
</div><p><span class="dropletter">P</span>ERHAPS some of my fair readers will consider
me a disagreeable person for telling them something
I know about kid gloves. Perhaps they
will not believe me when I tell them that in
Paris and elsewhere there exists&mdash;or did exist not
very long ago&mdash;an extensive trade in the skins of
common rats, and that these skins, when dressed and
dyed, are converted into those delicate coverings for the
hands, commonly called "kid" gloves, and supposed to
be manufactured from the hides of immature goats.</p>

<p>I was acquainted with a dog-dealer in Paris, a Dane,
whose name was Beck. To him I went one day, bent
upon obtaining a terrier dog of good intellect and
agreeable manners, who should be a companion to me in
my "lodgings for single gentlemen," and whose gambols
might serve to amuse me in my lighter hours, when, after
work, I would make little pedestrian excursions in the
neighborhood, for the sake of exercise and air. Beck's
kennel was comprised in a small yard, at the back of a
rickety house; and, when I entered it, persuasion was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
hardly needed to induce me to stand as near the centre
of the enclosure as possible, in order to keep at chain's
length from what the French call <i>boule dogues</i>, several
of which ill-looking canines formed a portion of Beck's
stock in trade.</p>

<p>"Here," said Mr. Beck, in reply to a question of mine
and in pretty good English, "here in this box I have a
small dog of a kind quite fashionable now. They call
him a Skye terrier, and I have given him the name of
'Dane,' because he comes from far north, like myself,
and has long yellow hair."</p>

<p>"With these words, Mr. Beck laid hold of a chain, and
drawing it sharply, jerked out from among some straw a
creature made up, apparently, of tow and wire, with a
pair of eyes like black beads glittering through the
shocks of hair that fell over its head. The animal
seemed cowed, and I did not think much of him at first
sight.</p>

<p>"He has had bad usage," said Mr. Beck; "first time I
saw him was yesterday, when he burst in at my backdoor,
with a horseshoe fastened to his tail. There, you
see I have nailed the shoe over the door of his box. He
will be a lucky bargain for whoever buys him, you may
depend upon that."</p>

<p>"Good upon rats?" asked I.</p>

<p>"Know nothing about him," replied Mr. Beck, honestly;
"never saw him before yesterday. They all take
the water kindly though, these Skyes do, and if you
want to try him at rats, I can put you in the way of it."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p>

<p>Somehow I took to the ragged little beast, and so I
paid Mr. Beck sixty francs for him, and ten more for the
little wooden kennel with the horseshoe nailed upon it.
I have a great regard for horseshoes as insurers of
luck; because once, when I had picked up one on the
road, and carried it home in my pocket, I found a letter
on my table, informing me that I had come in for a
small legacy, through the death of an aged kinswoman
whom I had never seen.</p>

<p>What with good treatment and diet, the frequent bath
and the free use of the comb, it was not many days before
master Dane became a very presentable dog, and
had quite recovered his pluck and spirits. He bullied,
and banished forever to the house-top, a large tortoiseshell
cat, that had hitherto commanded the garrison, and
I thought, one day, that I should like to try him at rats.
So out I sallied with him in search of Mr. Beck, who
had promised to put me in the way of getting some
sport of the kind.</p>

<p>That versatile gentleman was not in his kennel when
I called, but his wife told me that I would find him in
the "skinnery" attached to the establishment; and,
asking me to follow her, she ushered me into a long, low
apartment, lighted with a row of circular windows.
The odor of the place was very pungent and disagreeable.
There were several wooden tanks ranged along
one wall of the room, and, on lines stretched along by
the windows, a number of small skins were hung to dry.
Mr. Beck, assisted by a couple of tan-colored boys, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
busily engaged in stirring the contents of the tanks. A
dead rat on the floor immediately engaged the attention
of Dane, who seized it in his teeth, shook it savagely
for a moment, and then pitched it away from him, apparently
in disgust at finding it already dead.</p>

<p>"What do you make of the rat-skins?" inquired I,
after I had looked on for a while.</p>

<p>"Money," rejoined Mr. Beck, curtly; "but the man I
dress them for makes them into gloves,&mdash;ladies' gloves,
of the primest quality."</p>

<p>"Ladies have rats about them in more ways than one,
then," said I. "Where do you get the raw material?"</p>

<p>"The rat-hunters supply me. Their hunting-grounds
lie all under the streets of Paris. Would you like to
have a day in the sewers with your terrier? Simonet
will be here in a few minutes, and you can go the rounds
with him if you will."</p>

<p>Just what I wanted, and so I sat upon a bench and
waited, and presently a man came in. He was a low-sized,
squat fellow of about forty, with heavy, round
shoulders, and bowed legs; and his head and face were
almost entirely covered with a thatch of tangled red
hair, out from which there peered a couple of greenish
eyes of very sinister expression. He had a leathern
sack slung over his shoulder, and carried in his
hand a long wand of birch, brushy, with the twigs left
upon it at one end.</p>

<p>"On the rounds, eh, Simonet?" said Mr. Beck, addressing
this agreeable-looking gentleman; "well, here's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
a monsieur who would like to go with you. He wants to
try his terrier at the rats. You can make your own
bargain with him."</p>

<p>Then looking at me, he continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Better leave your coat with my old woman, who'll
give you a clean <i>blouse</i> instead."</p>

<p>Madame took my coat, and gave me a strong <i>blouse</i>
and a somewhat greasy cap; and in this guise I went
forth with Simonet, who immediately plunged into the
thick of the city slums. After having gone some distance,
we entered a dismal and dirty office, in which
a man, turning over some piles of documents, after a
few whispered words with my guide, handed him a
bunch of heavy keys, and we again went out into the
streets. Entering a paved court-yard, a declivity led us
down to a sort of tunnel, the entrance to which was
barred by a heavy, grated door, which Simonet opened
with one of the keys, locking it again as soon as we had
got in.</p>

<p>"We are in one of the main sewers now, monsieur,"
said he, in a squeaky, rat-like voice; "you must be careful
to keep close by me, and not stray away into any of
the branches."</p>

<p>It was pitch dark, as I looked before me into the tunnel,&mdash;dark,
and awful, and silent, but for the gliding,
oozing sound of slowly-flowing water. Simonet produced
a lantern, which he lit, and I could see by the dim
light thrown from it that we were in a vast stone passage,
through the centre of which there ran a dark, deep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
stream. Between the wall and the stream on either
side there was a broad pathway, or ledge, and along
this the rat-hunter motioned me to follow him. Soon
we reached a turn in the tunnel, and here Simonet,
after searching about upon the wall for a moment, found
a rusty nail in it, upon which he hung his lantern.
Then producing a couple of torches from his sack, he
lighted them, and handed one to me.</p>

<p>"There is a birch wattle hid away somewhere here,"
said he,&mdash;"ah, yes!&mdash;here it is, take it monsieur, and
use it just as you shall see me do when we get among
the rats. Keep close to me, else you may get lost in the
drains."</p>

<p>Dane grew very excited, now, and ran ahead of us a
good way, and presently we heard a great rushing and
squeaking, and the suppressed snarling of the little dog
as he worried the rats. Then we saw many rats running
hither and thither, some of them so scared by the light
of the torches, as they came near us, that they leaped
into the water, while others ran up the wall, from
which we quickly knocked them with our wattles. Simonet
did not put them into his bag, but left them where
they fell, saying that his custom was to pick them up on
his way back.</p>

<p>The dog behaved wonderfully well, fighting and shaking
the rats that fell in his way with great fierceness and
pluck. At last, when we had killed about a hundred of
them, we thought it time to rest. Simonet produced a
short, black pipe, and, as I was filling mine, he cast a wistful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
look at my tobacco-pouch, thinking, probably, that the
article contained in it must be of a quality superior to
that of the cheap stuff smoked by him; so I poured half
the contents of it into his hand, and he filled his pipe
from it, with a grin of satisfaction on his ugly face.</p>

<p>"It will soon be time for us to turn back," said he,
after a while; "the best place for rats is a little way
further on, and it will be too late to try it if we don't go
forward now."</p>

<p>On we went, slashing right and left at the rats, most
of which, I noticed, were of a very black color here, as
if belonging to a peculiar colony that existed in this part
of the tunnel. As we rounded a corner, however, a very
large white rat ran past us, and disappeared down a
cross-gallery that led away to the left. Wishing to secure
this animal as a trophy, I hallooed the terrier upon
its tracks, and was about following the chase, when
Simonet laid his hand upon my arm, and whispered, in a
tone of entreaty,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't risk your life, monsieur! He who follows the
white rat of the sewer is likely never to find his way
back alive. There's a blight about the creature, and old
stories are afloat of how it has led rat-hunters away into
dangerous parts of the sewers, like a jack-o'-lantern, and
then set upon them with a number of its kind, and picked
their bones clean!"</p>

<p>Breaking away from the fellow, with a jerk that
knocked the pipe out of his hand, and sent it spinning
into the black water below, I ran down the by-sewer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
after the terrier, whose whimper, as though he were yet
in full chase, I could hear at a good distance ahead of
me. When I came up with him, which I did only after
having taken several turns, he seemed at fault, head up
and tail down, and gazing, with a very puzzled expression
up at the vaulted roof. There was no white rat to
be seen, nor could I detect any aperture in the walls,
into which the creature could have made its escape.
Then a sort of superstitious fear fell upon me, as I
thought of Simonet's warning, and, with a word of encouragement
to the dog, I hastened to retrace my steps,
shouting loudly every now and then, so as to let the rat-hunter
know of my whereabouts. But no responsive
halloo came to my call. Not a sound was to be heard
but the hollow beat of my footsteps on the damp, mouldy
path, and the squeaking, here and there, of the rats, as we
disturbed them from their feast on some garbage fished
up by them from the slimy bed of the drain. Excited at
the position in which I found myself, I now began to
make reckless <i>détours</i> hither and thither, until, thoroughly
exhausted by my exertions, I leaned my back against
the wall, and tried to remember such marks as might
have been observed by me in the tunnel since I had
parted from Simonet. The only marks of the wayside
that I could recall, however, were the dead rats left by
us upon the ledge as we passed, and of these I had seen
none while I was trying to retrace my steps. Arguing
from this, and from the fact that Simonet did not respond
to my shouts, which I continued to utter at intervals, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
began to feel an extremely unpleasant nervous shiver
creeping over me, suggestive of all the horrors about
which I had ever read or dreamed. The little dog lay
cowering at my feet, as if he, too, were somewhat dejected
at the prospect of being eaten alive by avenging
rats; and, to crown the situation, just as I had
nerved myself for another effort to recover the lost clue,
my torch went out with a malignant flicker, and I found
myself in black darkness!</p>

<p>Sinking down at the foot of the wall, I now gave myself
up for lost. Even had the torch not been quite
burnt out, I had no means of relighting it, having used
my last match when we stopped to smoke, just before
I broke away from my guide. I think I must have
become somewhat delirious now; for I have a faint
recollection of wild songs chanted, and of yells that
made the vaulted roof ring again. Then a heavy sleep
must have fallen upon me, which probably lasted for
several hours; and then I awoke to a dim consciousness
of horror, as I began to realize the terrible situation
into which I had brought myself by my reckless folly.
My dog was still nestling close to me; and it may have
been to his presence, perhaps, that I owed the fact of
my not having been mangled by rats during my sleep.
Rising with difficulty to my feet, for I was stiff from lying
so long upon the damp, cold ground, I once more tried to
shout; but my voice was utterly gone, from my previous
exertion of it, and I could not raise it above a whisper.
Then, in sheer desperation, I dragged myself along the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
wall, feeling the way with my hands, and had not gone
many paces when I felt an angle in the masonry, on
rounding which a ray of hope dawned upon me, as I
discerned a faint light, far, far away, at the end of what
seemed to be all but, an endless shaft of darkness. The
prospect of escape infused new vigor into my weary
limbs, and I kept steering onward for the light, which
grew larger and larger as I approached it. At last I
got near enough to see that it came through a small
<i>grille</i>, or iron door, which terminated the branch of the
sewer in which I was. When I reached the grating, I
saw that it looked out upon the river, between which
and it, however, there lay a deep indentation, or channel,
of some fifty or sixty yards in length. It was gray
morning, and I could see boats and steamers and ships,
passing and repassing upon the river. Surely deliverance
was now at hand! but how was I to make my
situation known? My voice, as I have said, was utterly
gone, and I had barely strength left to wave my
pocket-handkerchief from the grating. There I stood for
hours,&mdash;a prisoner looking wistfully through the bars
of a dungeon to which no wayfarer came. I had sunk
down at the foot of the grating, from mere exhaustion,
when the whining of my little dog attracted me, and I
gave him a caressing pat. He licked my face and
whined again, as much as to say, "Can't I be of some
use to you?" This brought a bright idea to my mind.
Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I wrote the following
words upon it, with pencil:&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p>

<blockquote>

<p style="margin-left: 10%;">"I have lost my way in the sewers. You will find<br />
&nbsp;me at the grating just opposite a large buoy marked X.<br />
&nbsp;Come quickly."</p></blockquote>

<p>Placing this inside my india-rubber tobacco-pouch, I
bound it tightly, with a strip from my pocket-handkerchief,
to Dane's collar; and then, taking the little fellow
gently in my arms, and speaking a word or two of dog-talk
to him, I dropped him from the grating into the
stream below, which was running out fast enough to
prevent him from trying to return; nor was it long before
I had the satisfaction of seeing him swimming
boldly out toward the river, as if he knew perfectly
well what he was about. I had no fears but that somebody
in a boat would pick him up before he was exhausted,
because this kind of dog can live for a great
while in the water. Yet he was gone for a long, long
time,&mdash;at least, it seemed a long time to me,&mdash;and I
saw the distant boats passing and repassing, and the
steamers and the ships, and heard the cheery voices of
the mariners, as I held on there by the iron grating,
half-dead. At last a boat, pulled by two men and
steered by a third, shot up into the channel; and the
boatmen raised a joyful shout as I waved my handkerchief
to them from my prison-bars. The steersman
held my little dog upon his knee; but the faithful animal
broke away from him when he saw me, and would
have jumped overboard in his eagerness to reach me
had he not been caught by one of the men.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p>

<p>When the boat had come quite close under the grating,
I saw that it was manned by men of the river
guard. They told me that one of their number had
gone round to report the matter to the proper authorities,
and that assistance would quickly be at hand, and
one of them, standing on the thwarts of the boat, reached
up to me a flask of brandy and a biscuit, after having
partaken of which I felt sufficiently revived to be very
thankful for my escape from a horrible death. In less
than an hour keys were brought by an officer connected
with the sewers, and I was released from my disagreeable
position, much to the joy of Dane, who covered me
with caresses after his honest doggy fashion; nor, half-starved
as the little animal must have been, would he
touch a morsel of biscuit until after he had seen me safe
in the boat.</p>

<p>The next thing to be done was to make a search for
Simonet, who had not made his appearance in the upper
regions since we entered the sewers. Men were sent
after him, and he was found in a half-stupefied condition
just where I had left him, among the dead rats. He
could give little or no account of himself, save that his
torch had gone out, just as he was about starting in
search of me, and that a stupor came over him, then,
and he sat down and fell asleep. This was all accounted
for afterwards. Having lost his pipe, as I have said, he
sought to assuage his craving for stimulants by chewing&mdash;or
rather eating&mdash;quantities of the tobacco with
which I had furnished him, and this proved, on examination,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
to have been taken by me, in mistake, from a jar
in which opium had been copiously mixed with the
milder narcotic for experimental purposes. Probably
the little I had smoked of it in my pipe had somewhat
affected me; and Simonet averred that he thought it
must have been the smell of it that saved us from being
eaten by the rats. A few franc pieces, a new pipe, and
a reasonable stock of the best tobacco, made a happy
man of that rare old gutter-snipe; but nothing could
induce him to make any further reference to the white
rat, at the very mention of which he would scowl horribly,
and retire, as it were, behind the mass of red hair
with which his face was fringed.</p>

<p>As for me, I believe more in horseshoes than ever,
since the adventure narrated above. I had a small one
made in silver, for Dane; and this the faithful animal
wore suspended from his collar as a charm until he went
the way of all dogs, full of honors and of years.</p>

<hr class="chap" style="page-break-after: always;" />


<div class="transnote">

<p class="ph2" style="margin-top: 3.5em; margin-bottom: 1em;">TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:</p>

<p>Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.</p>
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<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53178 ***</div>
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