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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..065ec59 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53991 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53991) diff --git a/old/53991-0.txt b/old/53991-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cc63b3b..0000000 --- a/old/53991-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5026 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chap-Book Stories, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Chap-Book Stories - Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; - Histories, Newly composed by Many Celebrated Writers and - very Delightful to Read. - -Author: Various - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53991] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAP-BOOK STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - -CHAP-BOOK STORIES - -By Various Authors - -Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; Histories, Newly -composed by Many Celebrated Writers and very delightful to read. - -1896, By Herbert S. Stone & Co - -Chicago - - - -CONTENTS - -BATES, KATHARINE - -Whither Thou Goest - -An Impassable Gulf - -BOYCE, NEITH - -In a Garden - -CHANNING, GRACE ELLERY - -Oreste’s Patron - -CUMMINGS, EDWARD - -The Appeal to Anne - -DORSEY, ANNA VERNON - -The Dead Oak - -HOLLOWAY, Jr., WILLIAM - -The Making of Monsieur Lescarbot’s Ballad - -LEFEVRE, EDWIN - -On the Brink - -LELAND, ANTHONY - -A Woman’s Life - -“When the King Comes In” - -POOL, MARIA LOUISE - -Mandany’s Fool - -ROSS, CLINTON - -The Way to Constantinople - -THANET, OCTAVE - -The Old Partisan - - - - -WHITHER THOU GOEST - -By Katharine Bates - -THE wind stirred the tops of the maple trees in the Quinsby front yard, -and the old man who stood on the steps, watching the shadows and the -moonlight, sighed as he heard the soft rustling sound. He glanced back -into the house, through the hall, into the bedroom, where his wife was -lighting a candle preparatory to turning down the bed. - -“I reckon I’ll jest step down there a minit,” he whispered to himself, -and hurriedly but softly went down the steps. Far down in a corner of -the yard, near the front fence, a hammock hung between two small pin -oaks, and it was here the old man went, looking back uneasily now and -then, as if he expected a call from his wife. The hammock was an old -one, and had evidently hung there all summer, for the meshes were torn -and all the gay colors had faded to a dingy gray. It tossed lightly in -the breeze as the wind grew stronger, and the old man’s hand trembled as -he caught at its swaying folds. - -“Girls,” he whispered softly, “are you both here? Are you pushing the -swing, Winnie?” - -A sudden flutter went over the leaves of a lilac bush near, and he -turned quickly to it. “That’s Nan’s laugh-gigglin’ at yore old pa jest -as usual, Nanny girl?” - -“Father,” his wife called from the porch, “you better come in.” - -He turned and hurried back to her. She stood on the steps with the -candle still in her hand, its tiny flame looking almost blue in the -moonlight. - -“Mebbe a storm is cornin’ up and you’ll ketch cold,” she said when he -reached her. Her voice was stern, but the look in her gray eyes was as -sad as the trembling of his lips when he said to her, “Ain’t it jest the -sorter night the girls use’ to beg to stay out, and not have to go to -bed yet a while?” - -“It’s a mighty pretty night,” she answered. She followed him into their -room, closing the hall door after her. - -“Oh, don’t shet it, Mira, don’t! It seems as if you was shettin’ the -children out.” - -Mrs. Quinsby turned to him. “Hiram, I must speak out to you,” she said. -“I don’t see any more’n you why the Lord thought best to take our girls, -our two good, pretty girls, but He has done it, and it ain’t right for -you to be lettin’ yoreself fancy you hear ‘em ‘round on nights like this. -I’ve faith to believe if we can keep ourselves outer sin for the rest of -our days we shall see the children again--but not here, Hiram, not here -in the old place.” - -“I know it ain’t Nan and Winnie sure ‘nough,” Hiram answered -apologetically, “but these nights make me think of ‘em a terrible -lot--and the leaves goin’ so and so in the wind does sound real like -Nan’s laugh. Mira, I was out in the garden while you was puttin’ the -dishes away and strainin’ the milk, and jest as the moon came out and -the wind started up I heard a laugh like Nan’s, and then something -danced by me that must have been Winnie. I hurried down the path -after it, and there by the poppy bed were the girls, rompin’ jest like -children again, ‘most grown girls that they are. As the wind came up -more they laughed again, not so soft as they had been doin’, but a real -burst of gay laughin’ like they use’ to work themselves up to, and then -they ran towards the arbor and peeped out from the honeysuckle, and Nan -called, ‘Here, Pa,’ and Winnie sorter sang out, ‘Father, Father,’ in her -soft way.” Mrs. Quinsby put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a -little shake. Her eyes were frightened, and her voice came quick and -stern. - -“Hush, Father,” she said. “You are doin’ yoreself an injury. The girls -are in heaven, not here, and don’t you let go yore grip on yore mind. -Think of me, Hiram--you’ve got me left, and I can’t stand the thought of -the lonesomeness if you let your senses go. You and me have been married -so many years, Hiram, we could n’t get on without each other. Why, it -seems to me the good Lord would surely let me get foolish too--mebbe it -ain’t fittin’ for one of my years to say it, but I’d ruther, yes, I’d -_ruther_ if it comes down to choosin’ between my senses and you, Hiram!” - -The far-away look disappeared from Hiram’s eyes. “I was jest thinkin’, -Mira,” he said reassuringly. “It was only that the night was so powerful -pretty. But now we won’t talk of the children any more.” - -Mrs. Quinsby drew him back to the porch again. - -“Don’t think me hard, Father,” she said entreatingly, “but I want you to -be sure. Look over there towards the church; you can see the dark heap -of trees against the sky in the churchyard, can’t you? There’s where the -girls are--there’s where they are.” - -“Why, of course, Mira. Though how the Lord could take those pretty young -things, and our only two, that had come to us when we was long past -hopin’, is more’n I can see.” - -They went to bed, but later in the night Mrs. Quinsby waked suddenly. -Her first thought was that the storm was really coming and she had left -the pantry windows open. She slipped out of bed, but as she realized -that her movement did not disturb her husband, a blind terror came over -her; she struck match after match before she could make herself believe -he was not there. Then she picked up a shawl and flung it over her -nightgown, and, regardless of her bare feet, rushed out to the garden. -The wind was blowing hard and the moon was half hidden by the lightly -scudding clouds, but Hiram’s laugh--the pleased, indulgent laugh that -his girls’ nonsense had so often produced--guided her to him. - -“That you, Mother?” he called as she ran down the path. “What a couple -of colts you’ve brought up, Mira. Reckon you could find their beat -anywheres in Mizzourer for friskiness? Just see those girls racin’ -round--a storm comin’ up always did go to their heads. Hear Nan laugh! -Ain’t she the greatest girl for foolin’ you ever saw?” - -He pointed to some tall hollyhocks that she could see were bending low -with the wind, and added, “Watch her bow; Nan was always as easy movin’ -in her body as a saplin’ or a tall flower.” - -Mrs. Quinsby put her arm around his shoulder. “Oh, he’s let go--you’ve -let go, Father, and I’m left! I can’t stand the lonesomeness, I can’t, I -can’t!” - -They moved toward the arbor. As they passed under the drooping -honeysuckle, Hiram laughed aloud. - -“They are putting their hands over our eyes to make us guess which is -which--the little geese!” Mrs. Quinsby put her hand to her forehead and -pressed the cool honeysuckle leaves against her eyes. - -She laughed too. “I knew it,” she whispered, “I knew the Almighty would -let me go with him. He knew how it was with Hiram and me.” Aloud she -said, “I guess Winnie. Yore hands ain’t as soft as Winnie’s, Nan.” - - - - -AN IMPASSABLE GULF - -By Katharine Bates - -PETER ELSTON’S two nieces, Nancy Rollins and Hester Elston, stood on -opposite sides of the frame, working together silently. Suddenly Hester -dropped her needle, straightened her lithe young figure, and throwing -back her pretty head, said hurriedly: - -“I don’t see how you can feel so, Nan! You must see how good he is, as -well as bein’ different from any boy we’ve ever known round here on the -Prairie. Ain’t he always thoughtful ‘bout pleasin’ Uncle Peter? And he’s -gone to church reg’lar with us every Sunday he’s been here, ain’t he?” - -She pauses, catching her breath after her eager speech, and looking -yearningly at Nancy. The older girl’s pale face hardened as she caught -the imploring glance. - -“He seems to me to be very worldly,” she said coldly. - -The color rushed to Hester’s cheeks, and she bent quickly over the -frame; for a few moments she sewed vigorously, saying to herself with -fierce indignation, as she worked: - -“I declare if I think Nancy is so spiritual, after all--a judgin’ Fred -like that, and all because he told her he liked to go now and then to -the the-_a_-tre!” - -Resentment, however, never lingered long in Hester’s heart, and at last -she raised her head again. - -“I wish you did feel different, Nan,” she said gently. “I can’t bear to -think of you not takin’ to the man I’m goin’ to marry. You and me have -always seemed jest like sisters ever since Uncle Pete took us to raise.” - -Nancy’s blue eyes met the pleading brown ones more gently this time. - -“Yes,” she said slowly, “you _have_ been jest like a sister to me, -Hetty.” - -Hester ran around the frame and threw her arms around her cousin with -the eager expression of affection which always embarrassed Nancy. - -“Nan,” she cried, “I jest do wish you could see it the way I do. Fred is -so good, and it’s only because he lives in town that he has gotten to -like such things as the-_a_-tres. You do take to him sure ‘nough, don’t -you?” - -Nancy’s voice quivered as she answered the passionate appeal. - -“I know he’s got pleasant ways, and he’s right principled about a lot of -things, but, Hetty, there’s no denyin’ he puts pleasure before servin’ -the Lord, and we are told mighty plain in the Bible not to make friends -with the Mammon of unrighteousness.” - -Hester bit her lip. - -“There’s some folks, and real good ones, too, who think havin’ some -pleasures like Fred cares for and bein’ real down good Christians, too, -ain’t incompatible,” she said, struggling to speak calmly. - -“There’s a gulf,” Nancy said firmly, “between me and the-_a_-tre goers, -and I’m mighty sorry for you, Hester.” - -“You needn’t be,” cried Hester, impatiently. “I’m happy and satisfied -about marryin’ Fred!” - -“What’s all this talk about marryin’?” Uncle Peter called in at the -doorway, as he paused to wave his bundle of birds and squirrels at his -nieces. “Jest leave a couple of girls alone, and their tongues are sure -to get to waggin’ ‘bout marryin’! Come along, Hetty, and help me pick and -clean this lot. It’s been a fine huntin’ day, if ‘tis a trifle coldish -for an old man like me.” - -“You old!” laughed Hester, as they settled themselves by the kitchen -fire. - -“Yes, I am gettin’ on,” cried Uncle Peter, seriously, “and I don’t see -how I am goin’ to do without you, Hester. You are sure you want to marry -Fred?” - -“Yes, sure,” said Hester, quickly. “Uncle Pete, wasn’t it jest -marvellous for him to fall in love with me, when he’s a town man and -knows such a lot of girls with better manners and all that?” Uncle Peter -looked meditatively at the delicate rose complexion, the large brown -eyes, and the soft, waving hair. - -“I don’t see as it was so dreadful queer,” he said. “You’d pass in a -crowd, Het.” - -There was silence for a little while, Hester dreaming happy dreams of -her future, and Uncle Peter groaning inwardly at the prospect of being -left to live alone with the more spiritual of his nieces. Suddenly a -gleam of hope came to him, and he said: - -“Mebbe you can’t marry him after all--town folks have a great way of not -makin’ a livin’, Hetty.” - -“I know it,” admitted Hester, almost despondently, but her face -brightened as she added; “but it is such a great big store Fred is -clerkin’ in that I’m jest sure we won’t have to wait long, Uncle Pete.” - -The waiting time proved to be as short as Hester and Fred had hoped, for -in spite of his “worldliness” Fred was a faithful young fellow, and the -promotion which made possible a tiny flat, and housekeeping on a limited -scale, came even before he had expected it. Uncle Peter did his best -to be cheery at the simple little wedding, and Nancy had baked as many -cakes for them as if the young couple were not starting out on a sinful -career. Hester prized keenly the expressions of affection which had -been rare up to the time when her uncle and cousin had realized what a -difference her going would make in their lives, and her grief at leaving -her home amazed and almost annoyed Fred, who had grown to look upon -himself as her deliverer from a life which seemed very cramped and hard -to him. - -“I wish there was somethin’ I could do for you, Hetty,” Uncle Peter -said, when the last of the wedding guests had departed, and he and Nancy -were hurrying Fred and Hester away to the train, for they were going at -once to their new home. He took her carpet-bag from her, and awkwardly -helped her to button the linen duster, which Nancy had insisted should -be worn to the station to protect the new travelling dress from the mud. - -“There is,” said Hester, tremulously. “Uncle Pete, if you could jest -make Nancy see that goin’ to the the-_a_-tre ain’t incompatible with -goin’ to Heaven some day, I ‘d be greatly obliged to you.” - -Uncle Peter drew a long breath. - -“You’ve done a sight of work here, Hetty,” he said tenderly, “and I’ve -been dreadful fond of you, too, but I’ll be damned if I will try to get -a new notion into Nancy’s head, even for you!” Hester sighed. “I s’pose -it would be askin’ a good deal of you,” she said simply “but, Uncle -Pete, you will remind her anyway that Fred and I won’t be able to afford -goin’ more’n once in a long, long time, won’t you? Now good-bye, Uncle.” - -He helped her into the wagon, and while Fred and Nancy were crossing the -yard, he stood looking at her with his lips twitching nervously. - -“Good-bye, Hester,” Nancy said, climbing up on the step of the wagon. -The two kissed each other, and Hester clung for a second to her cousin’s -neck. - -“Oh, Nan,” she whispered, “we have always played together and done our -work together--_don’t_ feel hard to me.” - -Nancy looked down at her sadly. - -“I ain’t a mite hard,” she said gently. “I ain’t judgin’, Hetty, only -there’s a gulf. Goodbye.” - -She turned to Fred and held out her hand. “I wish you well,” she said, -in her clear, calm tones, and then she opened the yard gate and stood -inside, leaving Uncle Peter a chance for his farewell. - -He wrung Fred’s hand, but no words came from his trembling lips. - -“I’ll be very good to her,” Fred said hurriedly. “Good-bye, sir. I hope -you won’t mind if I say I consider it an honor to be your nephew.” - -At the time Uncle Peter grasped only the first words. “Yes,” he said, -“be good to her, Fred--she’s a good girl, a good girl.” - -He stepped on the hub of the wheel, and Hester threw her arms around -him, kissing vehemently his gray head and wrinkled cheeks. - -“Don’t forget me,” she sobbed. “Oh, how can I leave you and Nan and the -old place? Goodbye, and I love you, I do so love you, Uncle Pete!” - -At a sign from Nancy the hired man whipped up the horses. As they drove -away Hester looked back at the clump of oak-trees around the house, and -then at the two figures at the yard gate. - -“I wish I’d done more for’em all these years they’ve been so good to -me,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Fred held her hand -close between both of his, but he made no answer, for her grief dazed -him. He knew that many elements in her life had been distasteful to -her; and why should a woman who was marrying the man she loved, and was -moreover going to town to live, grieve in this way? The hired man turned -in his seat and gave the needed word of comfort. - -“You’ve done a sight for’em,” he said warmly, “and you ain’t no cause to -fret, Miss Hetty. We’ll all miss you terrible.” - -Uncle Peter wandered restlessly around the farm until dinner-time. An -aching heart was a new experience to him, and one that he did not know -how to meet. He went into the orchard and picked up apple after apple, -and after a mere taste flung each of them away; as he left the orchard -he stopped to look back at the mass of Spanish needle and goldenrod, -through which he had just made his way. - -“How she did like all that yeller stuff,” he said aloud. “What a sight -of interest she took in everything about the place. She was a good -girl, and I wish I’d a quit swearin’--‘twould have tickled her mightily. -Hanged if I don’t quit it now!” - -Nancy had an unusually good dinner ready for him. Preparing it had -helped her to pass the morning, for Uncle Peter’s was not the only -aching heart. She helped him lavishly to half a dozen vegetables, but -for the first time within her memory of him, he had no appetite. He -pushed back his chair before she brought his pie, and as he did so a -sudden wave of antagonism to her came over him; he had never spoken to -her of her stern words to Hester, but now involuntarily his criticism of -her slipped from him. - -“Blessed if I can see how you could have been so hard on Fred, and let -pore Hetty go away feelin’ so broke up,” he said impetuously. - -Nancy pressed her lips together firmly. - -“I never judged Fred himself,” she said. “I always separated the sin -from the sinner, and we are bidden to be unceasing in denouncing sin.” - -Uncle Peter said no more; he rose from the table and went out to the -porch, and as he sat there Fred’s words recurred to him, and roused a -glow of affectionate feeling. - -“Proud to be my nephew,” he repeated. “He’s a fine feller, he is, and -Hetty’s done well for herself, if it is pretty hard on us to be left.” - He went back to the dining-room, where Nancy was clearing the dishes -away, and opening the door he called in vehemently: - -“Blamed if I care if he takes her to the the-_a_-tre every night in the -week!” - -Nancy turned a startled face to him, forgetful of the fact that tears -were rolling down her cheeks. - -The unexpected sight of her grief touched her uncle keenly; he had never -before seen her cry, and going over to her and laying his hand on her -shoulder, he said affectionately, “I’m a reg’lar old brute, Nan. You -must excuse me, and remember it’s losin’ Hetty that’s sorter upset me. I -orter be better ‘n usual to you, instead of meaner, for I can see you are -grievin’ too.” - -“I have more cause to be grievin’ even than you, Uncle Peter,” Nancy -said sadly, “for there’s an impassable gulf between Hetty and me now.” - Uncle Peter’s hand slipped from her shoulder. - -“Gulfs be damned,” he said impatiently. - - - - -IN A GARDEN - -By Neith Boyce - -OVER the wall of the Mission, against the glowing west, the tops of -the trees flickered in the wind from the sea, shot through with level -glancing arrows of clear light. The sky was all astir with little soft, -gold-tipped clouds. To the languid hush of the hot day had succeeded a -subtle animation like the smile on the lips of a sleeping woman. - -On this awakening air the last organ-notes of the vesper service -died away, and were echoed by the slow, rhythmic swing of the tall -eucalyptus-trees. The rustle of the leaves imitated the sound of the -devout dispersing from the chapel; and a magnolia shook out from its -great white chalices an incense more penetrating than any wafted before -the altar. Suddenly all this gentle derision seemed to voice itself in -a burst of mocking laughter, faint and far away, like the airy merriment -of elves. The sound approached and grew louder, running through the -notes of a treble scale. And the trees in the monks’ garden seemed to -bend and listen and to beckon while they shook all over with malicious -glee. - -Scurrying over the ground beyond, with bare, dusty feet, appeared -a group of creatures pulling each other by extended arms, or brown -garments which seemed a part of the earth, or by their braids of strong, -black hair. Writhing in this rough play they flung themselves against -the wall. A palefaced girl in a scarlet blouse, like a cactus-flower -bursting from its dull sheath, threw up her arms into the dense, dark -foliage of an overhanging fig-tree and dragged down the bough. - -“They are ripe!--what did I tell you?” she cried, as at a touch a -purple, bloomy fig fell into her hand. She tore it open and fastened her -teeth, sharp and white as those of a squirrel, in the pink flesh. - -Her companions hung back, looking at her. - -“If we are caught--” - -“What do we care? Cowards! There--now you can put all the blame on me. -Eat, then, little pigs that you are!” - -Her heavy-lidded eyes were cold and contemptuously smiling. Hanging to -the bough with both hands, she shook it roughly, and the ripe figs fell -in a shower, some flattening to pulp on the ground. The girls flung -themselves down, and, chattering, gathered the unspoiled fruit into the -skirts of their gowns. - -“It is true; they are better than ours,” cried one. - -“Trust the holy fathers to have the best,” added another, lowering her -voice. - -“They taste better,” said Fiora, the tall girl in the scarlet blouse, -“because we are stealing them.” And she licked her red lips with -satisfaction. - -“There must be better ones higher up,” said a fourth, greedily, standing -with her hands on her broad hips and her head thrown back. - -“Let us see,” responded Fiora. - -Again she caught hold of the drooping branch, drew herself up, and in -an instant the thick foliage hid her from sight. Her companions, -half-smothered with laughter, besought her to return. - -“Oh, if you are seen!” - -“Catch!” cried Fiora. - -A rain of soft bodies fell, thumping them about the shoulders. Through -the parted leaves an impudent face looked down, framed like a young -faun’s in living green. - -“I am going higher--I am going to look into the garden!” - -“Oh! Oh!” in frightened and delighted chorus. “You dare not!” - -“Listen, my children,” said Fiora, condescendingly. “They say no woman -has ever seen this garden. Well, I have a great mind to be the first!” - -Lying along the thick branch, she listened smilingly. - -“It is forbidden!” - -“You will be punished!” - -“The holy fathers--” - -“What have they in their garden,” she cried at last, “that is so sacred -that we may not see it? Would our feet soil the grass or the paths?” - -The girls looked at one another slyly and hid their faces; and their -malicious laughter, stifled with difficulty and uncontrollable, mingled -again with the eager murmurs of the trees. - -Fiora, herself laughing, she scarcely knew why, disappeared, the leaves -closing behind her like a green sea. She crept along the great branch -until her feet found something firm--the top of the wall. Clinging -to the trunk of the tree which leaned against this wall, she tried to -pierce the thick layers of foliage below her, but in vain; nothing was -to be seen in the garden. She swore softly. Then, in trying to extend -herself upon a branch which projected into the garden, she slipped, -catching vainly at the nearest twigs, and with a thrill of alarm came -to her feet upon the forbidden soil. She clenched her hands, full of -bruised leaves, against her breast, as she crouched in the shelter of -the drooping boughs. Startled by the noise of her fall, her -companions took flight like a covey of birds, with a rustle, a faint -murmur--silence. - -Fiora sank to her knees and remained for some moments motionless, gazing -out into the garden. In the dusk, deepened by the shadow of encircling -trees, nothing was visible save narrow paths strewn with opal-colored -sea-shells glimmering amid fresh turf, and roses blooming in masses -along these walks and hiding the wall under their heavy leaves, thick -with flowers like pale flames. Silence--except for the applauding -whisper of the trees and the plash of water. There was no one in the -garden. - -Taking courage, the intruder pushed her way out from under the boughs of -the fig-tree. The freshly sprinkled grass caressed her feet. The perfume -of the roses and the magnolia blossoms, becoming more intense as the dew -began to gather, surrounded her like an invisible presence, seeming -to draw her on. She stole softly forward, her eyes alert for the least -warning and alive with curiosity. The path led her through an arbor -drifted deep with the perfumed snow of wistaria, and between banks -of golden pansies set in mosaic borders. At the intersection of this -gleaming streak with another a fountain played in a white basin, tossing -high in the air a crystal ball. The crest of the plume of water caught -a gleam of golden light, and the transparent ball glittered as it rose -every instant from shadow. Fiora paused to watch it and to follow -the arrowy glidings of the gold-fish in the basin. The short southern -twilight was already ended. It was now dark--the hour at which the -fathers took their evening meal. Yielding, therefore, to her fancy, she -followed the windings of the paths, stopping recklessly to pluck now -a scarlet pomegranate, which she ate with puckered lips; now a rose, -crimson or yellow, or a long spray of white roses with pink hearts, set -close together on the stem. Huge cacti, their gray, distorted bodies -spotted with blood-colored blossoms, stood here and there in clumps. -Banana trees waved softly their long, graceful fronds. The wind stirred -with a dry rustle among palms with broad trunks and large fans, and -others, slender and lofty, with crests like stacked swords, and among -masses of pampas-grass tufted with great white plumes. Along the wall, -to which now and then Fiora’s wanderings in the confined space brought -her, grew apricot and peach trees heavy with ripe fruit. These perfect -sweets also she tasted capriciously and threw away half-eaten. The place -exerted a strange influence over her. The hour, the delicious thrill of -danger, the heavy perfumes, intoxicated her. It seemed that the trees -bent toward her to murmur something, that the pale faces of the flowers -held some mysterious message. They looked friendly; they appeared to -smile knowingly at her, to encourage her, to urge her on. Vaguely she -felt all this breathing, eager life a part of her, belonging to her. -She threw back her head, turning it from side to side with an air of -satisfied possession, drawing in the cool air through her nostrils and -parted lips with sensuous delight--this pale creature whose eyes showed -a savage response to the cajoling beauty about her. - -Convinced at last that the garden held no secret, save that of certain -flowers and fruits cultivated to unknown perfection,--for she had -explored it from the limiting wall to where the pallid outline of some -building of the Mission gleamed through the trees,--she came back to -the fountain and sat down on the wooden bench at the path’s edge, her -flowers heaped in her lap. She gave herself a few moments more to -watch the leaping ball, which now sparkled like silver in the midst of -glittering spray. A shaft of moonlight, striking through the trees upon -the jet of water, crept steadily downward. The girl, her eyes fixed -on this trembling column of white fire and foam, fell in a vague, -trance-like dream. The ripple of the fountain in her ears drowned the -echo of slow footsteps advancing along the path. - -It was Father Anselmo’s custom, while digesting his supper of meat pasty -and chocolate, to pace the garden, whose beauty seldom failed to inspire -him with poetical images, and to add each evening some dozen lines to -his panegyric ode on Saint Francis. Anselmo was, in fact, a poet,--but -a poet whose strictly regulated fancy never openly strayed beyond the -confines of the cloister. His gentle muse sang consecrated themes alone. -And if, surrounded by an indolent, veiled fervor of tropical nature, apt -to long, arid trances, and to sudden outbursts of fierce luxuriance, his -imagination was sometimes troubled, these secret vagaries were repressed -or found no acknowledged utterance. In his black, shapeless robe, above -which his placid face showed like a sickly moon, the father, whether -meditating on the pasty or Saint Francis, seemed no prey to the poetic -ardor; its afflatus left him undizzied and peaceful. Yet the mystery of -the night, the garden’s magic, must have struck some responsive chord -within him. For how else should his bodily eyes have beheld beneath the -shadow of the acacia bushes a creature not human, surely not divine; no -spiritual vision, but an apparition born of the earth and evil. It sat -half-visible, buried to the chin in flowers, motionless, its face a mere -pale shimmer, its great shadowy eyes fixed upon him. These eyes were -terrifying. - -Anselmo retreated some steps upon their discovery; then, after much -hesitation, advanced again, extending the cross of his rosary and -muttering with trembling lips certain words of proved potency. But -neither holy symbol nor exorcism availed against the evil spirit. It -refused to flee; sat dumb--it seemed to Anselmo disdainful. Suddenly, -wrathful, he took another step forward; the creature drew in its breath -sharply, with an audible sound; its lips parted, showing a row of -gleaming teeth. Anselmo paused. - -This was, he perceived, the spirit of the garden, and it was plainly -hostile. Was he, then, the intruder? Vaguely a sense of helpless fright -invaded his soul. Yes, the trees were in league with this being; they -bent towards him threateningly! The air was full of veiled alarms. What -of the rosebushes which even now reached out clutching hands to detain -him? An overblown white rose broke and fell in a soft shower about his -shoulders, and he started; a bat swooped down with swift, filmy wings, -just grazing his head; he shrank back. - -Could it be that he was in danger, that his wandering thoughts were -known, that his sinful fancies had thus taken shape to confound him? -Anselmo crossed himself. It was true--moved by the garden’s spell he had -sometime in reverie invoked the animating principle of this beauty -of earth, which he knew well was soulless and evil--and behold it -incarnate! - -Yet the apparition did not menace him overtly, perhaps it felt his -spiritual armor proof. Nevertheless, it was his part to fly possible -danger, to deliver over the unhallowed domain to its true possessor. -What part had he in these caresses of the breeze, these wooings of -flowers, these marriages of insects, this glamour of nocturnal magic? - -Knowing, as he did, the evil power of the moon at its full, how had he -been persuaded to walk in debatable ground where that demoniac glory, -rising warm and wanton above the trees, could mock and threaten him? -Under the branches of the acacia the shadow sat still in deeper shadow; -save that the rays of the moon fell upon two slim, naked feet, which the -short grass could not cover. It had taken, then, the form of a woman, -that the garden and its tradition might be doubly desecrated! Anselmo’s -indignation was not fierce enough to nerve his soul, weakened by mystic -terrors. He turned to fly, but, instead, uttered an exclamation, calling -in a trembling voice: - -“Brother Emanuel!” - -“I am coming,” was the answer. - -Another black robe, another pale face, appeared beside him, and, like -him, started back at perceiving the strange figure. After consultation -in whispers the bolder monk approached the acacia. - -“This is no spirit, Brother Anselmo--it is a woman!” he cried. - -“A woman! How could a woman get into the garden?” - -The first speaker cast a troubled glance in the direction of the high -wall. - -“True,” he said uncertainly. “Still it must be.” - -But involuntarily he moved a step nearer his companion. - -Both glanced down at the slender feet in the grass. These seemed to -move, and the spirit, or woman, turned her head swiftly from side to -side. Her breath came quicker, but the monks could not hear it, or they -might have taken courage. - -“It is astonishing,” murmured Brother Emanuel, uneasily. - -While they stood undecided between the attack and the retreat, suddenly -from the chapel near by the organ gave voice in a deep, swelling chord, -which climbed by subtle and suave modulations and soared aloft into a -tender melody. - -“It is Brother Angelo,” whispered Anselmo. - -“It is holy music!” said Emanuel, devoutly, and he made the sign of the -cross in the air before him. - -The tremulous notes, growing louder, drowned the rustle of the leaves, -the plash of the fountain, the sigh of the wind. It seemed as though the -garden hushed half-unwillingly to listen, when a voice, humanly deep and -sweet, but spiritualized into something not less than divine, took up -the melody and bore it higher and heavenward, pouring out into the night -a flood of ecstasy and aspiration. The march of the music was solemn and -splendid, and its soul was a joy unearthly and beyond utterance. - -The black-robed brothers stood and listened, rebuked and dumb, turning -their faces toward the glimmering wall of the chapel, and forgetting for -a moment the fears which had agitated them, with their cause. What were -all the potencies of the passionate earth, so easily diverted from good, -against this royal dominion? - -The evil-seeming spell was broken. A sudden movement, no sound but a -stirring of the air, recalled their attention. The foliage of the acacia -trembled as though a bird had taken wing. The bench was vacant, flowers -strewed the ground before it, the presence had vanished. Her white feet -or a breath of air had borne her away. The diapason of the organ drowned -the sound her flight might have made; and the trees bent as though to -bury in shadow her possible path. Emanuel made a long step forward. - -“Woman or spirit, she is gone!” he cried, and stooped to see what trace -of her those scattered roses might show. Anselmo grasped his companion’s -sleeve. - -“Do not touch them,” he entreated, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. -“Who knows what spell is upon them?” - -True, when found next morning, withered and scentless, these flowers -appeared commonplace enough. Nor did there exist other proof that on -this spot two brothers of the order had beheld a strange and dangerous -vision. None the less was their sober account accepted implicitly by -the brethren, of whom the wiser ever thereafter avoided to walk in the -garden at the moon’s full; though certain of the more youthful were -known to adventure themselves at that place and season. - -It is not recorded that their daring and zeal met with any reward -or recognition. Nor, perhaps, is this to be wondered at. For if any -wandering spirit, coveting, yet not daring to enter the garden, had -strayed near to the confining wall, it must have heard daily the solemn -chant of the Church’s exorcism directed against all powers unholy; it -must daily have beheld a slow procession of monks make the circuit of -the shell-strewn paths, sprinkling the ground with holy-water to purify -it from the contaminating touch of a woman’s foot. And if, spirit -or woman, it were still undeterred, there was Angelo’s music at -evening--like another flaming sword at the gate of this Eveless Eden! - - - - -ORESTE’S PATRON - -By Grace Ellery Channing - -THE Signore Americano, musing over his morning coffee on the Villa -terrace, gazed intently into the distance where Florence lay invisible -behind the hills. - -“Buon’ giorno, Signore!” called Oreste, reining in Elisabetta and -lifting his cap with a smile. - -“Buon’ giorno!” returned the Signore, starting. “Ah, you are going to -the city, and I wanted to go myself!” - -Oreste looked troubled. - -“Signore,--how much I am sorry! It displeases me, but I am already -promised to my patron. When one is poor, one must think of the francs -for the family,” he added apologetically. - -The Signore, who knew no such necessity, frowned. - -“This is the fifth time this Carnivale--and you just married! If I had a -_sposina_--” - -“The Signore’s _sposina_ would lack for nothing,” smiled Oreste. “We -others,--we must do as we can. As for Gioja, she goes to pass the day -with her _nonna_ at Vincigliata. I will bring the Signore’s mail as -usual.” - -The Signore waved his hand impatiently, and knocked the ashes from his -cigarette, then, as the shabby cab, with Elisabetta pulling heroically -back against the steepness, wound from sight, his glance softened. -It was a piece of fortune surely for a Vignola cabman to have a city -patron. Fortunes were not to be made up here where nobody but the -_forestieri_, who came from time to time to make a _villegiatura_ in -one or another of the villas, would think of wasting francs for the sole -purpose of getting somewhere. The inhabitants stayed where they found -themselves placed by Providence. To all intents, Vignola might be a -hundred miles from Florence instead of a bare six. Besides, a stranger -Signore passes with the season, but a city patron remains. Nuisance -as it was to have his own plans conflicted with, the Signore forgave -Oreste. - -Fifteen minutes later this melting mood congealed again, as a slender -figure stole quietly down the Way. - -It was Gioja, walking with her usual listless grace. - -Her small head, its crisply waved Tuscan hair bound with a kerchief of -dull blue, was carried far back as no kerchiefed head has a right to be; -and her eyes, blue as the kerchief but not dull, looked straight ahead, -dilated and musing. She did not see the Signore,--a thing that could -have befallen no other girl in the village, unless it were blind Chiara, -and the Signore watched her go with a frown,--for this was not the -direction of Vincigliata. And why was she starting so early, unless -to defeat the glances with which all these closed doors would soon be -alive? - -Yet he continued to watch her. There were other girls in the village -just as pretty. Many a strain of noble blood had gone to the making of -these Vignolese peasants. This was not the first girl the Signore -had seen who looked as if--change her gown and tie a bonnet over her -hair--she might loll in her carriage of an afternoon at the Cascine with -the best of the fine ladies in the city below. But there was no other -whom the Signore ever leaned over the wall to look after. And as he -leaned his frown deepened; he was sorry for Oreste; but--marry a girl -like that and leave her alone, in Italy! Anybody might foresee the end. -And he frowned again, not at Gioja this time, who had disappeared from -view, but at a mental image, wearing, it is true, an air dangerously -like that of Oreste’s _sposa_. - -Yes, indeed, anybody might foretell the end. That was what the whole -community, already buzzing with the scandal, said. And it was exactly -what the Padre said when, five minutes later, he came up the path and -sank upon the marble seat, mopping his brow beneath the beaver hat. - -“I have been to Oreste’s,” he said apologetically, “and thought I would -look in upon the Signore in passing. There was nobody there.” - -The Signore, engaged in pouring red wine for his guest, made no -response, and the priest stole a troubled glance at him as he took the -glass from his hand. - -“Perhaps, Signore, you may have seen them pass, and can tell me if that -child went with her husband?” - -“No,” said the Signore, after a minute’s deliberation, “I could not.” - -His guest sighed as he sipped the wine. He had grown gray in the service -of the village. He had known Gioja from her babyhood. His was the hand -which had held and oiled and dipped her at the font, and had led her -from then until her present estate; and he, if any one, had a right to -borrow trouble, seeing that all troubles were brought to him in the end. -His fine, thin lips shut above the wineglass in the sensitive line which -marks the better of Rome’s two types. His soul was straight and simple. -The one vanity it owned was to be on terms of companionship with the -occupant of the big villa. The half hour on its terrace or in its -salotto formed his social dissipation, and dearly did he prize the -importance it gave him in the eyes of his flock. Nay, it gave importance -to the whole community. - -“Not every village has a priest like ours,” said the gossips, -complacently, “that a so-educated stranger Signore would make so much -of.” - -Moreover, if his people were poor, God alone knows how poor their priest -was, and the Signore possessed a fine taste in wines,--true Chianti, -a very different thing from _vino rosso_ at eighty centesimi the -flask,--while his lavishness was that of his country. - -As for the Signore, he would pour the oil from a fresh flask any time -to unseal the lips pressed together as now over the case of Oreste’s -_sposa_. - -“The truth is,” sighed the priest, “the end is too easy to foresee. The -child is not like others; and there is nothing worse than that. That’s -what Luigi’s _sposa_ said yesterday when I rebuked her for thinking -evil, and recalled to her how Gioja helped nurse her three through the -fever only last spring. ‘Oh, I’m not saying she has n’t a heart,’ said -Luigi’s _sposa_; ‘but you can’t deny that all is not right when a girl -is different from all the rest; it is better to have less heart and -be more like one’s neighbors.’ And Luigi’s wife had reason. Nothing is -worse than to be different from all the folk about you. When I had -her safely married, I thought indeed there would be an end of -trouble;--Heaven grant it do not prove a beginning!” - -“Does she not love her husband?” - -“Who can tell?” sighed the priest, impatiently. “Oreste is not one to -set the Arno afire, but he is a good lad. But about her he is a mule,--a -very mule. Would you believe, Signore, when I ventured a word,--I, whose -duty it is,--he flared up like a Befana torch,--he whose manner to me -ordinarily is a lesson to the community!” - -The Signore smiled and reflected upon the strength of man. - -“One would say I had spoken ill of the Saints,” continued the -exasperated priest. “And the thing is becoming insufferable,--such a -tale of scandal as some one whispers to me every day. One would think -she has neither eyes nor ears, and cares not whether she has friends or -foes for neighbors.” There is, in truth, no such broad and flowery path -to unpopularity as this which Gioja undeviatingly pursued. Nobody who -elects to be unlike his neighbors gets social good of it. Had not the -Signore himself seen? - -Bad enough it was to have her sitting wide-eyed and absolutely -indifferent at her machine, and so pretty that one could see the youths -looking at her when they pretended not to; or mooning over her straw -work with never a word of gossip or a little story about a friend, more -than if they were all stones: but what did these absences all by herself -mean, which looked the worse now that she was a decent man’s wife? -It was an absolute scandal--which is only another name for a godsend -sometimes--to a sober community. - -Oreste might pretend to shut his eyes,--he had always been a fool about -her; but it could not be asked that all the village should do the same, -especially those girls who would have made decent wives if any one had -given _them_ the chance, and those lads who would have known how to keep -a wife in order if they had taken one. - -The priest, thinking of these things, sighed. He, too, might affect -blindness; but he would need to be stone deaf as well to escape hearing -what every tongue in the village felt it a duty and a privilege to -confide to him daily. - -“It must be admitted that the Signorina Americana has something to -answer for,” the priest wound up, as he invariably did, and always with -an indulgent accent which forgave while it accused. - -The Signorina Americana!--how many times was she not levelled at the -ears of the Signore Americano who had inherited her tradition with -the villa of which he was the next lessee. If the contadini were to be -believed, there was little for which she might not be held accountable. -They spoke of her smilingly, Oreste tenderly, the priest indulgently -(the Signorina also had possessed a generous taste in wines), and Gioja -not at all. Yet apparently it was precisely Gioja who might have had -most to say. - -“Ah, yes; if I could have foreseen when I brought that child to her! -But what harm could come to her from earning a few francs as the -Signo-rina’s maid? I chose her for the very reason that she had more -gentleness and was more educated than the others,--the Signorina, your -countrywoman, was herself very educated and full of _gentilezza_. But -she was too good to Gioja, and then she could never be made to see. She -had a way with her,--when I began to remonstrate with her she would fill -up my glass and ask about my poor, and, before I knew it--_altro!_ she -was very generous, your countrywoman. But if there are many like her in -your country it must be a terrible place; a man would not possess his -own soul.” - -The Signore laughed. - -“She would sit here--precisely where I sit now--and smile a little smile -she had, and twist this rose-vine about her fingers, and just so she -twisted us all. Ah,” he concluded, lifting his glass, “she was truly -terrible, that Signorina; but _simpatica, altro!_ never have I seen so -_simpatica_ a signorina.” - -_Simpatica!_ When you are that, there is nothing else you can be; and -when you are not that, nothing that you can be is of any use. When -everybody, down to the newsboys and cab-openers, loves you and doesn’t -know why,--you are _simpatica_; when people would rather do things for -you than not, and don’t care about the payment,--then you may be sure -you are _simpatica_; when the expression of their eyes and the tones -of their voices change insensibly when they look at and speak to -you,--there is no room to doubt that you are _simpatica_. You may not -be rich, nor beautiful, nor “educated” (such a very different thing from -book-fed), but you do not need to be. _Simpatica_ is the comprehending -sky of praise in which separate stars of admiration are swallowed up. - -While the Signore figured rapidly the mischief possible of -accomplishment by a dangerous Signorina possessing this attribute, the -priest drank another glass of wine and returned to the trouble of his -soul. - -“I thought, indeed, with a wife’s work to do, she would settle down like -others; but Oreste encourages her wilfulness.” - -“Why do you not speak to Gioja herself?” - -“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the priest, crossing himself. “I have tried -that once. She has a terrible nature,--that child! I have never told -any one; but see if I have not reason to say so, Signore.” He sipped his -wine agitatedly, and then began with feeling:-- - -“It was the Signorina to begin with; she saw that the child was pretty, -and she put ideas in her head. And in fact, though Heaven forbid I -should compare Gioja, who is only a little _contadina_. with a real -Signorina, yet she has always seemed to me to have a little something -about her which recalls the Signorina herself,--a way of walking and -carrying her head. And the Signorina had not an idea of keeping her in -her place. She was always giving her gowns and ribbons and trinkets and -vanities of all kinds,--that was her way, always giving. The end of it -was that one day I surprised that child with a hat of the Signorina’s -on her unhappy head; yes, actually, Signore, if you will credit me, -a hat,--a _cappello di signora_ on her head!” He spread his hands in -deprecating despair. - -The Signore looked blankly. - -“Oh, Signore, you are like your countrywoman; it is impossible to make -you understand! But it must be a country,--yours! For a girl like Gioja -to put a hat on is to declare herself without shame at once. Honest -girls of her class let such _roba di signore_ alone; yes, and rightly, -for God has put people in their places. A girl who showed herself in a -signora’s hat would find it impossible to live in Vignola; she would -be hooted out of the village. And as for the wife of a lad like Oreste -pretending to that,--half-a-dozen lovers would not be a worse scandal. -Those at least the others could understand, but a _cappello di -signora_--” He stopped to take several agitated sips, shaking his head -all the time. “I do not say she would have been so mad as to cross -the threshold in it (the Signorina had given it to her to sell for -the feathers upon it); but who could tell what such a girl might do? I -scolded her well for her wicked vanity, and such ideas above her place. -Santa Maria!--lovers and such are enough, without a scandal like that -among my people. - -“Well, what was the end? Signore, she rushed off and hung that hat, with -at least twenty francs’ worth of good feathers on it, in the Madonna’s -chapel, beside ‘Maso’s crutch and the little hearts and legs and other -offerings to Our Lady! There it hung, where all the world would see -it, and every tongue in the place be set wagging, if I had not -providentially gone in and found it before Mass next day. And even then -what could I do? It was the Madonna’s, and I dared not remove it. But -Heaven sends accidents, and as it chanced, _providentially_, Signore, -my candle brushed the feathers in passing and, _presto_, I dropped it -quickly into a bucket of water. It was not fit for Our Lady after that, -so I took it away, and I myself made it up to her in candles, that no -one might feel hurt. And after all nobody was the richer for all those -francs’ worth of feathers; they were singed more than I hoped, and -did not bring me in Florence the price of the candles. Oh, she has a -terrible nature,--that Gioja! No, no, _grazie_,--if I must speak to -Oreste, I must; but to her!--candles cost, Signore, and I am a poor -man.” - -Still shaking his head, he rose to depart. - -The Signore, left alone, paced the terrace a few times, smiling to -himself; then he sat down again,--this time in the priest’s place,--and -fell to musing, and as he mused his fingers stole almost furtively to -the long rose-tendrils, and twisted them gently, while the smile died -abruptly on his lips. - -Presently he rang, and Giuseppina came out. - -“You may take away these things,” said the Signore, “and bring me pen -and paper. Oh, and by the way, Giuseppina, in future put my seat -here,--the valley sees itself better.” - -Coming from the post that evening the Signore was aware of a slender -shape slipping along through the deepening shadows ahead. Quickening his -steps, he overtook it easily. - -“_Buon sera_; so it is you, Gioja?” - -“Si, Signore!”--the voice was both startled and appealing. - -But the Signore strode along looking keenly at the downcast face. - -“Oreste is not with you?” - -“No, Signore; he went to the city.” - -“And you have doubtless been visiting your nonna?” - -“Yes, Signore,”--the voice was almost inaudible. - -The Signore turned on his heel, with a curt “_Buona sera!_” and was -still muttering things under his breath when, fifteen minutes later, -he beheld from the terrace Oreste and Elisabetta toiling wearily up the -hill. - -“How well she times it,” he thought contemptuously, as the bell of the -big gate sounded, and he heard Giuseppina’s challenge: “Who is it?” - -“_Amici_, friends,” answered Oreste’s voice, and Oreste swiftly -followed, with his frank smile and a square envelope of dull blue, which -the Signore’s hand involuntarily stretched to grasp. - -“_Ecco_, Signore,--the only one!” said Oreste, with that polite gesture -of regret with which he daily accompanied this small comedy. The Signore -having possessed himself of the letter avidly, put it into his pocket -with ostentatious carelessness and coolly lighted a cigarette. Oreste -smiled comprehendingly but respectfully. - -“You have had a long day of it?” - -“Yes, Signore,” Oreste smiled with the satisfied air of one who has done -a good day’s work. - -“I suppose you have made a handful of money,” continued the Signore, -severely. - -Oreste shrugged his shoulders. “Not great things,--but, _altro_, I am -content.” - -The Signore shrugged in his turn. “Each to his own mind. Your _sposina_ -has also made a long day; I saw her just now.” - -“Ah, yes; it is a long way to Vincigliata, when one must walk. The -Signore’s commands?” - -“None.” - -Truly, the Signorina Americana, if this was her work, had small reason -to be proud of it. The Signore’s frown enveloped even the blue envelope, -at which he stood staring long after Oreste had left the room. - -And so it ran through the spring months,--the mournfully beautiful -Tuscan spring. The nightingales in the villa gardens sang and sang, at -dusk, in the moonlight, and at dawn, and the fireflies glittered all -through the darkness up and down the olive slopes. An intenser life -quickened in the little community as the summer stirred in the veins -of her children. The youths went singing up and down the hills, and the -girls and women lingered over their water jars at the fountain in the -square. For what is it to be poor in the summer time? - -Sometimes the Signore, lying awake at night, heard Oreste’s mellow voice -as he passed by to the little house. But through all this gayety of -being Gioja stole silently and dreamily, and the whisper of turned -heads and eyes askance followed her. For there were the ever-recurring -_festas_, when Oreste went to the city, and where then did Oreste’s -_sposa_ go? That is what the community would like to know; for the tale -of her grandmother was quite too large for the village throat. She kept -her secret well,--yes; but there is only one kind of a secret possible -to the Italian mind. - -“Birbone!” said the women, with contempt of Oreste, while the men -laughed and shrugged their shoulders. Oreste had caught a pretty _sposa_ -who had thought herself much too good for them, but, _ma chè_,--he was -paying for it. - -It was impossible that the public curiosity should content itself with -being curious. Maria, one of those public-minded souls which never lack -in any community, toiled all the way over to Vincigliata, and brought -back personal assurance from the _nonna_ herself that that pious -granddaughter had not been seen in Vincigliata all these months. - -“Eight good miles I trudged in all that sun, and a day’s work lost,” - declared Maria, mopping her brow in the midst of an excited and -sympathetic group. “_If_ my legs ache! But for the good of the community -I did it; and what I know to-night the priest shall know before morning. -I made haste to go to-day, for to-morrow, being the _festa_ of our Saint -John, Oreste goes to the city, and that _civetta_--” - -And nobody could say but that Maria had done well, and the girl deserved -whatever might come of it. - -But when the priest, sad-eyed and stern, knocked at the door of the -little house in the early morning after Mass, no one was there. Having -delivered a vain fusillade, to the accompaniment of many suggestions -offered from the neighbors’ windows, the priest turned away and betook -himself, with a clouded brow, to the Signore, who had invited him, by -Oreste, to breakfast with him that morning. He was waiting for him now -on the terrace with a morning countenance; and the breakfast-table, -heaped with roses, wore a festal air which did not escape the priest, -preoccupied though he was. - -“You also are keeping a feast, Signore, to appearances?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ah, indeed! a _festa_ Americana?” - -“No, my own. And now what is it about these two? Oreste, I know, went to -the city. I tried to engage him, but he was pre-engaged to that patron -of his. And Gioja,--well, I saw her pass a little later.” - -“While we were in the church,--the guilty child!” said the priest, -sternly. “But where can she have gone?” he added, sighing. “I have been -much to blame; I have been too negligent; I should have dealt with -her from the first. _Culpa mia!_” He crossed himself and looked so -discouraged that the Signore was touched. - -“Listen, _amico mio_,” he said. “As you say, it is a bad business; and, -arrange it how you will, it will never be well that those two shall live -here. The last of it will never be heard,--if I know your people. I am -going away to Livorno next week, and I have asked Oreste to go with me. -I like the fellow, and away from here she may come to her senses. She is -young, and, guilty though she may be, she does not seem case-hardened.” - -“Going away!” exclaimed the startled priest, in dismay. “And going to -take those two away from their own country,--to a foreign place! What an -idea,--but what an idea!” - -“Scarcely foreign; it is only the other side of Florence.” - -“Ah, ah! to you, but to us villagers! It is not a little thing to leave -one’s home, where one has been born and bred, and knows his neighbors, -after all, whether they be good or bad. It is a great thing to know -one’s neighbors. And to go so far!--but they will think twice before -they say ‘Yes.’” - -“On the contrary, Oreste goes willingly. I do not think he is so blind; -he knows well they are not friendly to his _sposa_ here.” - -“And Gioja,” said the startled priest, “will she go?” - -“He says so.” - -The priest drew a long breath, half relief, half regret, and wholly -wonder. - -“Well, well, it is perhaps the best that could happen. But to lose two -of my flock--and to leave one’s country like that! You are a strange -people, you Americans. And what becomes of us without either you or the -Signorina Americana here in the villa?” - -“There are more Americans,” replied the Signore, smiling; “and who knows -but that your Signorina will return to make you more trouble yet?” - -The priest shook his head. “The next time she may bring her own maid. -Not another girl from our village shall she turn the head of, that -Signorina,” and the very tone of his voice as he said it was witness -that he affirmed what he knew to be false. The Signore understood and -laughed. - -“Put it all away, _amico mio_, for to-day, and go with me to Florence. -Gioja has gone; and you can do nothing but listen to your people, who -will deafen you before night. Come and see your _bella Firenze_ in her -_festa_ dress. We will take a tram below and find a cab at the gates.” - -The priest’s face brightened like a child’s. - -“Ah, Signore, now it is I you are proposing to carry away! But why not? -It is long since I was in Florence, and I have already said service -here. But it is not necessary to say anything to my people. Discretion, -Signore, discretion is a great thing!” - -And thus it happened that when the village folk saw the good father -depart in company with the Signore _forestiere_, they sagely concluded, -with that sense of the importance of our own affairs common to the race, -that the two had gone to Fiesole, or who knew but even Florence, to -consult the authorities in the matter of that unhappy Gioja. And, -in point of fact, though the priest was fairly running away from the -subject, he was destined to run straight into its arms instead. - -Florence was all in _festa_; and if there is anything lovelier than -Florence in _festa_, who has seen it? The streets ran over with bright -sunshine; and the Florentines, reinforced by _contadini_ from all the -neighboring towns, in holiday garb, made a bright, shifting mass for -the sunbeams to play over. Arno rolled its now shallow stream like muddy -gold, and pale golden palaces stood loftily up and looked down at her. -Over her streaming Ways, Florence shook the bells in all her towers -every fifteen minutes, and at intervals the deep, golden-throated voice -in Giotto’s Tower answered with a rich hum, hum-m, hum-m-m, like a -melodious summer bee. The strident notes of the _grilli_, in their -little wicker cages, brought from the Cascine at dawn, completed the -joyous pandemonium. - -The Signore’s spirits ran at higher tide than even the bright tide of -humanity about him. He laughed at all; he bought flowers of the boys and -girls who ran after the carriage holding up glowing armfuls, until -the carriage-seat was heaped, and the priest held up his hands at the -extravagance. He climaxed his folly by buying all the remaining _grilli_ -in their cages, and letting them loose upon the grass of the Cascine. - -“Do not scold, _amico mio_,” he said to the priest gayly; “I told you it -is a _festa_. I have come into a fortune, and it is written that nobody -must be shut up to-day or hungry.” He tossed a handful of soldi to a -group of children. - -“I am afraid your fortune will not last long,” replied the priest, -shaking his head. - -But he forgot his own prudence when, a little later, they went to -a restaurant,--not Doney’s, where the foolish tourists go, -fancying themselves in Italy, and where the priest would have been -miserable,--but Gilli’s on the Piazza Signoria. There, it being a feast -day, and his host newly come into a fortune, the good father ate, for -the honor of religion and his own temporal good, such a meal as had -never before found its way to his stomach, and washed it down with -glasses of Chianti, not merely old (vecchio), but extravagantly old -(stravecchio). Golden moments were these, and he put down his glass -at last with a sigh of regret that it was impossible to prolong them -further. His limit of possibility was reached. - -“Now,” said the Signore, casting an extravagant fee upon the table, -“where next?” - -“To the Baptistery and the Duomo, my son,” answered the priest, with -sudden gravity, crossing himself, “to say our _grazie_, and put up a -little prayer to our good Saint John.” - -It was precisely upon emerging from the door of Gilli’s in this -comfortable and untroubled frame of mind, arising from the perfect -balance of the carnal and the spiritual, that he came face to face -with the worst trouble of all. For, straightening his shabby hat -and smoothing his shabby cassock, what should his eyes fall upon but -Oreste,--Oreste, who, having that moment emerged from a café below, was -assisting a very elegant signora into his cab. Just as he got her safely -tucked in, his eye caught the two pairs staring at him. His sturdy face -blanched; then, before either could make step forward, he had shut the -door, sprung quickly to the seat, and, touching up Elisabetta, with -a glance of defiance whirled away. The two left, staring, drew a long -breath. - -“_Ebbene_,” remarked the Signore, at last, “so the patron was a -_padrona_; perhaps Gioja has not been so much to blame after all.” - -“I will know,” answered the priest, sharply. - -The Signore said a word to the nearest cabman, slipping something into -his hand, and in a moment they were bowling up the Via Calzaioli. It -cost a city cabman nothing to keep Elisabetta in sight; and they drew -up in the Piazza del Duomo just in time to see Oreste deferentially -assisting his Signora to alight at the Cathedral steps. He saw them and -his eyes shot such a glance of stern warning that both men sat stupidly, -and the next moment nearly fell over each other as the Signora, in her -silks and nodding plumes, swept by,--for, lo, it was Gioja! - -In another instant she had swept up the steps and the great doors had -swallowed her. Then Oreste’s manner changed. He leaned against the -cab-door, and turned upon the two men a regard which said: “And now what -have you to say about it?” - -There was a decidedly awkward silence while they drew near; then the -Signore burst out laughing. - -“You have found a fine patron, _amico mio!_” he said. - -“What folly!” ejaculated the priest, holding up his hands and recovering -breath at last. “Gran’ Dioy what folly!” - -“Reverendo,” replied Oreste, quietly, “perhaps not so much folly as some -of you have thought. Perhaps I know what the tongues up there wag like, -and if I choose not to mind, whose affair is that? If it pleases us to -please ourselves, who is the worse for that?” - -“And the scandal!” exclaimed the priest. “And the waste, and the ideas -you are putting in Gioja’s head,--the wicked vanity and pride--Oh, I -told the Signorina how it would end!” - -“As for that, Reverendo, you will pardon me; but tongues must wag when -they are hung in the middle, and if they wag about Gioja,--why it does -n’t hurt her, and some one else goes safe. And as for the waste,--the -price of a fare now and then,--why if it suits us to live on polenta six -days, and take our pleasure on the seventh, whose misery is that? I have -never yet lacked my soldo for the Church or for a neighbor poorer than -I.” - -“And the ideas you are encouraging in her unhappy head!--but I will have -something to say to that child.” - -“Reverendo,” interposed Oreste, sternly, “by your leave,--you are a good -man, half a saint, and I am only an ignorant peasant, but there are -some things priests and nuns do not understand, and what one does not -understand, that one should not meddle with. The Signorina understood; -she knew well it was neither pride nor vanity in Gioja, but just a -kind of _poesia_ which made her like to play the signora. The Signorina -understood because she herself was full of _poesia_.” - -“Oh, the Signorina,--the Signorina!” interjected the priest, in despair. - -“She _knew_,” Oreste went on. “You remember the time of the hat, -Reverendo?” - -“_If_ I remember!” groaned the priest. - -“_Ebbene!_” said Oreste, emphatically, “when I found it out, I went -straight to the Signorina and told her. She was on the terrace, and -she sat down and laughed a little. You remember our Signorina’s way of -laughing?” - -It was to the priest that he addressed this; but it was the Signore, -looking straight before him and smiling, who looked as if he remembered. - -“Nothing would do,” continued Oreste, “but that she must jump into my -cab then and there, with only a lace on her head, and she a Signorina! -[here the Signore laughed aloud]--and drive straight to Florence, not to -one of the small shops, but to the great milliner’s on Tornabuoni, where -she bought a hat,--who knows what it cost?--and she bade me take it -to Gioja and tell her to wear it when she liked, for there was nothing -wicked about it.” - -The priest groaned again. - -“Only,” added Oreste, with the suspicion of a twinkle, “she bade us -say nothing about it, lest you, Reverendo, might think it your duty to -lecture the child again; and it was a pity, she said, to make so good a -man uncomfortable. So, as she could not wear it openly, we had to find a -way under the plate; and as the whole village would have been talking if -we went away together, I had to make that little story of a patron. Once -outside of Vignola, I wait for Gioja, and there in the olive grove -she makes herself into a signora; and on the way home we stop again, -and--the signora’s hat and gown stowed away under my seat--my little -_sposa_ climbs up beside me and we talk it all over. And then the next -day I count my francs, and the folk call me ‘_Birbone_;’ and the lads -think evil of my Gioja because she would never look at them; and we -laugh in our sleeves. What does all that matter when one is happy?” - -“And so,” said the priest, sternly, “you let all Vignola think your wife -has a lover, and say nothing?” - -“They have to think something; and isn’t it better they should think she -has a lover, Reverendo, than a _cappello di signora?_” - -“Surely,” assented the priest, quickly; “a lover, at least, they can all -understand; and only too many of them--Madonna pardon them!--have had; -but a signora’s hat nobody in the village has ever had, and they -would never pardon Gioja for having. And they have right; Gioja has no -business with a signora’s hat, nor you to waste your time and money, as -if you would be _bambini_ all your lives. And for you, a man, to make -yourself the servant of your wife,--oh, it is shameful, _vergognoso!_” - -“Pardon again, Reverendo, but that, too, you can’t understand. If it is -Gioja’s _poesia_ to play the signora,--why, Gioja is _my poesia_. As for -its lasting, _altro!_ the future is long; and if we had others to feed -all that might be different. She is only a child herself now; but when -the good God sends a child to a child, that makes a woman of her; He -himself sees to that. When that comes, she will care nothing to play the -signora with her stupid Oreste. All this our Signorina knew; for that -night, when the child came to me weeping, and saying how wicked she had -been, and begging me to forgive her and marry her at once, _at once_--I, -Signori, who would have married her any moment for years!--it put me in -trouble. I had fear to take her like that, and perhaps have her sorry -for it later. But I went to our Signorina with her, and told her all; -and she looked at us both and said: ‘Marry her, Oreste; you safely may;’ -for the Signorina understood. And so--I married her.” - -The eyes of the two young men met suddenly, and exchanged across the -gulf of position and race one rapid thrill of comprehension. The priest -looked half-timidly at both; but perhaps he, too, comprehended something, -for he said meekly,-- - -“After all, I did no harm.” - -“Perhaps not,” replied Oreste, with his frank smile; “but that was not -your fault, Reverendo. And now, if the Signore and you will excuse me, -that was the bell of the Elevation. If Gioja saw you, she would have no -more pleasure; and that would be all the more a pity, because it is -our last _festa_ here. We are going to live with the Signore and his -Signora. Is n’t it so, Signore?” - -“Ah, ah!” exclaimed the priest, with vivacity, “so that was your _festa_ -and your fortune, Signore? And that is why you have so much sympathy for -even the _grills_ and these foolish children! Well, well, it is perhaps -the best that could happen; for it would be impossible to go on giving -scandal like this, and if I said a word you would all be for taking my -life. It may do for Gioja, who is not like the others; but Heaven forbid -the other _ragazze_ should get such ideas in their heads; I have enough -to do to keep track of them and their affairs as it is.” - -“Signori!” said Oreste, warningly. The two slunk behind the next cab, -and from there beheld the stream of life suddenly burst from the big -doors of the Duomo,--men and women and children, prince and citizen -and peasant, and among them a slender, graceful shape, her cappello di -signora sitting well upon the ruffled gold of her hair, and her long -skirt raised in one gloved hand with a gesture at which the Signore’s -heart beat suddenly faster against the blue envelope above it. So very -excellent an imitation of the Signora that even an expert need not blush -to be deceived by it. - -Oreste stepped forward and flung open the cab-door with ostentation. The -Signora mounted languidly, and sank back against the cushions, making -a great rustling of silk. The loungers on the Duomo steps stole covert -glances at the pretty woman. Then Oreste slammed the door, took off his -hat, and approached deferentially. - -“Commanda, Signora?” he said, loud enough for everybody to hear. - -“_Alla casa_,--home,” responded the Signora, with superb languor. - -And, mounting upon the seat, with a parting glance of mingled triumph -and humor in the direction of the two watchers, Oreste, Elisabetta, and -the Signora whirled triumphantly away. - -The two left upon the sidewalk remained speechless for a few minutes; -then the priest’s eye caught his companion’s, deprecatingly, but with an -echo of Oreste’s twinkle. - -“That Signorina,” he said, with an indulgent sigh, “she has much to -answer for!” - -But the Signore, looking into the distance and laughing softly to -himself, said not a word. - - - - -THE APPEAL TO ANNE - -By Edward Cummings - - - - -I--FROM ROGER - -YOU are my friend. Therefore I am sure of your patience. My dearest, -yield it to me now, of all times! This is a confession and prayer. - -True, I might dissemble still. Chance lends the ready garment. - -But I am resolved I will have no more lies. I will speak the truth, -though I lose you. I never knew much good to come of lies. - -Dear, if you love me much, this will pain you bitterly. I should be glad -to die now, if so I rightly might, that you might think of me always as -you do now, and _she_ might never know, or be wounded in her faith and -pride. - -For me has been destined the doing of that wrong I look upon as the -deadliest of all. Treachery is the crime, and the crime is mine. - -Let me tell you again, you tender woman, you dearest and noblest in the -world, how I love you. I think of you constantly, I yearn for your sweet -companionship. You are my dear ideal,--you are to me all peacefulness -and worth and wisdom and womanly greatness and incomparable grace. You -are the pure air to me. - -Dear, it is because my love for you is the best that is in me that I am -at such pains to make my confession absolute. My heart grows imperious -at thought of you, and leaps for the highest course, though that bids -for the supernal sacrifice of losing you--you, so sweetly gained! For -you I should be happy to die now, heart in hand. - -It would be sweet, I think, to die now, to leave this black dilemma, to -vanish utterly. And yet, while you live, all splendor and all graces are -here! - -... Dear Anne, there is another woman I have been making love to--how I -loathe to write the name--Doris Ewing, who loves me as I love you, and -to whom I grew tender just in hopelessness of you. - -So far away in the North you were, so like the figment of a fond -impossible ideal, and she was here beside me, dark-eyed and sweet. I -loved her. So often I said it--so sweetly she believed, and the habit -grew. “I love you,” I said, even when I knew that love was just like. -For often she was but as a small craft on the heaving sea of my passion, -the sea that ran to its flood-tide for you! - -I told her repeatedly I loved her--and lied. Was it any the less a lie -that the spirit of romance was strong within me, and my heart-hunger -made me mad? I loved her in this fashion, say, because she was loving, -and my heart was full of love. - -It did not come to me forcibly at the time that I was lying. I had come -into the habit of her, and the words did not stick in my throat, as -lies usually do. I did not despise myself. My duplicity I learned to -contemplate with equanimity and to forget, and so I lied ardently and -successfully. What a bad success it was! - -For Doris loved me dearly, and cried over me a bit, now and then, I -suspect, and was beautiful and happy. I wondered, sometimes (forgetting -the reason that lay in my larger desire--you!), why I did not really -love her. - -Such is my story, as well as I understand it. - -She is very sweet, and I am very fond of her. I seek to extenuate -nothing; I write the crude facts as I know them. She has black hair and -eyes; she is very white and slender, with nestling ways. She is not -very learned or rich, but patrician and proud; all agree that she is -beautiful. She is debonair and sweet, and when I think of you she is -nothing to me--nothing! - -But I tried to love her just in love’s despite; and she was happy in the -main, and I was half-resigned. I stifle when I think of that. - -How pitiful it all was! - -Often she leaned, touched my shoulder, and spoke with downcast eyes:-- - -“Do you really love me?” - -“Very tenderly.” - -“Passionately?” - -“Passionately.” - -“With all your heart?” - -“With all my heart.” - -“Forever?” - -“Forever.” - -She mistrusted me no more than the day mistrusts the sun. - -And one night I sat late in my room, thinking. It was cold; the wild -wind arose, hissing in the stark trees. Out in the cold sky the stars -shone white and multitudinous. There came to me a wanton mood; I floated -with it, pensive and relaxed. I had no wish to change it, but desired -only to sit peacefully through the midnight until sleep should come, to -lightly conjecture and mildly reflect, to clasp my knees by the fire and -await the fortunes of the hour. Life had grown trivial. - -And by degrees the thoughts of you came intensely and possessed me. That -was the night I wrote you that mad long letter of adoration and despair. - -Ah, you were to me impossible! I had been half-resigned. But that night -passion reigned. It was my dearest tribute just to tell you of the love -I had for you. If it was madness, it was a sweet madness. - -I thought when your letter would come I would sit for a while with it -in my hand, and dream the sweet, the terrible, the improbable,--before I -opened it to read your kind wording (I knew it would be kind) of what my -despair taught me to expect. - -Then the wires shot stupefying joy. - -“_Everything! Why did you wait so long? Come to me now--at once! I give -you all!_” - -I had the message there at the street. I gazed blankly. Then with -realization came tumultuous sweetness that was pain. Doris, across the -way, stopped singing. - -“Good news, Roger?” - -“The best, and the worst!” - -“Oh! Tell me about it, when I come.” - -...Do your eyebrows slope, and your lips upcurl? - -I have written it all out. When she comes (she is coming soon) I shall -tell her all, as I have told you. This is to be the blackest hour of my -life. I have made up my mind to tell her the truth. It is her right. But -my heart has so often failed me. If this is tenderness, why what a false -tenderness it is! - -I have no more hopes of you now than I had when I wrote you. But I -belong to you, and will always belong to you, just for your once loving, -even though you despise me, now and forever. - -I shall tell her frankly, extenuating nothing. _For I will have no more -lies_. On that I am resolved. - -Anne, I do not truly live without you, and I crave the intensest living. -I think of you always as I saw you first--tall and fair, with the gold -across your temples, and the museful, wistful mouth with its serious -thinking silences and then its soft rapid speech, and the eyes, the blue -eyes, that had for me such exquisite language. You are repose--Heaven! -And I am in a hell of my own making, and, dearest, I could not help it! -Ah, I am pleading! I did not mean to plead. - -Did you have a dream of me, as noble, say? Here am I, who love life -because of you, who love you more than that life or my hope of heaven. -But what to you is such a love? - -She is coming soon, and I shall tell her. I say I shall have no more -deception. I am yours--yours! I dare not write the prayer that is in my -heart. I cannot say farewell. Remember, when you despise me worst, I am -yours! - - - - -II--FROM DORIS - -The letter sent with this was found sealed and bearing your name and -address in the room where Roger died yesterday. He had spoken of you -so often that I came almost to know you. That is why I am writing -this note; you were his friend, and one so noble as he must have noble -friends. I thought for a moment I would ask you to let me read the -letter; but I could not bear to see it and know that it was his last, -and written to another.--The trouble was his heart. Will you be present? -I cannot write any more for crying. - - - - -III--THE TWO WOMEN - -Said Doris: “You are just as I pictured you. May I call you just Anne? -How long they prayed! I did not know you would come. I could not think -who you were, standing beside his grave so beautiful and tearless. -I could not see well for weeping, and the wind was cold, and my head -ached. Oh, the wan face! The black clothes--I did not like the black. -I wanted to lie down there with him and be covered up. The clay was -so cold and wet. Oh, how cold my heart grew! Did you think they prayed -long? I was so cold!” - -“I have never been told how he died,” said Anne. - -“I entered the library, where he was waiting for me,” Doris replied. “It -was near twilight. He sat by the window, looking out. When I came in he -turned and his face was pale. The room was cold. The fire had gone out. -I never saw him pale before; I was frightened and cried out. He came -to re-assure me, and his face was so pale! He looked at me long and -anxiously--so anxiously. I did not understand this look, it was so -strange. It hurt me because I did not understand it. Now I know it was -physical suffering. He went back to the window and sank into his chair. -‘Are you not ill?’ I asked. He answered, ‘A little,’ and added, ‘It will -pass.’ But he did not speak at all or touch me, and when I stroked -his forehead he leaned suddenly forward, his face in his arms, on the -window-sill, and would not answer me. I ran out to tell them he was ill. -When the doctor came I was told he was dead. They gave me his letter to -send you, and tell you.” - -“You do not wish,” said Anne, “to read the letter?” - -Doris did not reply. - -“It would make you less able to realize that he is--gone,” said Anne, -gently. - -“Yes,” said Doris, “and then it was to you,--not me.” - -The other’s face was suffused with tender pity. She spoke impulsively, -and yet with a timorous boldness, as one who ventures upon hazardous and -novel ways:-- - -“Doris, he loved you with all his heart!” - -“He told you?” - -“Yes.” - -“He spoke of you so often, Anne. We shall always be friends.” - -“Yes, always.” - -“You are sure he loved me so?” The girl’s mouth tremored at the corners. -“He did not tell me often enough.” - -“He loved you dearly,” said Anne. - -“Ah, if you knew what sweet comfort you give! You are sure?--quite -sure?” - -“He loved you with all his heart,” repeated Anne. - -“I will go, Anne. I thank you so much! I think I can weep again, now. -For a while, goodbye. Give me both your hands, and kiss me.” - - - - -THE DEAD OAK - -By Anna Vernon Dorsey - -THE November day was drawing to a close. The shadows were deepening -in the pine forest that lay on one side of the sandy road. On the other -side, the corn-stalks stood in level rows against the yellow of the -sunset. My horse limped painfully, for he had cast a shoe several hours -since, and my hurried ride through a thinly inhabited part of lower -Maryland, with which I was unfamiliar, had so far brought me near no -blacksmith’s shop. Great, then, was my relief, on passing the wood, to -find a three-cross-roads, and a small house with a shed from which rang -the measured stroke of the anvil, while the square of the door was ruddy -with the forge fire. - -After calling loudly and waiting in vain for a reply, I dismounted. Just -then the blacksmith came to the door,--a big, low-browed, long-haired -fellow, of few words. After examining my horse’s feet, he announced that -it would be necessary to replace not only the missing shoe, but also -three others. - -As he proceeded slowly to work, I saw that there was before me the -prospect of a long wait which did not promise to be agreeable, for the -man was either surly or stupid, and gave out monosyllabic replies in -answer to my questions about the country. A dreary country it was, that -through which I was passing,--flat, sandy, impoverished, the virtue -having been tilled out of the soil for two hundred years. Now that the -old landed proprietors had departed to the cities, the majority of -the inhabitants were miserable poor whites and negroes, principally -fishermen and oystermen. Here and there one came across a relic of the -past,--an old manor-house, ruined or deserted, the property generally of -one man, a former overseer, who seemed to own most of the country. - -And yet there was a charm of the past over this low-lying land,--a blaze -of glory in the west, reflected in the broad river that almost lapped -the roots of the huge pine forests that grew along its banks. - -As I stood at the door of the smithy, looking eastward, I could see only -one exception to this sombre monotony of pines. On the roadside, in -the middle of a dense sweep of meadows, entirely isolated, stood a huge -oak-tree, the only one of its kind to be seen for miles around. - -“That must be a pretty old tree,” I remarked. - -“The Dead Oak? Many a hundred years old, I reckon.” - -“It doesn’t look dead to me,” I answered; “it has a dense foliage.” - -“That’s what they call it,--the Dead Oak. A man hung himself to it three -years ago,” said the smith, with some show of animation. - -“One of the neighborhood?” - -“No; a stranger round here. Nobody ever could find out where he come -from,--Washington likely. The niggers say it’s ha’nted.” - -“How is that?” I asked, much interested. - -“Don’t know; just ha’nted,” said the man gruffly, relapsing into silence -amid a fire of sparks. - -Leaving my taciturn companion, I sauntered down to the road, my steps -turning intuitively in the direction of the old tree. - -A chill wind came from the river, and a flight of crows with harsh -cries arose from its branches, as it stood, the central landmark in the -stretch of meadows. On one side of the road was a zigzag rail fence, and -on the topmost rail of this, under the tree, I seated myself. The lowest -branches almost touched my head, and the dry and dense foliage rustled -with every breeze. - -Just beyond were two wooden posts, the entrance of a carriage-way -leading through a corn-field to what I had not noticed before, a large -house far back from the road. As I sat there, facing the afterglow of -the sunset, I became aware of the figure of an old negro coming slowly -through the corn-rows, through the gate,--a bent negro with bushy white -hair. Taking off his rabbit-skin cap, with a courtly bow he seated -himself on the roots of the tree. - -For some moments we sat there in silence, the old man, with his hands -folded, gazing into the west. - -“Good evening, uncle,” I ventured to remark. “Do you live near here?” - -“Not far away,--up dat a-way,” waving his hand indefinitely in the -direction of the shadowy mansion. - -“Have you lived here long?” I asked. - -“Many an’ many a year,” he responded wearily. “Ebber sence I cum inter -de world. I belonged to Mars’ Brooke up yonder.” - -“Then you must know about the man who hung himself here three years -ago?” - -“He war n’t no man,” said the old darky sternly. “He wuz first quality, -my young gen’leman. I ought ter know, kase I buried him bofe times.” - -At these words, suddenly a thrill ran over me, a sense of mystery, -something accursed brooding over this desolate spot. - -“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Who was he?” - -“Befo’ de Lord, boss, I don’ know, an’ nobody else does. It came about -dis ‘er’ way: De first time wuz years an’ years ago. Dar wuz good times -in de country den. De quality had n’t all gone away an’ sol’ de ole -places to oberseers an’ po’ white trash. Mars’ Harry Brooke wuz keepin’ -bachelor’s hall up dar, an’ many’s de high ol’ times and junketings dey -had. Well, one night dey had a gran’ time, a-drinkin’ an’ a-carryin’ on, -he an’ de udder young gemlemens.’Bout day de party bruk up, kase de wuz -sober enuff den ter ride home. I wuz a young chap den, an’ I wuz runnin’ -on in front ter open de gate, bar’footed, from de door, kase it war hot -weather den, like Injum summer. When I open’ de gate I scrich out ‘O -Gord!’ an’ I like ter fall ter de groun’, kase dar, wid his face all -white an’ orful ‘gainst de red leabes, a-lookin’ me right in de eyes, -wuz a man tied to der branch, wid a white han’chif aroun’ his neck. It -didn’t take me long ter jump fo’ward an’ take him down, an’ when de -gemlemen rid up dar he wuz a-lyin’ on de groun’ an’ me a-settin’ right -hyar on dis same stump wid his curly head on my knees. He war n’t quite -dead an’ his han’ kotch mine, an’ his beautiful brown eyes closed a -minute, an’ he gasped like an’ died. All de gemlemen dat came up an’ -stan’ ‘roun’, dey say dey nebber see any one so handsom’ ez my young man -wuz, jes like one er de marble statues in de parlor, wid a eagle nose, -an’ a mouth many a young lady must ‘a’ kissed. But dose days wuz ober fur -him far ebber,--yes, mon. - -“De quarest thing wuz, he didn’t hab nuthin’ on but a shirt, an’ dat wuz -de fines’ quality, real linin, embroidered, but no mark or sign on it -ter tell whar he cum from. Nobody ain’t nebber seed him befo’ in dis -part ob de kentry. Mars’ Harry sont all ober the kentry, clar up ter -Washin’ton an’ Baltimor’, but nobody cum fo’ward ter claim him, so he -wuz buried. De parson say he can’t be buried in de cons’crated groun’, -kus he mus’ ‘a’ kill hisself, so me an’ anudder man buried him in de -medder, under dis tree, right nigh whar you is a-settin’.” - -The old man’s narrative ran on monotonously. It seemed as natural, as -much a part of the scene, as the croaking of the frogs in the deepening -twilight, in which it seemed that I could almost see that white face -with its aquiline nose and large brown eyes. - -“Dat wuz long ago, long ago,” the old man resumed, “long ago. De War -come an’ went, an’ Mars’ Harry wuz killed, an’ de firs’ people lef’ de -kentry and de kentry wuz like new-made sod, dirt up’ards; but I nebber -fo’got my young gemleman, real quality, hangin’ hyar in dis tree, away -from all his people. Well, boss, many years parse, an’ Mars’ Harry’s -oberseer done bought de ole place up dar. One night ‘bout three years ago -dey gib one er dese hyar big abricultural suppers, an’ dey set dare all -night eatin’ an’ drinkin’ like dere betters used ter do. It wuz de same -time er year, but misty an’ damp an’ in de early mornin’ I wuz comin’ -long de road an’ I see a crowd gaddered aroun’ de tree, jus’ like it wuz -dat udder mornin’ long time ago. When I come up, boss, for Gord! dar wuz -my young, beautiful gemleman a-lyin’ on de groun’, stiff an’ stark, in -his shirt, wid dat hankerchief ‘roun’ his neck. I wuz glad ter see him -ag’in, but he war n’t nearly alive, like he wuz befo’. De doctor wuz -dere, an’ he felt him an’ he say, ‘Dis man bin dead fo’ days. Who has -hang dis corpse to dis tree? Who is de man?’ Jes’ like dey say befo’, -‘Who is de man?’ Nobody remember’ him ‘cept’n’ me. De ole crowd dat wuz -dere befor’, de quality, dey all parsed ‘way, what wid de War an’ one -thing ur nudder, all gone but me. But I nebber said nuthin’ ter be -called ole crazy nigger,--no, mon. Dare he wuz, shore ‘nuff, de same -eagle nose an’ brown eyes an’ curls, de same leetle scratch, like de -razor done scratch him on de chin. I knowed him, an’ I cyarried him; -none er dem common folks ain’t fetched him. Dey abertised eberywhar, -but nobody ain’t answer.’ ’Case dey can’t. Dey war n’t nobody lef’ ter -answer ‘cept me,” and the old man gave an eerie chuckle. “De doctors an’ -de lawyers talk it all ober, but dey cay n’t agree, an’ de parson, one -er dese hyar new kind, he say he kin be buried in de churchyard, but de -people make a fuss, kase he mought er bin a su’cide. So I helped bury -him ag’in. Seems like I wuz specially ‘pinted ter be his body-sarvant; -dis time it’s right outside de churchyard, an’ nobody don’t know it’s -him but me, kase dey all passed away.” - -A pale, watery moon had emerged, the wind soughed among the pine-trees, -and away off an owl hooted. - -“De nex’ time I’s gwine to bury him right in de churchyard. He gwine -ter come once mo’, an’ I ain’t gwine ter die till den, an’ dat time he’s -gwine ter be buried in de churchyard, and he won’t come no mo’, an’ den -I’ll pass away.” - -A shout came through the dusk from the smithy: - -“Say, mister, come; here’s your horse.” The other words were -indistinguishable. I arose and started up the road reluctantly, longing -to know more of the mystery. The old man again removed his cap, and so -I left him, motionless, seated in the shadows, facing the faint glow in -the west. My horse was ready when I reached the forge, the blacksmith -standing dark and massive in the doorway. “An old negro has just been -telling me a remarkable story,” I said after mounting; “that there have -been two suicides found hanging to the old oak, one long ago.” - -“Can’t say,” answered the blacksmith, impassively and stolidly. “Ain’t -lived here very long myself. Always been called the ‘Dead Oak’ ever -since I knowed it.” - -“Well, do you know an old negro with a bushy white head and beard, who -lives near the Brooke House? Who is he?” - -“Might be old Sam, or Lige, or Cash. Lots of ‘em round here,” answered -the man, and that was all he would say. - -I mounted and rode off rapidly, for there were still six hours of travel -before reaching my destination. - -The moonlight was faint and chill, silvering the dry foliage of the old -tree. I drew rein under it, and peered vainly into the shadows for the -darker outlines of the old negro; he had disappeared, but it seemed to -me he was still present, sitting on the gnarled root, with the pallid -face of that young old corpse against his knee, waiting. - -The owl hooted. A faint light shone from the dim mansion in the fields, -and I pressed on through a belt of low pines. When some distance on my -way I turned and looked back. The glow of the smithy was hidden. All the -low stretch of land was folded in twilight, and against the pale sky the -Dead Oak stood spectral and alone. - - - - -THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT’S BALLAD - -By William Holloway, Jr. - -T was a stormy evening of March, 1611. All day snow had fallen in a -white whirlwind on Port Royal, winning one by one its points of vantage, -and submerging each in turn relentlessly, till now the tiny colony had -almost vanished in the drifts. - -Signs of outline there were none. The great stone gateway at the -southeast, carven above with the fleur-de-lis, was dim and shapeless -even to the sentry in the guard-room beside it; the bastion to the -southwest, its four cannon quite buried, melted vaguely into the -darkness. Snow lay everywhere. The gabled houses were turned into white -misshapen monsters, and strange fantastic mounds stretched across -the Square. Even the flag of France in the centre, beneath which -the Seigneur of Port Royal stood each year to greet his vassals, had -suffered with the rest, the wind having wrapped it tightly about its -staff, and the interminable flakes blotted out its lilies. - -It was ten by the clock, and the colonists long since abed, so that, -save for the blink of the sentry’s candle, a stranger passing by the -guard-room would have seen no sign of life. But that was only because a -giant drift hid the great hall of the seigneurie from sight, for there -a few of them were still awake and drinking deep, in honor of the coming -to Acadie of the Duc de Montpelier, cousin of the king. - -Within the long wainscoted room, Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port Royal, -sat musing before a huge log fire, with his thin white hands spread out -to the mellow heat. His face, delicately contoured and crossed by -many lines, gleamed with a ruddy hue while the flames roared up the -high-arched chimney; when they sank low again, it had the likeness of -an ashen mask against the blackness of his silken doublet. He was clad -entirely in black, even to his ruffles. His head was sunken on his -breast. And thus he sat gazing at the fire, his shadow on the wall -behind keeping time grotesquely to the leaping flames. - -To his left Marc Lescarbot, the poet of the colony, listened across a -bowl of muscat to one of Imbert’s endless stories. He was tall and thin, -with dreamy gray eyes; there were girlish dimples on his cheeks. - -Just now, however, his face was flushed and his fingers played -nervously about his girdle, for Imbert, after a fashion of his own, was -emphasizing the narrative with reckless flourishings of his naked sword. -But even then, with the point almost upon his breast, Monsieur Lescarbot -by no means lost his urbanity, for his smile, albeit a trifle anxious, -was still most wondrous sweet. As for Imbert, the story he was telling -had excited him beyond control. It was as if his wild sea-roving days -had returned. His black eyes flashed fiercely from out his red, scarred -face; his rubicund lips were protruded; his massive left hand was twined -in the coarse black hair that overhung his forehead. As the firelight -danced athwart him he seemed to Lescarbot, always fanciful, much like -the gods on the bowls of the Indian lobster-claw pipes, so broad was his -short, squat body and so flaming red his face. - -On the right at a small table the Seigneur’s son, Biencourt, and the -Duc de Montpelier played at dice; the one eagerly, as if mindful of -his growing pile of pistoles, the other in listless unconcern. And this -difference the appearance of the two enhanced, for while Biencourt was -tall, blue-eyed, and smooth and fresh of face, the duc was short and -dark, with glittering black eyes and a pale, wearied countenance. And -whereas Biencourt was bravely dressed in doublet and hose of soft blue -satin, the duc wore a black velvet that harmonized sombrely with his -paleness and his listlessness. He had but that day reached Acadie from -France, yet the sight of the forest life about him, the fur-clad lackeys -and strange Indian relics, seemed scarcely to stir his pulses. Instead -he sat in silence by the table, carelessly toying with his white, ringed -hands. - -The round ended and Biencourt swept in his gains. “Doubles?” he cried. - -The duc nodded and pushed forward his stake. - -“It was then the English came aboard us, Monsieur Lescarbot,” roared -Imbert, waving his sword, “and I leave you to judge how fierce the -fighting was with half our men already dead. The deck was a red -shambles, and in the midst stood Pierre Euston, blood from head to -heel.” - -“It is worthy of a ballad,” murmured his hearer. - -The duc shivered and drew nearer the fire. “Do ballads flourish in this -frozen land?” he asked, with a languid lift of his black eyebrows. - -Poutrincourt started from his reverie. “Lescarbot is a famous poet, -monsieur le duc. For a ballad or love-song I know few to equal him.” - -A blush reddened the poet’s dimpled cheeks. “The wilderness is full of -subjects,” said he, modestly. - -The wind was rising higher and the stout oaken door rattled clamorously -to the white gusts. His highness the Duc de Montpelier shivered again -and looked about him somewhat curiously at the quaintly carven doors -and the bearskins and heads of deer that hung upon the dark wainscoted -walls. - -“It was then I came up from the lower deck,” went on Imbert, “and side -by side Pierre Euston and I charged together. Ah! Pierre was a brave -fighter in those days, I warrant you, and together we swept the decks -before us. And droll enough work it was, with the wounded dogs of -English laying their swords about our heels as we passed.” - -“It was scoundrelly work,” broke in Biencourt, balancing his dice-box -on his fingers. “Nothing would please me better than a meeting with this -droll gentleman, this Pierre Euston.” - -Half seriously, half amusedly, the quondam pirate shrugged his great -shoulders. “Tush! I was but a lad,” he said in a tone of apology, “and I -took no share beyond the fighting.” - -The dicing went on. The duc threw and lost again and impassively as ever -filled his silver flagon from the pitcher on the long oaken table behind -him. “To your next ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot,” he said, politely. -But the wine was scarce half way to his lips ere there came a strange -interruption. The door opened slowly from without, and a woman entered, -an infant in her arms. - -In after years, when alone with Imbert in the ruined fort, that scene -came back to Biencourt with startling vividness. Once again he beheld -the long room dyed red in the glow of the fire; once more he saw them -as they started to their feet and stood staring blankly at the stranger. -And much cause was there to stare, for women in Port Royal this winter -there were none,--least of all grand ladies, such as each movement -showed this to be,--while beyond the fort lay naught but a savage, -unbroken wilderness. And Biencourt remembered standing thus while one -might slowly count ten. - -The duc was the first to speak. “You are cold, madame,” he said softly. -“You must drink some wine.” And, flagon in hand, he approached her. - -But the newcomer, who was blue-eyed and most marvellously fair of face, -waved him curtly back. “I have come to ask shelter for myself and babe, -from the lord of the seigneurie, monsieur, not to drink wine.” Then, -pausing as if for breath, she stood erect beside the door, slender and -lissome, a multitude of snow-flakes slowly melting in the red-gold of -her hair. - -For a moment Poutrincourt was silent. Idly his thoughts travelled the -endless forest wastes of Acadie, snow-clad and inhospitable, where, -this winter of 1611, was no white settlement beside his own. He had even -passed up the great river to Quebec, where his friend Captain Samuel -Champlain had three years before planted the banner of the fleur-de-lis, -when with a start he became aware the woman’s eyes were fixed haughtily -upon him. Then, mindful of his duty, he stepped forward, bowing low, and -bade her welcome to his seigneurie of Port Royal, brushing the snow from -her long fur mantle with his own white hands. And in an instant more the -stranger was ensconced in a chair before the fire. - -Biencourt and the duc resumed their gaming, Monsieur Lescarbot took -out his tablets preparatory to verse-making, and Imbert busied himself -mulling wine for the conclusion of the evening’s potations, which in -Port Royal were wont to be of the deepest. But no one ventured to mar -the hospitality of Port Royal with a question, and the newcomer proved -more taciturn than would have been expected from the laughing curves of -her lips, sitting moment after moment silent in the glow of the fire. - -The wind still battered at the door and muttered angrily in the chimney, -but to Biencourt the room was filled with a new light--a strange -radiance that seemed to emanate from the stranger’s golden head or the -crimson kirtle which she wore. He forgot his game. He watched only her -drooping lashes, with a vague hope that soon she might raise them. And -as he watched, the pile of money before him lessened rapidly. - -“I fear you bring me ill-luck, madame,” he cried at last, ruefully -smiling toward her. “These pistoles have a sorry trick of vanishing -since you came.” - -The stranger raised her lashes, as he had hoped. - -She smiled back responsively, and her eyes caught an amber light from -the leaping flames. “Would you turn me into the night again?” she asked, -jestingly, yet with a strange inflection in her voice as though speaking -to some one far away. - -Biencourt shook his head. “This may bring me fortune,” he said, in eager -tones. And rising and striding to her side, he stooped down and made the -sign of the cross above the baby’s forehead--a simple superstition, but -evidently not to the newcomer’s liking, for she said with some hauteur, -“I, monsieur, am of the reformed faith,” and leaned back coldly in her -chair. - -“Methinks, madame, you cannot have journeyed far,” broke in -Poutrincourt, who had been staring into the fire. “Your cloak had little -snow for much travel, and, besides, there was the babe.” - -Madame’s face lost its haughtiness, and she smiled once more. - -Poutrincourt rubbed his slender hands softly together. “All about us -is the endless forest, and lo! as if by magic you appear! Are you sure -there be no witchcraft in it?” - -The stranger’s laugh rang through the hall, dying faintly amid the armor -in the far corner. “Mayhap I sailed hither in some sea-rover from the -Spanish lands, or perhaps”--and here she smiled demurely--“I hid myself -in yonder vessel that this day came from France. Perchance I dared the -drifts alone, or I may have bribed some of the red savages to carry me. -But where’er I came from, the sentry at the gate is not to blame. The -night is dark, and the snow has heaped an easy road from outside over -the bastion.” - -“I am waiting, Monsieur Biencourt,” broke in the duc, with an impatient -glance at his opponent, who was still standing by the stranger lady’s -side. There was such anger in his tone that the other men, remembering -his former listlessness, glanced curiously at him. - -His pale face was even paler than before; tiny drops of moisture -glittered on his forehead; one hand was clenched above his winnings, in -the other his dice-box trembled. “Does he love his pistoles after all?” - thought the poet, pausing in his poem. The wine was mulled at last -and the goblets filled. The Seigneur of Port Royal drank slowly and -reflectively, in small sips, glancing alternately from the fair-haired -mother to her dark-eyed, cooing child. “I have thought about your -lodging, madame,” he said at last, tilting his goblet to and fro. - -“Here you would have no rest, else I would give you my own apartments. -This evening we are something quieter than usual, but oftener the noise -of revelling disturbs the forest far into the night. The hall is full of -men in leathern hunting suits, the red savages sit smoking by the fire, -there is gaming and wine-drinking, and in the intervals we sing the -songs of France. But without the fort, a half-mile beyond the gate, -are two disused huts. One of these I give you to inhabit. And that you -suffer insult from none, a protector shall go with you, who shall answer -for your honor with his own. There be two huts, and each shall have one. -But this night you will lodge here.” - -The stranger leaned forward. Her slender fingers touched his arm. “You -have forgotten to name the one who is to guard me,” she said hastily, a -curious thrill vibrating through her voice. - -The Seigneur pointed at Biencourt, and her face, which had seemed -strained and eager, relaxed again. “We shall be brave allies, shall we -not?” she cried, turning her blue eyes toward him. Biencourt laughed. -“None better,” he responded in great good-humor. - -The storm was growing fiercer as the night went on. The door rattled -more noisily, and the flames in the great chimney waved to and fro in -the sudden gusts. The space on the other side of the table, feebly lit -by two candles in brazen candlesticks, became a battleground of shadows -from the group before the fire. The stranger lady, seeming not to mind -the storm, looked dreamily about her at the strange antlers on the -walls, and at the motto of the lords of Port Royal, carved above the -oaken mantel, shielding her baby’s face the while from the glare of the -flames. Presently her eyes met Biencourt’s. - -“You are brave; is it not so?” she asked, with a laugh and a toss of her -head that spread her golden hair in sunshine over her shoulders. - -Imbert answered in his place. “Very brave, and a fine swordsman!” cried -the old pirate, while his black eyes flashed. “All Port Royal knows the -young admiral and his famous wrist-play.” - -“Admiral!” Again the blue eyes looked into his, and again Biencourt had -the same strange feeling, as if the speaker’s thoughts were far away, -and she were merely toying with the words. - -“Aye!” went on Imbert, coming nearer, and laying his monstrous hands -upon the mantel, “the late King Henry made him an admiral for these -waters months ere his martyrdom, and since then he has swept the -freebooters from the coast.” - -His highness the Duc de Montpelier leaned lazily backward in his chair, -raising his black eyebrows. “So my good cousin, Henry of Navarre, -chose for his admirals beardless boys!” he said very softly and very -languidly. - -There was an instant hush throughout the room, in which the clatter -of the door rose almost to a scream. Imbert drew in his breath with -a sharp, hissing sound; the poet looked up from his tablets, and -Poutrincourt from the fire. These latter were just in time to see -Biencourt leap to his feet and draw his sword, and almost before they -understood the cause the fight had begun. - -The first of the encounter was much in the duc’s favor. He fenced so -strongly behind a certain affectation of disdain, and his thrusts -came so subtly home, that, ere five minutes had passed, Biencourt was -bleeding from a wound in his left shoulder. The duc lowered his sword -and surveyed his opponent. “Are you satisfied, monsieur?” he asked -placidly. - -“Not yet!” cried Biencourt, angrily. - -Imbert drew near and examined the wound. “A scratch!” he called, -contemptuously. Then, with a warning look, he lounged back to his -position by the mantel. The room was very still as the two faced each -other again,--the duc, dark and pale; Biencourt, with a crimson flush -upon his cheeks. - -There was the same writhing of swords, the same chilly music of steel, -and once again the duellists swayed to and fro. Then for the second time -the duc’s sword found its mark; this time not far below the heart. - -Biencourt leaned back, ashen white, upon Lescarbot’s shoulder. His blood -flowed fast and his eyes were closed as if in pain. The duc himself -approached and surveyed him, leaning the while a trifle wearily upon his -sword, for the last bout had been a fierce one. - -“It was a brave fight,” he said slowly. - -At the sound of his voice Biencourt’s blue eyes opened. “Can you stay -the bleeding?” he asked huskily of Imbert, who with the deftness of an -old campaigner was binding a mass of soft cloths about the wound. - -Imbert nodded. - -“Then a moment more and I am ready.” - -“But, monsieur,” the duc courteously interposed, “your wound is deep and -you have already done enough for honor. Believe me you have this night -shown a swordsmanship I never saw before--I who have met and conquered -every _maître d’armes_ in France. It was but by using all my skill I -touched you.” - -But with the duc’s insult still rankling at his heart Biencourt was in -no mood for fine speeches. “I can try once more,” he answered rather -grimly, “and I warn you to be on your guard. Let no gleam of the -stranger’s golden hair tempt you from your watchfulness, or ill may well -betide you.” - -At this the duc’s pale face flushed and he shook his head in fiercest -anger. But he spoke no word. Then the two faced each other again. - -Poutrincourt’s oval face was gray and haggard; Lescarbot looked on half -eagerly, half sullenly; Imbert, his hands twined in his shaggy black -hair, alone was imperturbable. And at one side, with head averted, the -stranger leaned idly in her chair, smoothing her baby’s forehead with -her hand. - -This time there was no respite. The two pressed each other fiercely, -their swords flashing in the candlelight like twin twining snakes. To -and fro they swayed; a dozen times each saved his life as by a miracle; -their breath came in quick and quicker gasps, and still they fought on. -The duc’s face was now fiery red with passion, and it was evident no -thought of mercy lingered in his mind. And for the first time he became -uncertain of the result, for Biencourt was fighting with a dogged -persistence that boded ill. Try as he would, his thrusts were parried so -that presently he began half doubtfully to wonder if at last he had met -his equal. And while these thoughts lingered in his mind, giving to his -wounded adversary’s face a look of pale foreboding, the infant in the -stranger’s arms began crying shrilly. For an instant the duc glanced -hastily toward the chair in which she sat, his guard failed, and -Biencourt, fainting from loss of blood, ran him through the chest. - -It was months ere Biencourt and the Duc de Montpelier met again. Then -one June afternoon, when Acadie lay in a yellow swoon, the duc appeared -before the two solitary huts, leaning heavily on a stick. - -“We shall not quarrel again, I hope,” he said gayly, bowing to -Biencourt, who was lounging in the shadow of the forest. “Of a truth I -have no mind to stay longer in bed. And I have come, monsieur, both to -make amends for my discourtesy on the evening of our meeting, and to beg -the honor of your friendship.” - -And having thus spoken, he bowed low again and waited, a short yet -stately figure set against a background of deep green spruce. But his -face, as Biencourt sprang forward to grasp his hand, showed haggard and -drawn as if through pain. - -This was the beginning of a strange friendship. Lescarbot had turned -the duel into a ballad of Homeric proportions, variegated here and there -with choice allusions to the “listless lady by the fire.” This the two -read together, seated side by side on a rustic seat Imbert had arranged -in the shadow--all except the ending, which the poet, despite his skill, -had not yet been able to fashion to his mind. Beneath them the bay -sparkled in the sunshine; to the right lay the fort, with its gleaming -cannon; in the distance a purple mountain ridge reared itself softly -against the sky. Of this scene the duc seemed never to weary. Morning -after morning he lounged for hours on the rustic seat, idly drinking in -its beauty. It was at the second of these meetings he asked Bien-court -about his charge. - -“You have no trouble with these Port Royal gallants?” he queried. - -Biencourt shook his head. - -“And how does madame--Manette, the Seigneur told me was her name--how -does madame relish her forest life?” - -“She is thinner and her cheeks are pale. Since her child died, I fear -she grieves.” - -For a time the duc sat silent, carelessly digging with his scabbard -in the moist, black earth. “One may not see her?” he said at last, -doubtfully. - -“Why not? Without doubt you will respect her honor, and she seems -lonely.” - -On the duc’s lips a faint smile trembled. For a moment he seemed about -to laugh. But he only repeated, “So she seems lonely.” - -Biencourt rose and knocked at the door of the adjoining hut. “Does -madame please to walk?” he called. - -There was a reply from within, inaudible to the duc’s ears, and in -another moment the stranger lady, whose plain name of Madame Manette ill -consorted with her stately air, appeared equipped for walking. The duc -sauntered near. - -“Madame Manette,” said Biencourt, “I have the honor to present to your -notice his highness Monsieur le Duc de Montpelier.” - -The duc’s plumed hat swept the earth in greeting. “Methinks the climate -suits us strangers ill,” he said, gayly. “From your face it steals the -roses; me it hinders too long of recovery.” - -Madame Manette shrugged her fine shoulders. “Are you in danger?” she -asked politely. The subject was evidently uninteresting. - -The duc shook his head and smiled. His black eyes were full of a strange -light, and his lips quivered so that Biencourt, watching him, feared he -might be in danger of overtaxing his new-found strength. Then the three -set out through the forest, loitering along quaint footpaths brown with -fallen pine needles, or stooping to gather wild flowers in the shelter -of anciently bearded trees, where was naught but primeval stillness. - -The walk that day, however, was a short one, for Madame Manette was -weary, so that presently they found themselves again before the log hut, -with its thatched roof and mossy walls. Vines of Imbert’s planting were -beginning to twine about the doorway, and in the air floated the dreamy -scent of bursting pine buds. A half mile in the distance the four cannon -on the bastion of Port Royal flashed brightly in the sunshine, and the -flag of France flaunted civilization and progress in the face of the -hoary forest; in a neighboring glade the conical wigwams of an Indian -camp stood brown and lonely in the shadow. - -At the doorway Madame Manette paused a moment before saying adieu; and -as she leaned listlessly against the door, with her eyes fixed on the -distant fort, the duc asked a question. - -“Your baby!” he cried, abruptly; “where may its grave be?” - -Madame Manette’s blue eyes were scanning the great stone gateway, and -for a moment it seemed she had not heard. Then, without turning her -head, she said slowly: “It is buried where you stand. Your feet, -monsieur, are above its heart.” - -Her questioner moved hastily aside, a deep pallor on his cheeks, and -Madame Manette went on calmly: “It was my own choice it should lie -there; and my feet, passing over it each day, do but make it rest the -sweeter.” Then, bowing slightly, she retired within. - -Next day the duc joined in the walk again, and on many succeeding days, -which was very natural, since he and Biencourt were constantly together. -Indeed, now that he had shaken off his listlessness, he had become a -most fascinating companion. To Biencourt he talked for hours of the -court and its affairs; Imbert he held under a respectful spell with -stories of his campaigns in the frozen north, where men perished by -squadrons in the snowstorms. But his fascinations could hardly be said -to extend to Madame Manette, who treated him throughout with a certain -chilling disdain. His remarks she answered in monosyllables; the flowers -he gave her she languidly let fall ere five minutes had passed. But, -without a sign of discomfiture, he next day gathered more and talked -on, unconcerned. Very frequently, too, he made excuses to speak to her -alone, when the morning stroll was ended, and before she had entered the -hut. On these occasions, which generally ended in her abrupt withdrawal, -he betrayed a curious dread of stepping upon the unmarked grave, -standing always much to one side. - -The summer waxed and waned upon the hillside, dying day by day in -blood-red spots among the hardwood trees, and still Madame Manette -lingered in Acadie. Her seclusion was more rigid than before; it might -be that she was thinner, but that was all. At intervals, as vessels left -for France, the Seigneur called to offer her passage home, which each -time she smilingly refused, accompanying her refusal, however, with such -liberal gifts to the colony’s poor as sent Poutrincourt away in a maze -of wonder. She took pleasure in her seclusion, she told Biencourt one -day, when they were for an instant alone, and in their daily ramblings -through the forest. It had been a strange experience, this summer on the -very skirt of savagery, and her baby’s grave had bound her to the place. -But with the first snow she would return to France. And so time went on. - -But after many mornings, there at length chanced one when Madame Manette -was indisposed, and there was no walking. Next day the same thing -happened, to the evident annoyance of the duc, who paced for hours -up and down before her door. On the succeeding morning, however, she -appeared again, looking very white and frail. She declined to walk, on -account of weariness, and spent an hour idly in the rustic chair. - -“You are weak, madame,” cried Biencourt, eagerly, as they walked back to -her hut. “You need aid. Indeed, you seem to grow ever frailer and more -weary.” - -Madame Manette turned on the threshold of her domains and surveyed her -two escorts with deliberation. There was a faint shadowy smile upon her -lips, and her marvellous hair lay in a golden blaze against the white -hollow of her cheeks. “He dreams--does he not?” she asked, addressing -the duc. - -“I fear his dreams are true.” And Biencourt, glancing at him, thought he -had never looked so ghastly since his wound. His lips were aquiver and -his words came from them with a strange tremor. - -But Madame Manette shook her head. “You are both over anxious,” she said -lightly, though even as she spoke her voice faltered wearily. Then, with -a bow and a glance at some wild-fowl flying near, she closed the door -behind her, leaving the two gazing at each other with a mute, fearful -questioning. - -That night Biencourt chanced to be favored by a visit from Lescarbot. -The poet had been wandering about the forest, vainly striving to fashion -an ending to his famous ballad, and was consequently in a state of great -depression. His figure drooped; his gray eyes stared moodily before him. -And thus for hours he sat, while the moon rose above the trees and paled -the solitary candle with her rays. - -“There will never be an end,” he cried at last, rising pettishly and -flinging the door open wide. “For months have I thought upon it--the -wild storm, the dicing, the newcomer, and the duel--and each time I reel -back, baffled like a child at the entrance of a gloomy forest. For who -can paint the motive that daily forms itself beneath his gaze? And here -is that which came perhaps from far.” - -Monsieur Lescarbot’s troubled face relaxed. His analysis evidently -pleased him well, for he stepped briskly into the moonlight flung across -the doorway. - -Biencourt made no answer. He was busy with a long epistle, which a -vessel on the morrow would carry to a certain black-eyed maid of honor -at the court of France, and scarcely heeded what the poet said. - -“From far! Who knows how far?” Lescar-bot went on dreamily. “Perchance -from the royal”--here he paused and crossed himself hastily, as heavy -footsteps sounded near by. They came nearer still, and the poet drew in -from the doorway, falling upon his knees in prayer. Biencourt sprang in -wonder to his feet, and there, in the brilliant moonlight, a few feet -from the hut, saw what had so transfigured his companion, a man bending -laboriously beneath a heavy load--a load with lifeless limbs, and loose -hair waving in the night wind. Then he knew, as the poet had known, it -was the Duc de Montpelier with the dead form of Madame Manette upon his -shoulders. - -A moment only the duc paused before he staggered across the threshold, -and, shivering violently, laid the body on the floor. Yet in that moment -the thought of his broken trust stung Biencourt like a lash, and half -unconsciously his sword flashed in the moonlight. But ere he could frame -the question surging to his lips, it was answered. - -The duc sank down beside the body, his left hand resting on the ashen -face. “You will seek to know the meaning of the riddle,” he said -mechanically, without lifting his eyes from off her rigid form. “It is -very simple. She was my wife. Nay, do not start, monsieur”--as Biencourt -made a gesture of amazement. “It is as I say, and this is the body of -Madame la Duchesse de Montpelier, wife of a prince of the blood, and--a -Huguenot. And know you not”--and here the duc spoke lower and his words -came slowly, while he made the sign of the cross--“know you not the Holy -Father can disannul such marriages if it be the interest of the Truth? -And among all the Huguenots of France--fierce and bitter as they have -been and are--is there none more relentless than the comte, her father.” - -For an hour the duc spoke no word more. With his arms tightly clasped -about his wife’s stiffening form, he crouched beside her on the floor. -And at the table near by the two unwilling spectators sat watching. - -Finally the duc spoke again, still with the same mechanical tone and -with his eyes still fastened on her face. “She came to Acadie without -my knowledge, by the connivance of some of her own faith at Rochelle, as -she herself told me, hiring a swift trading bark that dogged our course -all the way, and landed her in the darkness below the fort. And ever -since our meeting here has she been most bitter to me. She gave me no -reproaches. She was too proud, if you understand, but each morning her -eyes rested scornfully on me, as we left her at the door. Often, too, in -the evenings, would I wander about her hut, watching her shadow pass to -and fro across the window. Once I tapped lightly at the door, giving a -secret signal we had often idly used in France, and she bade me depart -so sternly I never ventured signal more. To-night it chanced I was -standing not far from the window, when suddenly I heard her fall. In an -instant I was within, but Manette was already dead. And now she is dead, -monsieur,” went on the duc, his eyes glittering feverishly as he tossed -the golden hair caressingly to and fro, “now she is dead, she is mine -again. And I will bury her this night in a secret place I last week -learned of, so that alien faces shall look on her no more, and where she -shall slumber by the dust of dead Indian chiefs, and near the noise of -a rushing stream. For it was by a brawling brook on her father’s estate -that we first met, and ever she loved its noises well.” - -The rest of the night to Biencourt was always like a half-forgotten -dream. Together he remembered they had borne the icy body the distance -of a hundred yards, when, wearied from their recent wounds, he and the -duc had come perforce to a sudden stop. It was then he had left the -duc and Lescarbot with their burden, and, running to the fort, brought -Imbert, yawning, to their aid. After that the journey was easy, for -Imbert poised Madame Manette’s body on his giant shoulders, easily as a -mother might raise her child, and mile after mile bore it on through the -waving forest. Port Royal, its bastion and palisades swimming in yellow -moonlight, was left behind; the forest closed over them, dark and -sullen, and still they pressed on. The duc went first, leading the way -without hesitation, for the path was well marked, though in shadow, and -even to a stranger impossible to miss. And by this the others knew they -were going to the ancient sepulchre of the Indian chiefs--a place of -mysteries, where strange influences had their hiding-places. - -The gray light of dawn was filtering coldly into the rocky well of -sepulchre when they arrived. On all sides were niches in the walls, -each niche a grave; and, drowning all voices in a hoarse clamor, a tiny -stream fell thirty feet adown the rock into a murky pool below, whence a -chasm in the cliff led it downward to the sea. - -It was here they buried Madame Manette, erstwhile Duchesse de -Montpelier, the duc praying long and fervently. And that none might look -upon her face again, Imbert, going higher up the stream, changed its -course by means of massive rocks, so that now and forever that brawling -stream flows down across her grave. And here, with the vagrant spray -falling thickly upon their faces, did the duc bind them by a fearful -oath to guard his secret well from all save Poutrincourt. - -Then, while the sun rose, they went slowly back to Port Royal through -the lightening forest. The duc staggered weakly; his eyes were sunken; -there was a grayness upon his face much like the grayness of the dead -face he had looked at so long. Nor did he speak until the great gate of -the fort loomed in sight, when, rousing himself as if from slumber, he -said musingly, “It is the ending of--a ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot.” - - - - -ON THE BRINK - -By Edwin Lefevre - - - - -I - -SUDDENLY it dawned upon them that they loved one another. They had been -talking about mind-reading, and he had looked long and steadily into -her eyes when she had challenged him to read her thoughts. They realized -simultaneously what had happened. She had known that she loved him, and -he, that he loved her. But each had sought to keep that knowledge from -the other. Now they could hide it no longer. - -They remained silent for a long time, avoiding each other’s gaze. At -last their eyes met. - -He said, “Well?” His voice expressed nothing; in his eyes there was -sorrow and--hope! - -She shook her head, and he turned away his eyes; there was -disappointment in them that he would not show. Then she said, very -quietly, “You have read my thoughts?” - -“Yes,” he said, still without looking at her; “and you--” - -“I have read yours.” - -Tears were in her eyes. If his, too, were wet, she could not see, for -he was looking fixedly at a little pebble at her feet. At last he said, -passionately, “Oh, why did I meet you! Why should I suffer so?” - -“And I?” she said. “Is it not worse for me? Is not my sin greater, -and therefore my punishment heavier, than yours? Oh,”--in answer to an -impatient gesture of denial,--“you will meet some woman whom it will not -be a sin to love, and you will--” - -“You know I will not,” he interrupted. - -“Yes, you will,” she said, very gently; “and then--” - -He raised his head and gazed steadily at her. Then he said, -challengingly, “You wish me to love another?” - -She looked away from him and was silent. Gradually there crept into his -eyes a look of hope; and hope was slowly turning into exultation when -she spoke, so softly that he barely could hear her, “Yes.” - -Then he said, altogether too calmly, in too commonplace a manner, “Oh, -very well, since you wish it--” - -And she said, very firmly, “I wish it!” - -Slowly they returned to the house. The sun was setting, and there was -gold and nacre and glowing blood in the sky. In the garden the wind -stirred the leaves gently, and there was sorrow in their song. - -Her husband awaited them. “Is n’t it a beautiful sunset?” he said to -them from the piazza. “I suppose you’ve been looking at it. You might -write a sonnet about it, my boy.” - -She went up to the gray-haired man and kissed him on the lips, and -leaned against him, until he wound his arm about her waist, and she -rested her head on his shoulder caressingly; and then she looked -defiantly at the young man, who had drawn near. - -The young man’s hands closed tightly, and in his eyes there was -disappointment and anger and some contempt. “Yes, John, I believe I -_could_ write a few elegies on the death of this Sun, who has shed his -blood in his fight with Night, and has spattered it all over the sky, so -that the angels will have to wash it off with their tears. Sunsets are -my forte, anyway--” - -“I have never seen any of your verses,” she said. - -“Then you may congratulate yourself upon your lucky escape.” - -The gray-haired man smiled good-naturedly and patted her cheek; and she -held it up to be kissed, and nestled closer to him. Then she looked at -the young man, and in her eyes there was still defiance, and, though she -would not have shown it, some interest. She said, “I have heard so much -about them that I should like to read them.” - -“Really?” - -“Yes.” - -“You are reckless.” And the bantering tone did not hide from her the -significance that lay behind his words. - -“You must show some of them to her,” said the gray-haired man to him. - -“All right. I’ll hunt them up, some time, and send them to you,” said -the young man to her. - -“Have n’t you any here?” she asked. - -“Yes,” he replied; “but they are all love songs, and therefore not worth -the reading.” - -“Indeed!” she said. The gray-haired man patted her cheek indulgently. -This time she did not upturn her face for a kiss. And in her voice there -was an unnecessary indifference as she said to the young man, “Will you -let me read them to-night?” - -“Oh, no,” he replied, laughingly, though his eyes were serious. - -“Why not?” she persisted. - -“In the first place, because they are not worth anything; and then you -might get an impression that I really meant what I wrote, and that I am -deeply in love with some one.” - -“And you are not in love?” There was a challenge in her voice. The -gray-haired man smiled at her girlish, artless curiosity. - -“Certainly not!” the young man said decidedly. - -“But were you in love when you wrote them?” - -“I really don’t know,” he answered. “Perhaps I was.” - -“Well, _I_ am,” she said, looking at him steadily. And when his eyes had -shown astonishment and had begun to shine with irrepressible hope, she -continued: “Indeed I am,--with my own dearest husband, who is so good to -me. Am I not, darling?” And she entwined her arms about the gray-haired -man’s neck and kissed him on the lips twice. And the gray-haired man -laughed and looked pleased. - -The young man’s face was rigid and very pale. In the dusk they could not -see that his lips were twitching. But she had grown strangely quiet. - -A great stillness had fallen upon the world. The evening star was -shining very brightly now, and in the east a little lone star was -blinking tremulously. - -Presently she said, “I am afraid,” and shivered. - -The gray-haired man drew her closer to him, kissed her, and said: -“Afraid of what, little coward? But come, it is time to go in, my -child.” - -The young man’s thoughts had been many during the brief spell of silence -that had preceded her words, and now he said: “Yes, _little sister_, you -ought to go in now.” - -The gray-haired man laughed good-naturedly at this jest of his -young brother’s. But she drew a quick breath and went into the house -hurriedly. - - - - -II - -The gray-haired man was nodding over his newspaper in the library. She -had just ceased to hold the latest novel upside down in her hands. She -hesitated for a moment; then she arose, saying: “It is so warm here; I -am going on the piazza.” - -The gray-haired man started. “What ‘s that, my dear?” he asked, -shamefacedly. He feared that she might think he had been asleep. They -had been married but four months. - -“I am going to sit on the piazza; it’s cooler,” she said. - -“Is Dick there?” - -“Yes.” - -“All right, then. But don’t stay too long; the night air is not good for -you.” It certainly was not good for him, so he remained in the library -nodding over his newspaper. - -She went to the piazza. Sitting on the veranda-rail, the young man was -smoking. At the sound of her steps he started up eagerly; but when she -was near him, his eyes showed nothing, his face was calm. - -“A beautiful night, is n’t it?” said she. - -“Yes,” he acquiesced. He stifled a yawn ostentatiously. Then, as though -the thought had just struck him, “Shall I fetch you a chair?” - -“Oh, no, thanks; I am going upstairs shortly,” she said, with -indifference. - -“Shall I fetch you a chair?” This in another tone. - -“Yes,” she answered. - -He did so, and then resumed his seat on the veranda and smoked in -silence. - -Overhead, the sky was as molten sapphire and the stars seemed more -numerous than ever before, and brighter and nearer to the earth. - -“Lovely, is n’t it?” she said at last. - -“What is?” - -“The sky, of course.” - -“Yes.” - -After a silence she said: “I’ve never seen so many stars before; have -you?” - -“Yes,” he said, slowly, “there was one more last night,--mine!” - -“Yours?” - -“Yes.” - -There was another pause,--a long one. She was looking at a little star -that was shining very faintly low in the sky. Finally she said, softly, -“Show me your verses.” - -“I cannot,” he said, almost in a whisper. - -“Why not?” She avoided his gaze. - -“You know very well,” he answered. - -“But if I ask you as a great favor--” - -“I should still refuse,” he said, wearily. - -“You are very rude.” - -“And you are very cruel,” he returned, monotonously. - -“But not so cruel as you,--to arouse a woman’s curiosity, and then to -refuse, absolutely, to gratify it!” - -“Oh, so it is merely curiosity?” His voice trembled slightly. - -She hesitated; her foot was tapping on the ground nervously. Then, as -if she had weighed the consequences, she said: “Of course, merely -curiosity.” - -“Then you lied this afternoon, and you are only a coquette? I might have -known it!” He spoke with difficulty for his teeth were clinched tightly. - -“How dare you speak to me so?” she said, angrily. - -And then he answered in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard: -“And how dare you forget that you are my brother’s wife?” - -She gave a half-smothered cry of pain, as though he had struck her. Then -she buried her head in her hands and sobbed softly. - -“Don’t!--Please don’t--Oh, don’t--Gladys--” he said. It was the first -time he had called her thus, by name, and she said, between her sobs: -“Oh, I am so unhappy, so unhappy!” - -She raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. -He went toward her hesitatingly. By her side he paused; his hands were -clinched and held close to his face. He said hoarsely: “Don’t. Don’t -make--me--forget--” He drew nearer; she held up her arms as if to ward -off a blow, and then the gray-haired man’s voice called out sleepily -from a window on the other side of the cottage: “Gladys! Dick!” - -“Yes?” said the young man. - -“You had better come in now.” - -“Yes. Coming.” - - - - -III - -At breakfast the next morning the young man said: “I am going back to -the city this morning, John.” - -“Are you? When will you return?” said the gray-haired man. He did not -think his honeymoon had waned yet; but it never shines very brightly on -three people at once, and-- - -“I don’t know,” answered the young man. “I shall go to Jack Livingston’s -first; I promised to spend a week or two with him. And then I think I’ll -go to Maine. I am told the fishing is exceptionally good this season.” - -She said nothing. The gray-haired man began to talk about the anxious -cares of a floriculturist. - -After breakfast she disappeared. The gray-haired man said good-bye to -his younger brother, to whom he had been as a father, and went out to -consult with his head gardener about a new variety of orchids which he -had just received from the Isthmus of Panama. - -All that morning the young man wondered if she would not bid him -farewell. At last the groom came to tell him that the cart awaited him. - -He was in the hallway, deliberating whether he should seek her, when -she came down the stairs slowly. Her face wore a look it had never known -before. Occasionally it is seen on some women when they wear the widow’s -garb for the first time,--a blending of sorrow and yearning, and, -withal, resignation. She halted at the foot of the stairs, her -hand resting upon the carved post. “So you are going?” she said, -monotonously. - -“Yes.” His voice was low. - -“For a long time?” - -“Yes.” He dared not look at her. - -“It is for the best,” she said. He answered nothing. - -The groom came to the door and said: “I beg your pardon, sir, but the -train is due now, sir.” - -“Very well, I’m coming.” - -She gave two sharp little indrawn gasps. Then, speaking very quickly, -she said: “Wear this. My mother gave it to me when I was confirmed. When -she died I took it off because it reminded me of her and it made me cry. -It is sacred to me. It is all I can give you. I am sure she would not -blame me--” She paused and looked at him questioningly. - -“No,” he answered, reverently. - -“Take it!” She held a little ring, a plain gold band, toward him, and he -took it and with some difficulty placed it on his little finger. - -“Good-bye!” she said. - -He looked at her imploringly. His lips dared not utter what his eyes -told so plainly. It was a request, nothing more, but she shook her head. - -“Good-bye,” she repeated, extending her hand. - -He took it and held it tightly. - -“Good-bye,” he said. Her hand remained in his. She could not withdraw it -and there were tears in her eyes as she said, gently, for the last time: -“Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye,” he said again. He bent over to kiss her hand, but she drew -it back quickly. Then she went up the stairs slowly. - -He had resolved not to look back, but before the little cart had gone -two hundred yards he turned his head. There was no one on the piazza, -and her windows being curtained he could not tell whether she was -looking at him from her room. He gazed long towards the little cottage. -Then, as he heard the whistle of the approaching train, he turned his -eyes to the front, and his face took on a calm, resolute look. - - - - -A WOMAN’S LIFE - -By Anthony Leland - -HE is dead!” - -“Oh! Miss ‘Lizbeth! and you alone with him?” - -“Yes, I was alone with him.” - -She said this in a manner which seemed to imply that there was nothing -strange in the fact that she was alone with him. She was always alone -with him, was she not? Was it necessary that she open the doors and call -them all in because he was dying? - -They passed from the narrow hall into the front room with its -green-paper window-shades, its worn carpet and meagre furniture. His -bed had been moved down from the floor above when his last illness had -seized him, and here it had remained, a black walnut bedstead, with -towering head-board, which shut out the light from one of the two -windows in the room. This bedstead had been one of his few, his very -few, extravagances in years gone by, and in its dark shadow he lay now -rigid. He had been a stern, grizzled man in life, but the sternness then -had been as very softness compared with the hard, cold outline of the -lace now upon the pillow in the green light of the lowered window-shade. - -They moved about the room on tip-toe, speaking in the hissing whispers -considered appropriate by them in the presence of death. - -“When did it happen?” some one asked. - -“Half-hour ago.” - -“Had n’t I better call the doctor or the minister?” - -“I don’t see what good they’d be.” - -Another woman crept in silently, a shawl huddled about her head. - -“I jest heard,” she whispered. - -They waited in silence for her to go on. She was the woman of the -village who always officiated at the “laying out” of their dead. The -reason for this no one had ever sought. Possibly the right was hers -because she so enjoyed the grewsome privilege. At least she clung to it -tenaciously. - -“Now, Miss ‘Lizbeth, you jest go upstairs and I’ll tend to things,” she -said, while the other women awaited her commands, half resenting -her cool assumption of control, but with a full consciousness of her -capability in “tending” to such “things.” - -The bare little church, with its white walls and staring windows, its -stiff pine pulpit painted a dingy yellow, with the minister’s green -upholstered chair behind it, was well-filled the day of the funeral. A -“burying” was not a thing to miss without grave cause. There were old -men and old women in the congregation who had not missed a funeral -within ten miles of them for fifty years. They sat solemnly waiting for -the minister to begin the services, taking close notice of the coffin -and calculating its cost. Not a difficult problem for them with their -long experience. They also noted closely the appearance of the one -mourner who sat directly in front of the pulpit, alone save for the -presence in her pew of the woman who had come to her huddled under a -shawl. This strange woman always sat with the mourners as though she -felt a claim upon the bodies of the dead until their final surrender to -mother earth. But the dead man’s daughter sat away from her companion -quite at the farthest end of the seat, as if she would be as much apart -from them all in her present loneliness as she had been before. It was -fifteen years since she had sat with them in the church, and they looked -at her now with curiosity. A slight little woman, with tired eyes and -dull brown hair streaked with gray! - -The minister arose and folded upon the open Bible his lean hands with -their great veins and yellow joints. He prayed long and laboriously, -his voice rising from a doleful sing-song drawl into a shout and then -sinking into a whisper. They wagged their heads knowingly in the pews -and whispered to one another that it was a “pow’ful effort.” Toward the -close of his prayer many eyes were turned expectantly toward the woman -who sat alone. The minister was calling loudly for “the lost sheep who -is not with us safe in the shelta’ of Zion’s walls. O Lord!” he wailed, -“make yoh wahnin’ plain to her onseein’ eyes that she may seek safety -from the wrath to come.” If the woman heard or understood his words no -acknowledgment of that fact touched her thin face. She sat with folded -hands, her eyes upon the narrow front of the box like pulpit. Then the -minister began his sermon. From the earliest dawn of the dead man’s -life, through his childhood, youth, and manhood unto the last moment -of his old age the speaker journeyed, going unctuously over the dreary -details of the meagre, common history. They all knew it well enough, -but they listened greedily, jealously fearful that the speaker might -overlook a single incident in the man’s dull story. When he had -exhausted every period of his subject’s life, the minister began the -apotheosis of the man. His goodness, his charity, his uprightness, and, -above all, his “tireless labors in the vineyard of the Lord” were dwelt -upon. He had in truth been cruel and hard and mean. They all knew this, -but he had lived and died “a member in good standing,” and any other -treatment of his character by the preacher would have been a scandalous -thing, unheard of and not to be forgiven. At the close of his discourse -the minister turned his colorless eyes upon the woman who sat apart. -“There was,” he said, his voice falling into a slow and solemn drawl, -“there was one cross which our Lord and Master seen fit to bind upon the -shoulders of the brother who has jest gone befoh us into the glory of -the Heavenly Kingdum. A cross hard to bear, a cross whose liftin’ he had -wrestled for with the Lord Jesus often and mightily in prayer. But which -Divine Providence seen fit to allow to remain upon the shoulders of his -faithful son. It was, my brothers and sisters, the refusal of the only -one of his kin to accept the Lord, to wash herself in the blood of the -Lamb, to join with those who journey onward safe in the arms of Jesus -into the glory of everlastin, life.” His voice had risen into a shout. -“The night is comin’, the day is almost done. Oh! let us pray for them -who falters and will not turn from the wrath of God befoh it is too -late.” His voice sank suddenly into a whisper, and the words “too late” - went hissing out over the heads of the people who sat with craning necks -and knowing faces cruelly turned toward the woman, whose eyes for a -single instant had not left the front of the dingy yellow pulpit. - -The hearse, with the one closed carriage of which the village boasted, -moved slowly away from the church along the muddy road, followed by a -straggling line of wagons. The majority of the people lingered about the -church door watching the woman who sat stiffly erect in the carriage, -the minister facing her, at her side the woman who seemed to have -so strange a love for the dead. This woman sat with her handkerchief -pressed to her eyes as if she must needs make amends for the other’s -stony composure. - -The road, after leaving the village in the bottom lands along the -river, wound up the side of the bluff upon which the burying ground -was situated. It was an autumn day, and the golden haze of that most -glorious of seasons in the Missouri valley bathed the wide stretch of -country upon which the cemetery looked down. A sky of marvellous blue -spread its canopy above them, while the bright glow of the western sun -brought out in pitiless detail the dreary little home of the dead with -its crude tiptilted monuments and scattered, sunken graves, its rays -enfolding with no mellowing touch the group of sallow-faced men and -women in rusty and shapeless garb who clustered about the newly made -grave. They lifted their voices and sang quaveringly amid the strangely -death-like stillness of the declining day. It was a dismal tune in -plaintive minors, and as they dragged it out in unmusical and uncertain -tones it seemed a fitting symbol of their narrow, unlovely lives. When -the last clod of reddish clay had fallen upon the oblong mound, they -turned and walked away to leave their dead unnoticed until another -of the living should pass from the grimness of life into the--to -them--greater grimness of death. - -As the procession crawled along the heavy road toward the cluster of -houses upon the river’s bank, the minister, his great hands resting upon -his knees, his pale eyes blinking solemnly, began:-- - -“E-eliz’beth, you are left alone now.” She nodded her head in -affirmation. “You haven’t much of this world’s goods.” - -“I’ve kept two of us from starvin’ for five years. I reckon I can keep -myself,” she replied stiffly. - -“Yoh father was well-fixed once, but the Lord seen fit to deprive him of -his earthly treasures that he might lay more store by them gifts which -is above earthly price.” - -“He was a graspin’ man and over-reached himself.” - -The woman beside her sniffed reproachfully and glanced at the minister -with sorrowful air. The man stirred uneasily and lifted a hand in -expostulation. - -“A daughter shouldn’t jedge. If you was enlightened by the spirit you -would n’t be so lackin’ in Christian charity.” - -She had endured much that long afternoon, and she raised her eyes now -defiantly. - -“I’ve done my duty by him--I’ve done my duty for twenty years without -complainin’.” - -“The pride of the onregenerate must be humbled,” returned the minister. - -She vouchsafed no reply, and they went on in silence, the setting sun -touching with softened light her worn face and tired eyes. - -The sun was low in the western sky when the two women reached the -small house, once white but now a dirty gray, with great yellow streaks -following the lines of the overlapping clapboards. The black waters of -the swiftly flowing river were flecked with red and gold under the level -rays of the sun, the rounded hills on the other side of the stream were -softly blue, toward the east a white fog was rising. A flock of wild -geese high in the gray-blue sky was flying swiftly southward, spread out -in a great straggling V. The mournful cry of their leader reached the -two women faintly, the flight of the wild geese was an unfailing sign of -approaching winter, and they watched the black lines of the flying fowls -until they vanished in the southern sky, their weird cry growing fainter -and sadder and finally dying away, leaving the swish of the river -against its muddy bank the only sound which troubled the quiet of the -autumn twilight. Two women with hushed voices and funereal faces waited -inside the dingy front room of the house. - -“It was a right smart gathering,” said one of them. - -“I never see a finer,” said the other. - -“And the minister was mighty pow’ful,” ventured the third in mournful -tone. - -They looked at the dead man’s daughter expectantly. Common decency -surely required some expression of gratified approval of the -congregation and the sermon. But she was folding her shawl carefully, -laying it upon the bed alongside her rusty bonnet. She seemed not to -have heard their voices. Then she sat stiffly by the window looking out -at the mud-clogged road. - -“I hope you feel reconciled, Miss ‘Lizbeth,” one of the women began. - -“I reckon I am. He’s been awful hard to take care of,” she replied with -her hard honesty. She turned her eyes away from the window and looked -wearily at her visitors. - -“It’s supper time. There ain’t any use of your stayin’ with me.” - -The three women arose, angry at their dismissal. - -“I ‘lowed you’d want some one to stay with you the first night,” said -one of them with a lugubrious sniff. - -“I ‘ve got all the nights of my life to stay alone in. I ‘bout as well -begin now.” - -She watched them as they went away through the deepening gloom, their -heads together nodding wisely. They were talking about her, of course. -She knew well enough what they said. She knew how hard and strange and -unfeeling they were calling her. And as she sat alone by the window she -wondered whether she was all these. The bed in its dark corner brought -to her mind the picture of the man who had first quit it for his narrow -bed upon the hillside. She fancied that she saw his hard, thin, yellow -face upon the pillow now; that she heard his querulous voice demanding -her attention, upbraiding her for some fancied forgetfulness, fiercely -denouncing her for her lack of “religion.” How hard he had been! As the -woman’s thoughts travelled back along the years she could not recall one -kind word, one touch of thankfulness for her unremitting care, for her -absolute immolation of life, hope, love upon the altar of “duty.” Twenty -years! what a long time it seemed! - -She passed into the back room and pressed close to the little square -looking-glass which hung against its wall. The daylight was well-nigh -gone, but she could yet discern the reflection of her face against the -background of gray twilight. How old she looked! How sallow she had -grown! There were great lines about her mouth and deep furrows between -her eyes. And her hair,--how dingy it was with its streaks of yellowish -gray! Twenty years ago she had been proud of her hair. It had been -bright and soft. She was twenty years old then, and there were roses in -her cheeks, and her eyes, so pale and tired now, had been blue and fresh -then. She wondered if she had wept their color and their brightness -away. Perhaps that was the reason no tears were left for her father. She -had shed them all long ago for the man whom she had loved and given up. - -She did not return to the front room where the great bed loomed so -weirdly in the gloom, but sat by the one window in the little back -room, half kitchen, half dining-room, looking out upon the river growing -blacker and colder in the falling night as it flowed from out of the -west where a rapidly diminishing, dull red streak marked the track of -the vanished sun. - -Twenty years since her mother died and her sister, selfish in her new -life as a wife, had said that ‘Lizbeth’s duty lay in their father’s -house. He might marry again or die in a few years. Surely it was not so -hard for a young girl to wait. So she had waited, her lover fretting -as lovers will, until one day she had awakened to the fact that a man’s -patience is not like a woman’s. There had been one awful night which she -remembered after all these years with a shudder. A night when, for the -first and only time in her hard life, she had turned hotly upon the -stern old man and told him of her love and of her wrecked girlhood, -praying wildly for some help, for some sympathy. She caught her breath -sharply now as she recalled her father’s bitter words. That same night -her lover left. Fifteen years had come and gone since then. The great -world had taken him, and whether he lived or had been claimed again by -mother earth the woman who sat and dreamed of the past alone in the dusk -knew naught of him. She had practised a woman’s faithfulness; she had -reaped a woman’s hard reward. Afterwards her sister died and left to -her care a blue-eyed babe. How she had poured out upon that baby boy the -pent up mother-love within her. But the gods in their wisdom had taken -him too. In this still night as she lived over again the years which -were gone, she seemed to feel the clasp of those baby arms about her -neck and to hear the crooning of that soft baby voice. - -And then came the long years of her father’s illness when she knew no -moment of rest or peace. It had been a long struggle between a loveless -woman on one side and gaunt starvation upon the other without one word -of gratitude to strengthen her. And they called her hard because she -could not weep! She looked at her hands, holding them up close to her -face. How misshapen and ugly from toil they were! - -It was quite dark now and the river murmured strangely under the wind -which was creeping down from the north. Her hands fell back into her lap -and two great tears coursed slowly down her worn face--not for the man -who lay under the stars in the little cemetery on the hill, but for her -own vanished youth and love and hope. - - - - -“WHEN THE KING COMES IN” - -By Anthony Leland - -SHE slunk along in the shadows listlessly, staring with unheeding eyes -at the shuffling crowds upon the sidewalks, at the fly-blown, tawdry -splendors of the shop windows, and at the yellow gloom of the pawn-shop. -The autumn wind swept sharply up from the river, and she drew her old -plaid shawl about her tightly with one hand, while with the other she -covered her swollen and discolored cheek. The sidewalks and roadway -were covered with a thin, slippery coating of mingled filth and mud. -An autumn mist, heavy with smoke, pressed itself tightly down upon the -street, deadening the light of the electric lamps at the corners into -mere splotches of a dully-luminous gray. Frowsy, palefaced girls hung -about dark doorways where they bandied mirthless jests with lounging men -and boys. In front of a bar-room, whence came the fangling notes of a -piano and the scream of a high-pitched soprano voice, a man stood and -urged the passers-by to go in and witness “the dizziest ‘vawdyville’ in -the city.” The woman in the old plaid shawl passed him without heeding -his blatant voice. She had heard his sing-song shout many times; the -“dizzy vawdyville” was nothing new. There never was anything new in -Myrtle Street; it was ever the same ugly, sordid, joyless place day and -night, week in and week out. It was always crowded with people, but it -was always strangely sullen and mirthless. You never heard any one laugh -there. At times when some one slipped and fell upon the slime of the -pavement, or when one of the white-faced girls hurled shrill defiance at -a man or at her companions, a hoarse human bark rent the air, but it was -not a laugh. Even the children, who scrambled in the gutters and crept -in and out of the dark alleys, forgot to laugh. - -The woman with swollen and discolored cheek, who was crawling along -in the shadows, halted in front of a dram-shop on a corner, and gazed -doubtfully, longingly, at its swinging door. She was wondering if -perchance Red Mike would trust her for a drink. She felt keenly the -chill air from the river. She was strangely weary and down-hearted, too. - -Earlier in the evening she and her man had quarrelled. He was drunk, as -usual, and had struck her, but for some unaccountable reason she had -not screeched and struck back and tried to claw his face. She had -simply grabbed her old shawl and escaped into the street, where she had -wandered about for an hour. It was very odd that she had acted thus, and -now she was shamefaced about asking Red Mike for a drink of whiskey! He -got all their meagre earnings, anyway, did Red Mike, and he was usually -easy enough about donating a dram or two when they were down in their -luck, and heretofore she had n’t minded asking him. And if he chanced to -refuse, she eased her mind by a good mouthful of curses, which she spat -at him like a cat. But tonight she was foolishly squeamish about asking -him; she feared the loafers about the bar would jeer at her if he -refused; her face pained her where Con’s blow had fallen, and she was -cold and shivering, and--well, she was losing her nerve. So she turned -away from the hot glow of the bar-room door and passed on into the mists -of the street. - -As she crawled along there came to her ears a quick thud of a drum-beat -and the sound of men and women’s voices singing. Marching through the -gloom they came, a flapping banner above their heads, the red shirts of -the men and the blue, scarlet-banded bonnets of the women lending for -a moment a patch of color to the dim dinginess of the street. Suddenly -they paused and fell upon their knees in the road, while a man’s -voice wailed out a prayer. Time was when Myrtle Street gibed at the -Salvationists and threw rocks at them and hustled them about. But that -was when the red shirts and the flapping banner were something new. The -newness was gone now, and Myrtle Street merely shuffled indifferently -past, and the beat of the big drum, the strident voices of the exhorters -were quite as much a part of the night sounds of the place as the -bawling of the showman or the chatter of the frowsy girls. The woman, -shivering under her shawl and fondling her bruised cheek, glanced -apathetically at the kneeling men and women, when quickly her eyes -became fixed upon the face of one of them whom she knew. It was Maggie, -the girl who once occupied a dark little hole of a room next her own in -the big tenement house where she yet lived. Maggie! a forlorn, starving -thing of whom she had lost track entirely--in truth, she had not thought -of her since the day when the poor, sniveling, pale-faced creature had -been turned into the street for not paying her rent. Myrtle Street -does not waste much time in tracing the whereabouts of unfortunate -acquaintances, nor in thinking of them after they drift out of sight -under the ever-mounting wave of disaster which laps hungrily thereabout. -But Maggie in a big bonnet, with her eyes closed and kneeling in the -mud, was enough to arouse Myrtle Street’s benumbed curiosity. So the -bedraggled woman on the sidewalk pressed quite close to the curb and -stared at her, wondering vaguely at the transformation. The man ended -his prayer, and his companions, rising to their feet, began to sing -again. The woman on the curb took no heed of the words which they sang. -She was not for some moments vividly conscious of the song at all; she -was conscious only of being tired and cold. Her curiosity regarding -Maggie was dying, and she loitered with the little group which huddled -upon the curb, simply because she had nowhere else to go. But as she -stood there in the mist with her sunken eyes staring vacantly into the -night, the music which touched her ears began to affect her oddly. It -was a curious, wailing melody, with a barbaric accompaniment of jingling -tambourines, and as its monotonous, insistent swing beat the air a -strange feeling of awakening began to stir her dull veins. She weaved to -and fro a little in unison with the measure of the song. She closed her -eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. She clutched her shawl. She -felt a wild desire to cry out or sob. Suddenly they ceased to sing, -and she opened her eyes with a start. Maggie stepped into the little -semi-circle of men and women, and in high, hard tones began to speak. - -“Oh! Those is great, great words, my friends, which we have just sung,” - she said; “awful words! Terrifyin’ words! Did you hear ‘em? Did you -understand ‘em? Did they come home to you? - - “‘When the King comes in, - - Like lightning’s flash will that instant show - - Things hidden long from friend and foe. - - Just what he is will each one know, - - When the King comes in.’ - -“Think of it! Think of it! Like a flash will it be, and you will know -and I will know--everybody will know just what we are. Oh! It is awful! -Like lightning’s flash will that coming be--remember that! Don’t try to -believe it is far off. It isn’t. It may be to-night. It may be within -an hour--a minute--a second, for you and me. But be it near or far, it’s -coming, coming, coming!” Her voice shrilled piercingly, and the woman, -listening so intently upon the curb, felt a thrill of excitement at the -sound. It was not clear to her what it all meant, but she had a queer -feeling of awe as she looked at Maggie’s drawn face and listened to her -strained, sharp voice. “My God!” the girl continued, “think of it! Think -if He comes to-night and finds you in all your sin and wickedness and -filth. Think, think and be afraid. Think, and before it’s too late, get -saved! I am saved, and I thank God to-night for it!” - -A low chorus of “Glory to God!” - -“I believe!” - -“I believe!” came from her companions. - -“I am glad to-night to stand here to tell you that I am saved and -happy--oh! so happy! Why do you wait? Some of you know me--I was sinful -and tired and afraid once, but not now, thank God! not now. I’m saved, -saved, saved!” - -Louder and wilder grew the girl’s cry. She waved her arms violently, and -paced rapidly to and fro. The listening woman shifted her position from -the sidewalk to the gutter. Her hands loosened their clutch upon her -shawl; she wrung them constantly as she looked with wondering eyes at -Maggie--Maggie who was n’t tired nor afraid any more, and was happy, and -all because she was “saved”! What did it all mean? How had it happened? - -The girl stopped abruptly in her walk, and, as though answering her -thought, cried, “It is so easy to get saved, too. All you have to do is -to throw yourself on your knees and call on Jesus, and give yourself up -to Him, and all your sins and fears and troubles and burdens are gone, -and you’ll be happy and glad and free and saved forever!” - -Without a pause her voice shot into the song which they had sung before; -but now its measure was changed to a clear, quick chant, with which she -kept time by a soft patting with her hands. Clearer and higher grew -her tones, and her companions, sinking to their knees, moaned in hushed -voices a weird accompaniment, while the gently shaken tambourines lent -again their strange barbaric rhythm, marked from time to time by the -great drum’s muffled beat. - -Nearer and nearer to the semi-circle of kneeling figures stole the -listening woman. Tears were streaming from her eyes, her blue lips -quivered, a great sob tore itself from her tight throat. At length she -stood quite within the lines of the singers, and then, with a strange, -wild cry, she, too, fell upon her knees in the slime of the street. Her -old shawl fell from her head, her arms rested upon the drum, her swollen -face was buried in them. A great shout of “Glory to God!” went up about -her, and some one on the curb cried amazedly, “Why, it’s old Kit!” But -she heard only that monotonous wailing voice chanting stridently “When -the King Comes In.” Afterwards there came a knowledge of some one’s arm -across her shoulders, of whispered words and urgent voices, a sensation -of being lifted to her feet and helped along the street, and then a -confusing blur of yellow light from oil lamps in a dingy hall. And at -length full consciousness, dull fatigue, and an overwhelming desire for -sleep. - -Maggie and one of the brothers in red jersey and jaunty cap walked home -with her, pouring into her ears encouraging advice in strange, cant -words, which she but half understood. At the doorway of the human hive -where she and Con slept and fought and starved the man looked sharply at -Maggie. - -“You are sure!” he whispered. - -“Yes--they’re married,” replied the girl. - -“You will come to the barracks early to-morrow morning?” he asked, -turning to Kit. - -She promised to do so, and, passing into the dark hall, climbed upward -to where Con lay in drunken stupor. - -The following morning Kit stepped into a new world--a world of friendly -words and close companionship. The squalidly poor know nothing of that -luxury called friendship. They are huddled together in vast crowds, -squeezed and packed by scores within narrow limits, jostled and elbowed -by their kind at every turn. They are suffocated by close association. -But of fellowship, of interest in one another’s aims, of sympathy with -one another’s hardships, they know nothing. Like starving dogs over a -bone, they growl and snarl and fly straight at throats. So, when Kit -crept half sullenly into the barracks and was greeted by a loud chorus -of interested questions and by unstinted praise, the unfamiliar warmth -of friendly words thawed into life her sluggish sensibilities. And, too, -an entirely new view of herself and the world was suddenly opened to -her bewildered gaze,--for the first time in her hard life she was looked -upon as a human being of some importance. They told her that she was -suddenly become different from her kind, she was better than they, she -was “saved.” Not only that, but she must “save” others. She must quit -the old life, and work for the common good. Her new friends were as -uncouth and as poor and as hard pressed as herself. In their -attitude there was none of that maddening condescension, none of that -supercilious casting of surplus comforts at her feet, as one would toss -a half-eaten orange toward a hungry-eyed beggar brat, which was the -only sort of charity Kit had known of hitherto. The friendship of the -Salvationists was the frank comradeship of plain men and women; their -charity was the outcome of a crude, but living, religious idea. And -their wild enthusiasm caught her dull soul in its sweep and lifted it a -little above the fetid mists of her world. Some latent spark of womanly -ambition was stirred into life, and with halting, dogged feet she tried -to climb out of the dank valley of her past. - -It was a wearisome task, but the exhilarating sense of friendly interest -in her success sustained her. The old appetite for strong drink stung -her, but the excitement of the new life helped to dull the craving. -She tramped the streets with her companions, her cracked voice shouting -quaveringly with them as they sang. She stepped sometimes into the -little semicircle at the street corners to tell excitedly “how glad she -was that she was saved.” She knelt with the others and prayed aloud for -those who were not as she. She was one of a great, enthusiastic army, -held up and aided by the superficial strength which comes of close -fellowship and common aims. But with that growth of strength in one -quarter there came a strange weakness in another. She was growing -childishly afraid of Con, and with the growth of that fear there started -into life and waxed strong a new loathing and hatred for his rum-soaked -person. She would have fled from him, only that her new masters told -her she must stick to him. It was her duty to cling to him and to “save” - him. Their first injunction she obeyed meekly; but to their second -command she turned a deaf ear. She knew what Con was; they did not. -Every human creature in the wide world might be saved--except her -husband. He was beyond the pale of humanity. So long as she did not -bother him, he paid little attention to her goings and comings. Only -once she ventured to protest when he had spent a week’s earnings for -drink (Con had a “pull” with the ward “boss,” and when there were no -other means of getting money for drink he found employment with the -street-cleaners), and he had knocked her down for her temerity, and -after that she held her peace and wished dumbly that he might die. - -At length there came a proud day when Kit, after unwonted labor over -her wash-tub, was the possessor of a decent black gown and of the -long-coveted poke bonnet. It was the eve of a great rally at the -barracks, when some officer of high degree from “headquarters” was to -review the ranks of his army. At the close of day, when the long shadows -were beginning to steal across the bare little room, with its musty bed, -its one chair, and its rickety table pushed into a corner, Kit crouched -upon the floor close up under the gray light of her window, intent upon -her work. There were but a few stitches needed to complete her gown, -and her stiff fingers fumbled eagerly with the unfamiliar needle. Her -thoughts were busy with the glories of the morrow, and she crooned -one of the Salvationist hymns as she sewed. And to her singing in the -twilight there came the sound of shuffling footsteps outside her door. -She looked up apprehensively as the door flew open to admit her husband. -He was drunk, sullenly, brutally drunk. - -“Where’s my supper?” he demanded, falling heavily into the chair. -“Where’s my supper, I say?” he repeated, fixing an evil eye upon her. - -“I’ll get it now, Con. I was busy workin’ on my dress, an’ I clean -forgot your supper,” she explained, humbly. - -“Yer dress?” he asked. “What right’s a measly fool like you with -dresses? Le’s see it.” He stretched forth his hand. She caught the black -garment sharply away from him. - -“No, you’ll spoil it!” she cried, tossing the dress into a corner behind -the bed. “You just set still there, an’ I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.” - -“Eatin’ be damned!” he replied, surlily. “I want somethin’ to drink. -Here! you take the can an’ get somethin’ from Mike’s. ‘F you can buy -clothes, you can buy drinks.” - -“No, no, Con, not now. Wait till I get supper.” - -“I don’t want no supper! You rush de can, I tell you!” - -“I won’t!” - -“The hell you won’t!” - -He started from his chair and went towards her, but something in her -eyes made even his sodden senses recoil. He looked at her dubiously a -moment, and then stumbled out of the room, muttering thickly. - -As the door closed behind him, the woman sprang for her gown, and, -dragging it from the corner, slipped it on. A few more stitches were -needed in it, but she dared not wait to take them. A great terror filled -her soul. She felt that her husband would return quickly, uglier and -wilder by a few drams. With shaking fingers she pinned her gown together -as best she might. She smoothed her scanty, dry, dead hair with her -hands, and then she lifted her bonnet from the bed. She held it a moment -admiringly, drawing her fingers softly over its trimmings of dark-blue -silk, and along its narrow band of scarlet ribbon, where the bright -gilt letters shone. She put it on her head and tied the soft strings -carefully under her chin. She glanced hesitatingly at the old plaid -shawl, wishing that she had a better one, but the night was cold, and -she drew it about her shoulders. With a little sigh of relief she turned -to leave the room. As her hand touched the door-latch she heard Con’s -heavy tread upon the stairs. She noted that he staggered a little, and -with a quick indrawing of her breath she drew herself flat against the -wall in the shadows. The man threw the door open fiercely, steadying -himself against the jamb as he peered into the dim room. - -“Where are you, you she-devil?” he called. - -The woman made no sound, and he stepped inside the room, with his broad -back towards her. Inch by inch she crept along against the wall towards -the door, as he stood turning from side to side in his maudlin search -for her, and as her feet touched the threshold he turned and saw her. He -rushed forward and grabbed her arms. - -“Givin’ me the dirty sneak, are you?” he growled, shoving her inside the -room and closing the door. “What d’ yer mean? Eh?” - -Kit made no answer. She backed off, her face gleaming white inside her -big bonnet. - -“Yer a nice one, ain’t you?” he continued. “Won’t get me nothin’ to eat -or drink, an’ spendin’ yer money fur clothes, an’ then tryin’ to make -a sneak! Oh! I was onto you all the time! You white-faced fool! What d’ -yer mean? Eh? Damn you, what d’ yer mean?” - -“Stop, Con! Don’t hit me!” - -He stumbled forward deliberately and struck her upturned face. She -staggered into the corner by the table, and faced him again. A tiny -stream of something red trickled down her cheek. Her eyes were suddenly -ablaze. - -“Let me go!” she shrieked. “Let me go!” - -“Yer’ll go an’ get de can filled, that’s where yer’ll go!” - -“I won’t--_never!_” - -A spasm of hate and rage and terror writhed in her face. With the -quickness of desperation she caught a knife from the table and waited -for him. - -He lunged towards her with uplifted arm. Before his blow fell she gave -one swift thrust, and his arm came down simply upon her shoulder. For -a moment he stood strangely still. He clenched his fist; his teeth were -tight; he breathed hard through his nose. - -“Damn you----” Then he reeled and fell. - -And as the woman stood there in the gathering gloom, with his blood -crawling towards her on the floor, she heard the beat of a drum, and -the sound of voices singing shrilly, far down the street. On they came, -nearer and louder, until her listening ears heard the thrum of the -tambourines. Under her window they passed, and away into the night, -until at last their sound was lost in the ceaseless, sullen tumult of -Myrtle Street. - - - - -MANDANY’S FOOL - -By Maria Louise Pool - -YE ain’t got hungry for termarters, be ye?” - -Some one had knocked at the screen door, and as there was no response, -a man’s strident, good-humored voice put the above question concerning -tomatoes. - -But somebody had heard. - -A woman had been sitting in the kitchen with a pan of seek-no-further -apples in her lap. She was paring and quartering these and then stabbing -the quarters through and stringing them on yards of white twine, -preparatory to festooning them on the clothes-horse which stood in the -yard. This horse was already decorated profusely in this way. A cloud of -wasps had flown from the drying fruit as the man walked up the path. He -swung off his hat and waved the insects away. - -“I say, have ye got hungry agin for termarters?” he repeated. - -Then he rattled the screen; but it was hooked on the inside. - -He turned and surveyed the three windows that were visible in the bit of -a house. - -“They wouldn’t both be gone, ‘n’ left them apples out,” he said to -himself. “I’m ‘bout sure Ann’s to home; ‘n’ she’s the one I want to -see.” - -A woman in the bed-room which opened from the kitchen was hurriedly -smoothing her hair and peering into the glass. She was speaking aloud -with the air of one who constantly talks to herself. - -“Jest as sure’s I don’t comb my hair the first thing, somebody comes.” - -She gave a last pat and went to the door. There was a faint smirk on her -lips and a flush on her face. - -Her tall figure was swayed by a slight, eager tremor as she saw who was -standing there. She exclaimed:-- - -“Goodness me! ‘T ain’t you, Mr. Baker, is it? Won’t ye walk right in? -But I don’t want no termarters; they always go aginst me. Aunt Mandany -ain’t to home.” - -“Oh, ain’t she?” was the brisk response. “Then I guess I will come in.” - -The speaker pushed open the now unfastened door and entered. He set his -basket of tomatoes with a thump on the rug, and wiped his broad, red -face. - -“Fact is,” he said with a grin, “I knew she was gone. I seen her goin’ -crosst the pastur’. That’s why I come now. I ain’t got no longin’ to -see Aunt Mandany--no, sir-ee, not a grain of longin’ to see her. But I -thought ‘t would be agreeable to me to clap my eyes on to you.” - -The woman simpered, made an inarticulate sound, and hurriedly resumed -her seat and her apple-cutting. - -“Won’t you se’ down, Mr. Baker?” she asked. - -Her fingers trembled as she took the darning-needle and jabbed it -through an apple quarter. The needle went into her flesh also. She gave -a little cry and thrust her finger into her mouth. Her large, pale eyes -turned wistfully towards her companion. The faded, already elderly mouth -quivered. - -“I’m jest as scar’t ‘s I c’n be if I see blood,” she whispered. - -Mr. Baker’s heavy under lip twitched; his face softened. But he spoke -roughly. - -“You needn’t mind that bit er blood,” he said, “that won’t hurt nothin’. -I don’t care if I do se’ down. I ain’t drove any this mornin’. I c’n -jest as well as not take hold ‘n’ help ye. I s’pose Mandany left a -thunderin’ lot for ye to do while she’s gone?” - -“Two bushels,” was the answer. - -“The old cat! That’s too much. But ‘t won’t be for both of us, will it, -Ann?” - -The woman said, “No.” - -She looked for an instant intently at the man who had drawn his chair -directly opposite her. He was already paring an apple. - -“I d’ know what to make of it,” she said, still in a whisper. - -“To make of what?” briskly. - -“Why, when folks are so good to me ‘s you be.” - -“Oh, sho’, now! Everybody ain’t like your Aunt Mandany.” - -“‘Sh! Don’t speak so loud! Mebby she’ll be comin’ back.” - -“No, she won’t. ‘N’ no matter if she is.” - -The loud, confident tone rang cheerily in the room. - -During the silence that followed Mr. Baker watched Ann’s deft fingers. - -“Everybody says you’re real capable,” he remarked. - -A joyous red covered Ann’s face. - -“I jest about do all the work here,” she said. - -She looked at the man again. - -There was something curiously sweet in the simple face. The patient -line at each side of the close, pale mouth had a strange effect upon Mr. -Baker. - -He had been known to say violently in conversation at the store that he -“never seen Ann Tracy ‘thout wantin’ to thrash her Aunt Mandany.” - -“What in time be you dryin’ seek-no-further for?” he now exclaimed with -some fierceness. “They’re the flattest kind of apples I know of.” - -“That’s what Aunt says,” was the reply; “she says they’re most as flat’s -as I be, ‘n’ that’s flat ‘nough.” - -These words were pronounced as if the speaker were merely stating a -well-known fact. - -“Then what does she do um for?” persisted Mr. Baker. - -“She says they’re good ‘nough to swop for groceries in the spring.” - -Mr. Baker made a deep gash in an apple, and held his tongue. - -Ann continued her work, but she took a good deal of seek-no-further with -the skin in a way that would have shocked Aunt Mandany. - -Suddenly she raised her eyes to the sturdy face opposite her and said:-- - -“I guess your wife had a real good time, didn’t she, Mr. Baker, when she -was livin’?” - -Mr. Baker dropped his knife. He glanced up and met the wistful gaze upon -him. - -Something that he had thought long dead stirred in his consciousness. - -“I hope so,” he said gently. “I do declare I tried to make her have a -good time.” - -“How long’s she be’n dead?” - -“‘Most ten year. We was livin’ down to Norris Corners then.” - -The man picked up his knife and absently tried the edge of it on the -ball of his thumb. - -“I s’pose,” said Ann, “that folks are sorry when their wives die.” - -Mr. Baker gave a short laugh. - -“Wall, that depends.” - -“Oh, does it? I thought folks had to love their wives, ‘n’ be sorry when -they died.” - -Here Mr. Baker laughed again. He made no other answer for several -minutes. At last he said: - -“I was sorry enough when my wife died.” - -A great pile of quartered apples was heaped up in the wooden bowl before -either spoke again. - -Then Ann exclaimed with a piteous intensity: - -“Oh, I’m awful tired of bein’ Aunt Mandany’s fool!” - -Mr. Baker stamped his foot involuntarily. - -“How jew know they call you that?” he cried in a great voice. - -“I heard Jane Littlefield tell Mis’ Monk she hoped nobody’d ask -Mandany’s fool to the sociable. And Mr. Fletcher’s boy told me that’s -what folks called me.” - -“Damn Jane Littlefield! Damn that little devil of a boy!” - -These dreadful words burst out furiously. - -Perhaps Ann did not look as shocked as she ought. - -In a moment she smiled her immature, simple smile that had a touching -appeal in it. - -“‘T ain’t no use denyin’ it,” she said; “I ain’t jes’ like other folks, -‘n’ that’s a fact. I can’t think stiddy more ‘n a minute. Things all run -together, somehow. ‘N’ the back er my head’s odd’s it can be.” - -“Pooh! What of it? There can’t any of us think stiddy; ‘n’ if we could -what would it amount to, I should like to know? It would n’t amount to a -row of pins.” - -Ann dropped her work and clasped her hands. Mr. Baker saw that her -hands were hard, and stained almost black on fingers and thumbs by much -cutting of apples. - -“Ye see,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “sometimes I think if mother -had lived she’d er treated me so ‘t I could think stiddier. I s’pose -mother’d er loved me. They say mothers do. But Aunt Mandany told me -mother died the year I got my fall from the cherry-tree. I was eight -then. I don’t remember nothin’ ‘bout it, nor ‘bout anything much. Mr. -Baker, do you remember your mother?” - -Mr. Baker said “Yes,” abruptly. Something made it impossible for him to -say more. - -“I d’ know how ‘tis,” went on the thin, minor voice, “but it always -did seem to me ‘s though if I could remember my mother I could think -stiddier, somehow. Do you think I could?” - -Mr. Baker started to his feet. - -“I’ll be dumbed ‘f I c’n stan’ it,” he shouted. “No, nor I won’t stan’ -it, nuther!” - -He walked noisily across the room. - -He came back and stood in front of Ann, who had patiently resumed work. - -“Come,” he said, “I think a lot of ye. Le’s git married.” - -Ann looked up. She dropped her knife. - -“Then I should live with you?” she asked. - -“Of course.” - -She laughed. - -There was so much of confident happiness in that laugh that the man’s -heart glowed youthfully. - -“I shall be real glad to marry you, Mr. Baker,” she said. Then, with -pride, “‘N’ I c’n cook, ‘n’ I know first rate how to do housework.” - -She rose to her feet; her eyes shone. - -Mr. Baker put his arm about her. - -“Le’s go right along now,” he said, more quickly than he had yet spoken. -“We’ll call to the minister’s ‘n’ engage him. You c’n stop there. We’ll -be married to-day.” - -“Can’t ye wait till I c’n put on my bunnit ‘n’ shawl?” Ann asked. - -She left the room. In a few moments she returned dressed for going. She -had a sheet of note-paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen in her hands. - -“I c’n write,” she said confidently, “‘n’ I call it fairer to leave word -for Aunt Mandany.” - -“All right,” was the response; “go ahead.” - -Mr. Baker said afterward that he never got much more nervous in his life -than while Ann was writing that note. What if Mandany should appear! He -wasn’t going to back out, but he didn’t want to see that woman. - -The ink was thick, the pen was like a pin, and Ann was a good while -making each letter, but the task was at last accomplished. She held out -the sheet to her companion. - -“Ain’t that right?” she asked. - -Mr. Baker drew his face down solemnly as he read:-- - - Dere Aunt Mandane:-- - - I’m so dretfull Tired of beeing youre fool that ime going - too be Mr. Baker’s. He askt me. - - Ann. - -“That’s jest the thing,” he said explosively. “Now, come on.” - -As they walked along in the hot fall sunshine Mr. Baker said -earnestly:-- - -“I’m certain sure we sh’ll be ever so much happier.” - -“So ‘m I,” Ann replied, with cheerful confidence. - -They were on a lonely road, and they walked hand in hand. - -“I’m goin’ to be good to ye,” said the man, with still more earnestness. -Then, in a challenging tone, as if addressing the world at large, “I -guess ‘t ain’t nobody’s business but our’n.” - -Ann looked at him and smiled trustfully. - -After a while he began to laugh. - -“I’m thinkin’ of your Aunt Mandany when she reads that letter,” he -explained. - - - - -THE WAY TO CONSTANTINOPLE - -By Clinton Ross - -MRS. DENBY poured the tea. - -“Now, speaking of Constantinople.” - -Mrs. Denby blushed. I envied Denby. - -“Ah, yes,” said I, “I have read Gautier, and that is a very good -monograph of Marion Crawford’s. I was there once myself.” - -“Were you?” said Mrs. Denby, demurely. “Do you take sugar?” - -“Oh, tell me!” I began, for I saw I was expected to show some interest. - -“Don’t, Dick,” began Mrs. Denby. - -“Oh, it’s only Tom,” said Denby, fondly; but not half so fondly as he -had before he had found her, and persuaded her, and--I always have had -such bad luck with the woman whom it’s worth while trying to marry! - -“You see,--it’s a silly story. Dick’s usually are,” began Mrs. Denby. - -“Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Denby. “Now, you know--” - -“Oh, if you must,” said Mrs. Denby, despairfully. - -“Paris was a glare of splendor that February,--after the North -Atlantic,” Denby went on. “Did you ever leave New York of a dismal day -of winter fog and a week after find yourself in Havre? The boulevards -are gay, the shops resplendent. Paris is a different place from Paris -in July,--when hordes of our countrymen swoop down on it like the Huns. -It’s like the rural visitor doing Fifth Avenue in August, and wondering -why New York is so much talked about. But Paris in February is the Paris -one dreams of when the word is pronounced, with all its suggestiveness -of the world’s gayety. Yet, it was cold that February,--as bitter as in -New York; and after coming back one night to my lodging on the Avenue -Carnot, where the cab was unable to make its way because of the frozen -sleet on the smooth paving of the hill the Avenue des Champs Elysées -climbs,--that night I concluded I had not intended exchanging New -York for wintry unpleasantness, and decided to go to Constantinople. -Constantinople, where I had never been, seemed so far away, and I did -not know that it, too, could be bleakly dismal in the spring. The next -morning I booked on the Orient Express. That evening I was snugly put -away in my compartment, and the morning after was looking on a Bavarian -landscape.” - -“You always were impulsive,” Mrs. Denby interrupted. - -“Yes; nothing proves that more than my conduct the next morning at -breakfast in the dining-car. I appeared late. The place was crowded. A -very pretty girl--” - -“Did you really think so then?” said Mrs. Denby. - -“Oh, I did, or else I shouldn’t have taken the seat opposite beside a -little chap who was ogling and embarrassing her dreadfully.” - -“Such a man’s horrid,” commented Mrs. Denby. - -“I saw at once he was one of those little Parisians, whose kind I know -well, who in some way lose their appropriateness when transplanted. For -I knew at once they were not acquaintances. The girl appeared alone, -English or American--I could not be certain. Now, I was sure the man -was objectionable,--not quite a gentleman,--or, if he had been, he had -distorted the quality.” - -“Now you need n’t explain,” said Mrs. Denby. “My honest opinion is that -you took the seat for exactly the same reason as he, because----” - -“Because the girl was pretty?” said Denby. - -“I didn’t say she was,” Mrs. Denby hastened to add. - -“‘I beg pardon, Monsieur,’ said I to the man, when he glared. Presently -the Swiss brought the young lady’s bill, when a strange agitation -appeared in my vis-à-vis. I saw and felt for her. She had no money. She -probably had her ticket, but had lost her purse. She did not attempt to -go back to the Wagon Lit. - -“‘I am going to Constantinople,’ she said. - -“‘I beg pardon, Madame,’ began the Swiss. - -“‘Cannot the bill-- - -“‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle,’ said the Swiss, and he looked desolated, -with a contrary gleam in his eye. - -“Here the man by my side dropped from the category of the gentleman to -that of the cad. - -“‘If Mademoiselle will allow me,’ he began eagerly. - -“I leaned under the table, pretending to pick up a purse, which I really -took from my pocket. - -“‘I think this is your purse,’ I said in English. - -“For an instant she scanned me. The Frenchman looked daggers. She was -blushing. - -“‘Thank you,’ said she, and I knew she was an American; ‘how stupid of -me to have dropped it.’ - -“And from my purse she paid the bill, nodded to me, ignoring the -Frenchman, and without further word left the buffet. - -“The particular French cad evidently wanted to pick a quarrel with me, -and for a moment I was debating with myself whether I might not have -been an ass. A fool’s money goes the way of his scanty wit. The girl -might appear pretty, innocent, attractive--and yet--I swallowed my -coffee, and returned to my compartment, which I had to myself. The door -was open. Presently I saw the young woman of the breakfast-table -walking up and down the aisle. I was determined I should not notice her. -Suddenly I heard her voice at the door. - -“‘Sir, what can you think of me? But I couldn’t help it, really,--I -have lost my purse. Here is yours; I will return the six francs at -Constantinople.’ - -“I saw a tear; and I was sure my knowledge of femininity----” - -“Conceited,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“Could not be at fault,” Denby continued. “I bowed. - -“‘I’m glad to be able to make the loan--’ I began. - -“‘It’s good of you,’ said she. - -“‘But if you have lost all your money, I don’t see--’ - -“‘What?’ - -“‘How can you avoid borrowing more?’ - -“‘That man at the table made me feel so detestably,’ she began. - -“‘Oh, you must n’t mind!’ - -“‘And you really are so nice--What do you know about me?’ - -“‘Oh, I can tell.’ - -“‘I think you generally can,’ said she. - -“‘Isn’t that interesting?’ said I, pointing out of the window at some -peasants in the field. - -“‘Ah, yes!’ said she. - -“‘May I sit down?’ said I. - -“We had reached her seat. - -“‘Why, certainly, I shall be glad to have you.’ - -“‘How does it happen--’ I began after a moment. - -“‘Oh, here’s your purse,’ she interrupted. - -“‘Now, really, please. It won’t inconvenience me in the least. There are -only five louis there, and I have my portemonnaie besides, and--’ - -“‘And?’ - -“‘I believe I said I should be delighted.’ - -“’ Oh, you did, but you began a--’ - -“‘What?’ said I, feeling uncomfortable. - -“‘A question. I know what it was.’ - -“‘Well, if you do--’ - -“‘I’m from Illinois. We don’t regard chaperones as so necessary; -besides--’ - -“‘Besides?’ I could n’t resist saying. - -“‘I believe women should take care of themselves.’ “‘But they -can’t--always.’ - -“‘You mean--’ she began rather indignantly. - -“‘Well--well--they sometimes have to borrow, you know.’ - -“‘That’s--that’s mean of you.’ - -“‘Oh, I--I beg pardon.’ - -“‘You needn’t. I wish I could return your six francs. I am going to -Constantinople to meet my father, who is up from the east. I went all -alone--because--there was nobody.’ - -“‘I’m sorry,’ said I. ‘Now don’t mind me, please.’ - -“She looked at me then. - -“‘I suppose I shall have to tolerate you. You are the only American on -this train.’ - -“‘I consider myself your guardian,--with letters testamentary.’ - -“‘I am forced to it,’ said she, but smiling.” - -“Now, she did n’t smile,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“‘Oh,’ said I, ‘this is deliciously lucky. I thought I should have this -ride alone.’ - -“At this moment--for some time had passed--the Swiss announced luncheon, -which she--” - -“How horridly forward it all sounds,” interrupted Mrs. Denby. - -“Which she took with me.” - -“Oh, dear, I wonder at it,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“She had to,” said Denby. - -“Yes, of course, you had the money,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“Well, she tolerated--” - -“That’s the word, I think,” assented Mrs. Denby. - -“We walked the station at Vienna. We took an ice at Buda-Pesth. We -wondered about Queen Nathalie at Belgrade. We bought beads at Sofia. We -shivered over the Bulgarian soldiers squatting on the platform against -Turkish banditti. I told her how an Orient Express had been held up the -autumn before, a Frankfort banker abstracted, and his ears sent to his -counting-house with a request for a gold payment or else his tongue -would follow.” - -“That was horrid of you,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“Well, at Constantinople, her father was not there.” - -“It was terrible,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“But I knew the American Consul’s wife, who took in the situation.” - -“It was very nice of her,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“We roamed about the Pera; sentimentalized in San Sofia; bargained--” - -“With your money,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“In the bazaars. We rode in a palanquin, and drove to the Sweet Waters -of Europe, danced at the Russian Legation,--where she was irresistible.” - -“Your eyes!” said Mrs. Denby, with severe sarcasm. - -“One day her father appeared. She counted out three louis--” - -“And five francs sixty centimes,” said Mrs. Denby. - -“‘That isn’t all,’ said I. - -“‘Why, let me see,’ she began. - -“‘It isn’t all,’ said I. ‘There’s my heart.’” - -“It was a very silly speech--not at all original,” said Mrs. Denby. “I -should think you would be ashamed to repeat it--before visitors. But, -Mr. Pemberton, you haven’t told me whether you take sugar?” - -“Sugar, thanks,” said I. “That’s a good story. It reminds me of an -episode in Hunter’s novel--” - -“This is a better story,” said Denby. - -“Dick!” said Mrs. Denby, looking at him with sudden earnestness. “Do you -mean that--now!” - -I felt, as is often the case lately, the superfluous bachelor. I went to -call on Sally Waters. - - - - -THE OLD PARTISAN - -By Octave Thanet - -I SAT so far back in the gallery that my opinion of my delegate friend -dwindled with every session. Nevertheless my unimportant seat had its -advantages. I could see the vast assembly and watch the throbbing of the -Republican pulse if I could not hear its heartbeats. Therefore, perhaps, -I studied my neighbors more than I might study them under different -circumstances. The great wooden hall had its transient and unsubstantial -character stamped on every bare wooden joist and unclinched nail. It -was gaudy with flags and bunting and cheap portraits. There were tin -bannerets crookedly marshalled on the floor, to indicate the homes of -the different States. A few delegates, doubtless new to the business and -overzealous, were already on the floor, but none of the principals were -visible. They were perspiring and arguing in those committee rooms, -those hotel lobbies and crowded hotel rooms where the real business of -the convention was already done and neatly prepared for presentation -to the nation. I had nothing to keep me from studying my neighbors. -In front of me sat two people who had occupied the same seats at every -session that I was present, a young girl and an old man. The girl wore -the omnipresent shirtwaist (of pretty blue and white tints, with -snowy cuffs and collar), and her green straw hat was decked with blue -corn-flowers, from which I inferred that she had an eye on the fashions. -Her black hair was thick and glossy under the green straw. I thought -that she had a graceful neck. It was very white. Whiter than her face, -which had a touch of sunburn, as if she were often out in the open air. -Somehow I concluded that she was a shop-girl and rode a wheel. If I were -wrong it is not likely that I shall ever know. - -The old man I fancied was not so old as he looked; his delicate, haggard -profile may have owed its sunken lines and the dim eye to sickness -rather than to years. He wore the heavy black broadcloth of the rural -politician, and his coat sagged over his narrow chest as if he had left -his waistcoat at home. On his coat lapel were four old-fashioned Blaine -badges. Incessantly he fanned himself. - -“It can’t be they ain’t going to nominate him to-day?” he asked rather -than asserted, his voice breaking on the higher notes, the mere wreck of -a voice. - -“Oh, maybe later,” the girl reassured him. - -“Well, I wanted to attend a Republican convention once more before I -died. Your ma would have it I wasn’t strong enough; but I knew better; -you and I knew better; did n’t we, Jenny?” - -She made no answer except to pat his thin, ribbed brown hand with her -soft, white, slim one; but there was a world of sympathy in the gesture -and her silent smile. - -“I wonder what your ma said when she came downstairs and found the -letter, and us gone,” he cackled with the garrulous glee of a child -recounting successful mischief; “made me think of the times when you was -little and I stole you away for the circus. Once, your pa thought you -was lost--‘member? And once, you had on your school-dress and you’d tore -it--she did scold you that time. But we had fun when they used to let me -have money, did n’t we, Jenny?” - -“Well, now I earn money, we have good times, too, grandpa,” said Jenny, -smiling the same tender, comprehending smile. - -“We do that; I don’t know what I would do ‘cept for you, lambie, and -this is--this is a grand time, Jenny, you look and listen; it’s a great -thing to see a nation making its principles and its president--and such -a president!” - -He half turned his head as he spoke, with a mounting enthusiasm, thus -bringing his flushing face and eager eyes--no longer dim--into the focus -of his next neighbor’s bright gray eyes. The neighbor was a young man, -not very young but hardly to be called elderly, of an alert bearing and -kindly smile. - -“I think him a pretty fair man myself,” said the other with a jocose -understatement; “I come from his town.” - -What was there in such a simple statement to bring a distinctly anxious -look into the young girl’s soft eyes? There it was; one could not -mistake it. - -“Well!” said the old man; there was a flattering deference in his voice. -“Well, well. And--and maybe you’ve seen him lately?” The quavering -tones sharpened with a keener feeling; it was almost as if the man were -inquiring for some one on whom he had a great stake of affection. “How -did he look? Was he better, stronger?” - -“Oh, he looked elegant,” said the Ohio man, easily, but with a -disconcerted side glance at the girl whose eyes were imploring him. - -“I’ve been a Blaine man ever since he was run, the time Bob Ingersoll -nominated him,” said the old man, who sighed as if relieved. “I was at -that convention and heard the speech----” - -“Ah, that was a speech to hear,” said a man behind, and two or three men -edged their heads nearer. - -The old Republican straightened his bent shoulders, his winter-stung -features softened and warmed at the manifestation of interest, his voice -sank to the confidential undertone of the narrator. - -“You’re right, sir, right; it was a magnificent speech. I can see him -jest as he stood there, a stoutish, good-looking man, smooth-faced, -his eye straight ahead, and an alternate that sat next me--I was an -alternate; I’ve been an alternate four times; I could have been a -delegate, but I says, ‘No, abler men than me are wanting it; I’m willing -to fight in the ranks.’ But I wished I had a vote, a free vote that day, -I tell you. The alternate near me, he says, ‘You ‘ll hear something fine -now; I’ve heard him speak.’” - -“You did, too, I guess.” - -“We could hear from the first minute. That kinder fixed our attention. -He had a mellow, rich kind of voice that melted into our ears. We found -ourselves listening and liking him from the first sentence. At first he -was as quiet as a summer breeze, but presently he began to warm up, and -the words flowed out like a stream of jewels. It was electrifying: it -was thrilling, sir; it took us off our feet before we knew it, and when -he came to the climax, those of us that weren’t yelling in the aisles -were jumping up and down on our chairs! I know I found myself prancing -up and down in my own hat on a chair, swinging somebody else’s hat and -screaming at the top of my voice, with the tears running down my cheeks. -God! sir, there were men there on their feet cheering their throats out -that had to vote against him afterwards--had to because they were there -instructed--no more free will than a checked trunk!” The light died out -of his face. “Yes, sir, a great speech; never a greater ever made at a -convention anywhere, never so great a speech, whoever made it: but it -did no good, he wasn’t nominated, and when we did nominate him we were -cheated out of our victory. Well, we ‘ll do better this day.” - -“We will that,” said the other man, heartily; “McKinley--” - -“You’ll excuse me--” the old man struck in with a deprecating air, yet -under the apology something fiercely eager and anxious that glued the -hearer’s eyes to his quivering old face--“you’ll excuse me. I--I am a -considerable of an invalid and I don’t keep the run of things as I used -to. You see I live with my daughter, and you know how women folks are, -fretting lest things should make you sick, and my girl she worries so, -me reading the papers. Fact is I got a shock once, an awful shock,” he -shivered involuntarily and his dim eyes clouded, “and it worried her -seeing me read. Hadn’t ought to; it don’t worry Jenny here, who often -gets me a paper, quiet like; but you know how it is with women--it’s -easier giving them their head a little--and so I don’t see many papers, -and I kinder dropped off. It seems queer, but I don’t exactly sense it -about this McKinley. Is he running against Blaine or jest for vice?” - -The girl, under some feminine pretext of dropping and reaching for -her handkerchief, threw upward a glance of appeal at the interlocutor. -Hurriedly she stepped into the conversation. “My grandfather read a -false report about--about Mr. Blaine’s sickness, and he was not well at -the time and it brought on a bad attack.” - -“I understand,” said the listener, with a grave nod of his head and -movement of his eyes in the girl’s direction. - -“But about McKinley?” the old man persisted. - -“He’s for vice-president,” the girl announced, her eyes fixed on the -hesitating man from Canton. I have often admired the intrepid fashion in -which a woman will put her conscience at a moral hedge, while a man -of no finer spiritual fibre will be straining his eyes to find a hole -through which he can crawl. - -“McKinley is not opposed to Blaine, is he?” she asked the man. - -“The Republican party has no name that is more loved than that of James -G. Blaine,” said the man, gravely. - -“That’s so, that’s so!” the old partisan assented eagerly; “to my mind -he’s the logical candidate.” - -The Canton man nodded, and asked if he had ever seen Blaine. - -“Once, only once. I was on a delegation sent to wait on him and ask him -to our town to speak--he was in Cincinnati. I held out my hand when -my turn came, and the chairman nearly knocked the breath out of me by -saying, ‘Here’s the man gave more to our campaign fund and worked harder -than any man in the county, and we all worked hard for you, too.’ Well, -Mr. Blaine looked at me. You know the intent way he looks. He has the -most wonderful eyes; look right at you and seem to bore into you like a -gimlet. I felt as if he was looking right down into my soul, and I tell -you I was glad, for I choked up so I couldn’t find a word, not a word, -and I was ready and fluent enough in those days, too, I can tell you; -but I stood there filling up, and squeezed his hand and gulped and got -red, like a fool. But he understood. ‘I have heard of your loyalty to -Republican principles, Mr. Painter,’ says he, in that beautiful voice -of his that was like a violin; and I burst in--I could n’t help it--‘It -ain’t loyalty to Republican principles, it’s to you.’ I said that right -out. And he smiled, and said he, ‘Well, that’s wrong, but it isn’t for -me to quarrel with you there, Mr. Painter,’ and then they pushed me -along: but twice while the talk was going on I saw him look my way and -caught his eye, and he smiled, and when we were all shaking hands for -good-bye he shook hands with a good firm grip, and said he, ‘Good-bye, -Mr. Painter; I hope we shall meet again.’” - -The old man drew a long sigh. “Those few moments paid for everything,” - he said. “I’ve never seen him since. I’ve been sick and lost money. I -ain’t the man I was. I never shall be put on any delegation again, or be -sent to any convention; but I thought if I could only go once more to a -Republican convention and hear them holler for Blaine, and holler once -more myself, I’d be willinger to die. And I told Tom Hale that, and he -and Jenny raised the money. Yes, Jenny, I’m going to tell--he and Jenny -put off being married a bit so ‘s I could go, and go on plenty of money. -Jenny, she worked a month longer to have plenty, and Tom, he slipped -ten dollars into my hand unbeknown to her, jest as we were going, so I’d -always have a dime to give the waiter or the porter. I was never one of -these hayseed farmers too stingy to give a colored boy a dime when -he’d done his best. I didn’t need no money for badges; I got my old -badges--see!” - -He pushed out the lapel of his coat, covered with those old-fashioned -frayed bits of tinsel and ribbon, smiling confidently. The girl had -flushed crimson to the rim of her white collar; but there was not a -trace of petulance in her air; and, all at once looking at him, her eyes -filled with tears. - -“Tom’s an awful good fellow,” he said, “an awful good fellow.” - -“I’m sure of that,” said the Canton man, with the frank American -friendliness, making a little bow in Miss Jenny’s direction; “but see -here, Mr. Painter, do you come from Izard? Are you the man that saved -the county for the Republicans, by mortgaging his farm and then going on -a house to house canvass?” - -“That’s me,” the old man acquiesced, blushing with pleasure; “I didn’t -think, though, that it was known outside----” - -“Things go further than you guess. I’m a newspaper man, and I can tell -you that I shall speak of it again in my paper. Well, I guess they’ve -got through with their mail, and the platform’s coming in.” - -Thus he brushed aside the old man’s agitated thanks. - -“One moment,” said the old man, “who--who’s going to nominate him?” - -For the space of an eyeblink the kindly Canton man looked embarrassed, -then he said, briskly: “Foraker, Foraker of Ohio--he’s the principal -one. That’s he now, chairman of the committee on resolutions. He’s -there, the tall man with the mustache--” - -“Isn’t that elderly man, with the stoop shoulders and the chin beard and -caved-in face, Teller?” It was a man near me, on the seat behind, -who spoke, tapping the Canton man with his fan, to attract attention; -already the pitiful concerns of the old man who was “a little off” (as I -had heard some one on the seat whisper) were sucked out of notice in the -whirlpool of the approaching political storm. - -“Yes, that’s Teller,” answered the Canton man, his mouth straightening -and growing thin. - -“Is it to be a bolt?” - -The Canton man nodded, at which the other whistled and communicated the -information to his neighbors, one of whom remarked, “Let ‘em bolt and -be d------!” A subtle excitement seemed to communicate its vibrations to -all the gallery. Perhaps I should except the old partisan; he questioned -the girl in a whisper, and then, seeming to be satisfied, watched the -strange scene that ensued with an expression of patient weariness. The -girl explained parts of the platform to him and he assented; it was good -Republican doctrine, he said, but what did they mean with all this -talk against the money; were they having trouble with the mining States -again? The Canton man stopped to explain--he certainly was good-humored. - -During the next twenty minutes, filled as they were with savage emotion, -while the galleries, like the floor, were on their chairs yelling, -cheering, brandishing flags and fists and fans and pampas plumes of red, -white, and blue at the little band of silver men who marched through the -ranks of their former comrades, he stood, he waved his fan in his feeble -old hand, but he did not shout. “You must excuse me,” said he, “I’m -all right on the money question, but I’m saving my voice to shout for -_him!_” - -“That’s right,” said the Canton man; but he took occasion to cast a -backward glance which I met, and it said as plainly as a glance can -speak, “I wish I were out of this!” - -Meanwhile, with an absent but happy smile, the old Blaine man was -beating time to the vast waves of sound that rose and swelled above -the band, above the cheering, above the cries of anger and scorn, the -tremendous chorus that had stiffened men’s hearts as they marched to -death and rung through streets filled with armies and thrilled the -waiting hearts at home: - - “Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! - - Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! - - The army and navy forever, three cheers for the - - red, white, and blue!” - -But when the chairman had stilled the tumult and made his grim comment, -“There appear to be enough delegates left to transact business,” the old -partisan cast his eyes down to the floor with a chuckle. “I can’t see -the hole they made, it’s so small. Say, ain’t he a magnificent chairman; -you can hear every word he says!” - -“Bully chairman,” said a cheerful “rooter” in the rear, who had enjoyed -the episode more than words can say, and had cheered the passing of -Silver with such choice quotations from popular songs as “Good-bye, my -lover, good-bye,” and “Just tell them that you saw me,” and plainly -felt that he, too, had adorned the moment. “I nearly missed coming this -morning, and I would n’t have missed it for a tenner; they’re going to -nominate now.” - -The old man caught his breath; then he smiled. “I’ll help you shout -pretty soon,” said he, while he sat down very carefully. - -The “rooter,” a good-looking young fellow with a Reed button and three -or four gaudy badges decking his crash coat, nodded and tapped his -temple furtively, still retaining his expression of radiant good-nature. -The Canton man nodded and frowned. - -I felt that the Canton man need not be afraid. Somehow we were all -tacitly taking care that this poor, bewildered soul should not have its -little dream of loyal, unselfish satisfaction dispelled. - -“Ah, my countrymen,” I thought, “you do a hundred crazy things, you -crush _les convenances_ under foot, you can be fooled by frantic -visionaries--but how I love you!” - -It was Baldwin of Iowa that made the first speech. He was one of the -very few men--I had almost said of the two men--that we in the galleries -had the pleasure of hearing; and we could hear every word. - -He began with a glowing tribute to Blaine. At the first sentence, our -old man flung his gray head in the air with the gesture of the war horse -when he catches the first, far-off scream of the trumpet. He leaned -forward, his features twitching, his eyes burning; the fan dropped out -of his limp hand; his fingers, rapping his palm, clenched and loosened -themselves unconsciously in an overpowering agitation. His face was -white as marble, with ominous blue shadows; but every muscle was -astrain; his chest expanded; his shoulders drew back; his mouth was as -strong and firm as a young man. For a second we could see what he had -been at his prime. - -Then the orator’s climax came, and the name--the magic name that was its -own campaign cry in itself. - -The old partisan leaped to his feet; he waved his hands above his head; -wild, strange, in his white flame of excitement. He shouted; and we -all shouted with him, the McKinley man and the Reed man vying with each -other (I here offer my testimony to the scope and quality of that young -Reed man’s voice), and the air rang about us: “Blaine! Blaine! James G. -Blaine!” He shrieked the name again and again, goading into life the -waning applause. Then in an instant his will snapped under the strain; -his gray beard tilted in the air; his gray head went back on his neck. - -The Canton man and I caught him in time to ease the fall. We were helped -to pull him into the aisle. There were four of us by this time, his -granddaughter and the Reed “rooter,” besides the Canton man and myself. - -We carried him into the wide passageway that led to the seats. The Reed -young man ran for water, and, finding none, quickly returned with a -glass of lemonade (he was a young fellow ready in shifts), and with it -we bathed the old man’s face. - -Presently he came back, by degrees, to the world; he was not conscious, -but we could see that he was not going to die. - -“He’ll be all right in no time,” declared the Reed man. “You had better -go back and get your seats, and keep mine!” - -I assured both men that I could not return for more than a short time, -having an engagement for luncheon. - -“That’s all right,” said the Reed man, turning to the Canton man, “I -ain’t shouting when Foraker comes; you are. You go back and keep my -seat; I’ll come in later on Hobart.” - -So the kindly Canton man returned to the convention for which he was -longing, and we remained in our little corner by the window, the young -girl fanning the old man, and the young man on the watch for a boy with -water. He darted after one; and then the girl turned to me. - -No one disturbed us. Below, the traffic of a great city roared up to us -and a brass band clanged merrily. The crowd hurried past, drawn by the -tidings that “the light was on,” it choked the outlets and suffocated -the galleries. - -“He’s been that way ever since he read, suddenly, that Blaine was dead,” - she said, lowering her voice to keep it safe from his failing ears; “he -had a kind of a stroke, and ever since he ‘s had the notion that Blaine -was alive and was going to be nominated, and his heart was set on going -here. Mother was afraid; but when--when he cried to go, I could not help -taking him--I did n’t know but maybe it might help him; he was such a -smart man and such a good man; and he has had trouble about mortgaging -the farm; and he worked so hard to get the money back, so mother would -feel right. All through the hot weather he worked, and I guess that’s -how it happened. You don’t think it’s hurt him? The doctor said he might -go. He told T----, a gentleman friend of mine who asked him.” - -“Oh, dear, no,” said I; “it has been good for him.” - -I asked for her address, which fortunately was near, and I offered -her the cab that was waiting for me. I had some ado to persuade her to -accept it; but when I pointed to her grandfather’s pale face she did -accept it, thanking me in a simple but touching way, and, of course, -begging me to visit her at Izard, Ohio. - -All this while we had been sedulously fanning the old man, who would -occasionally open his eyes for a second, but gave no other sign of -returning consciousness. - -The young Reed man came back with the water. He was bathing the old -man’s forehead in a very skilful and careful way, using my handkerchief, -when an uproar of cheering shook the very floor under us and the rafters -overhead. - -“Who is it?” the old man inquired, feebly. - -“Foraker! Foraker!” bellowed the crowd. - -“He’s nominated him!” muttered the old man; but this time he did not -attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned against his -granddaughter’s strong young frame and listened, while the cheers -swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound, out -of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus of the Battle Cry of -Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through -the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without. - -The young Reed “boomer,” carried away by the moment, flung his free -hand above his head and yelled defiantly: “Three cheers for the man from -Maine!” Instantly he caught at his wits, his color turned, and he lifted -an abashed face to the young girl. - -“But, really, you know, that ain’t giving nothing away,” he apologized, -plucking up heart. “May I do it again?” - -The old partisan’s eye lighted. “Now they’re shouting! That’s like old -times! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!” - -He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile still on his -lips. The “rooter” and I wormed our way through the crowd back to the -seats which the kind Canton man had kept for us. - -We were quite like old acquaintances now; and he turned to me at once, -“Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved so -well as James G. Blaine?” - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chap-Book Stories, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAP-BOOK STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 53991-0.txt or 53991-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/9/53991/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Chap-Book Stories - Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; - Histories, Newly composed by Many Celebrated Writers and - very Delightful to Read. - -Author: Various - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53991] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAP-BOOK STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - CHAP-BOOK STORIES - </h1> - <h2> - By Various Authors - </h2> - <h4> - Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; Histories, Newly - composed by Many Celebrated Writers and very delightful to read. - </h4> - <h3> - 1896, By Herbert S. Stone & Co - </h3> - <h4> - Chicago - </h4> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/cover.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> WHITHER THOU GOEST </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> AN IMPASSABLE GULF </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> IN A GARDEN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ORESTE’S PATRON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE APPEAL TO ANNE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> I—FROM ROGER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> II—FROM DORIS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> III—THE TWO WOMEN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE DEAD OAK </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT’S BALLAD - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ON THE BRINK </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> I </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> II </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> III </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> A WOMAN’S LIFE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> “WHEN THE KING COMES IN” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> MANDANY’S FOOL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE WAY TO CONSTANTINOPLE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE OLD PARTISAN </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - WHITHER THOU GOEST - </h2> - <h3> - By Katharine Bates - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE wind stirred - the tops of the maple trees in the Quinsby front yard, and the old man who - stood on the steps, watching the shadows and the moonlight, sighed as he - heard the soft rustling sound. He glanced back into the house, through the - hall, into the bedroom, where his wife was lighting a candle preparatory - to turning down the bed. - </p> - <p> - “I reckon I’ll jest step down there a minit,” he - whispered to himself, and hurriedly but softly went down the steps. Far - down in a corner of the yard, near the front fence, a hammock hung between - two small pin oaks, and it was here the old man went, looking back - uneasily now and then, as if he expected a call from his wife. The hammock - was an old one, and had evidently hung there all summer, for the meshes - were torn and all the gay colors had faded to a dingy gray. It tossed - lightly in the breeze as the wind grew stronger, and the old man’s - hand trembled as he caught at its swaying folds. - </p> - <p> - “Girls,” he whispered softly, “are you both here? Are - you pushing the swing, Winnie?” - </p> - <p> - A sudden flutter went over the leaves of a lilac bush near, and he turned - quickly to it. “That’s Nan’s laugh-gigglin’ at - yore old pa jest as usual, Nanny girl?” - </p> - <p> - “Father,” his wife called from the porch, “you better - come in.” - </p> - <p> - He turned and hurried back to her. She stood on the steps with the candle - still in her hand, its tiny flame looking almost blue in the moonlight. - </p> - <p> - “Mebbe a storm is cornin’ up and you’ll ketch cold,” - she said when he reached her. Her voice was stern, but the look in her - gray eyes was as sad as the trembling of his lips when he said to her, - “Ain’t it jest the sorter night the girls use’ to beg to - stay out, and not have to go to bed yet a while?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s a mighty pretty night,” she answered. She followed - him into their room, closing the hall door after her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t shet it, Mira, don’t! It seems as if you was - shettin’ the children out.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Quinsby turned to him. “Hiram, I must speak out to you,” - she said. “I don’t see any more’n you why the Lord - thought best to take our girls, our two good, pretty girls, but He has - done it, and it ain’t right for you to be lettin’ yoreself - fancy you hear ‘em ‘round on nights like this. I’ve - faith to believe if we can keep ourselves outer sin for the rest of our - days we shall see the children again—but not here, Hiram, not here - in the old place.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it ain’t Nan and Winnie sure ‘nough,” - Hiram answered apologetically, “but these nights make me think of - ‘em a terrible lot—and the leaves goin’ so and so in the - wind does sound real like Nan’s laugh. Mira, I was out in the garden - while you was puttin’ the dishes away and strainin’ the milk, - and jest as the moon came out and the wind started up I heard a laugh like - Nan’s, and then something danced by me that must have been Winnie. I - hurried down the path after it, and there by the poppy bed were the girls, - rompin’ jest like children again, ‘most grown girls that they - are. As the wind came up more they laughed again, not so soft as they had - been doin’, but a real burst of gay laughin’ like they use’ - to work themselves up to, and then they ran towards the arbor and peeped - out from the honeysuckle, and Nan called, ‘Here, Pa,’ and - Winnie sorter sang out, ‘Father, Father,’ in her soft way.” - Mrs. Quinsby put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a little shake. - Her eyes were frightened, and her voice came quick and stern. - </p> - <p> - “Hush, Father,” she said. “You are doin’ yoreself - an injury. The girls are in heaven, not here, and don’t you let go - yore grip on yore mind. Think of me, Hiram—you’ve got me left, - and I can’t stand the thought of the lonesomeness if you let your - senses go. You and me have been married so many years, Hiram, we could n’t - get on without each other. Why, it seems to me the good Lord would surely - let me get foolish too—mebbe it ain’t fittin’ for one of - my years to say it, but I’d ruther, yes, I’d <i>ruther</i> if - it comes down to choosin’ between my senses and you, Hiram!” - </p> - <p> - The far-away look disappeared from Hiram’s eyes. “I was jest - thinkin’, Mira,” he said reassuringly. “It was only that - the night was so powerful pretty. But now we won’t talk of the - children any more.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Quinsby drew him back to the porch again. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t think me hard, Father,” she said entreatingly, - “but I want you to be sure. Look over there towards the church; you - can see the dark heap of trees against the sky in the churchyard, can’t - you? There’s where the girls are—there’s where they are.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course, Mira. Though how the Lord could take those pretty - young things, and our only two, that had come to us when we was long past - hopin’, is more’n I can see.” - </p> - <p> - They went to bed, but later in the night Mrs. Quinsby waked suddenly. Her - first thought was that the storm was really coming and she had left the - pantry windows open. She slipped out of bed, but as she realized that her - movement did not disturb her husband, a blind terror came over her; she - struck match after match before she could make herself believe he was not - there. Then she picked up a shawl and flung it over her nightgown, and, - regardless of her bare feet, rushed out to the garden. The wind was - blowing hard and the moon was half hidden by the lightly scudding clouds, - but Hiram’s laugh—the pleased, indulgent laugh that his girls’ - nonsense had so often produced—guided her to him. - </p> - <p> - “That you, Mother?” he called as she ran down the path. - “What a couple of colts you’ve brought up, Mira. Reckon you - could find their beat anywheres in Mizzourer for friskiness? Just see - those girls racin’ round—a storm comin’ up always did go - to their heads. Hear Nan laugh! Ain’t she the greatest girl for - foolin’ you ever saw?” - </p> - <p> - He pointed to some tall hollyhocks that she could see were bending low - with the wind, and added, “Watch her bow; Nan was always as easy - movin’ in her body as a saplin’ or a tall flower.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Quinsby put her arm around his shoulder. “Oh, he’s let go—you’ve - let go, Father, and I’m left! I can’t stand the lonesomeness, - I can’t, I can’t!” - </p> - <p> - They moved toward the arbor. As they passed under the drooping - honeysuckle, Hiram laughed aloud. - </p> - <p> - “They are putting their hands over our eyes to make us guess which - is which—the little geese!” Mrs. Quinsby put her hand to her - forehead and pressed the cool honeysuckle leaves against her eyes. - </p> - <p> - She laughed too. “I knew it,” she whispered, “I knew the - Almighty would let me go with him. He knew how it was with Hiram and me.” - Aloud she said, “I guess Winnie. Yore hands ain’t as soft as - Winnie’s, Nan.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - AN IMPASSABLE GULF - </h2> - <h3> - By Katharine Bates - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER ELSTON’S - two nieces, Nancy Rollins and Hester Elston, stood on opposite sides of - the frame, working together silently. Suddenly Hester dropped her needle, - straightened her lithe young figure, and throwing back her pretty head, - said hurriedly: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t see how you can feel so, Nan! You must see how good - he is, as well as bein’ different from any boy we’ve ever - known round here on the Prairie. Ain’t he always thoughtful ‘bout - pleasin’ Uncle Peter? And he’s gone to church reg’lar - with us every Sunday he’s been here, ain’t he?” - </p> - <p> - She pauses, catching her breath after her eager speech, and looking - yearningly at Nancy. The older girl’s pale face hardened as she - caught the imploring glance. - </p> - <p> - “He seems to me to be very worldly,” she said coldly. - </p> - <p> - The color rushed to Hester’s cheeks, and she bent quickly over the - frame; for a few moments she sewed vigorously, saying to herself with - fierce indignation, as she worked: - </p> - <p> - “I declare if I think Nancy is so spiritual, after all—a - judgin’ Fred like that, and all because he told her he liked to go - now and then to the the-<i>a</i>-tre!” - </p> - <p> - Resentment, however, never lingered long in Hester’s heart, and at - last she raised her head again. - </p> - <p> - “I wish you did feel different, Nan,” she said gently. “I - can’t bear to think of you not takin’ to the man I’m - goin’ to marry. You and me have always seemed jest like sisters ever - since Uncle Pete took us to raise.” - </p> - <p> - Nancy’s blue eyes met the pleading brown ones more gently this time. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said slowly, “you <i>have</i> been jest like - a sister to me, Hetty.” - </p> - <p> - Hester ran around the frame and threw her arms around her cousin with the - eager expression of affection which always embarrassed Nancy. - </p> - <p> - “Nan,” she cried, “I jest do wish you could see it the - way I do. Fred is so good, and it’s only because he lives in town - that he has gotten to like such things as the-<i>a</i>-tres. You do take - to him sure ‘nough, don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - Nancy’s voice quivered as she answered the passionate appeal. - </p> - <p> - “I know he’s got pleasant ways, and he’s right - principled about a lot of things, but, Hetty, there’s no denyin’ - he puts pleasure before servin’ the Lord, and we are told mighty - plain in the Bible not to make friends with the Mammon of unrighteousness.” - </p> - <p> - Hester bit her lip. - </p> - <p> - “There’s some folks, and real good ones, too, who think havin’ - some pleasures like Fred cares for and bein’ real down good - Christians, too, ain’t incompatible,” she said, struggling to - speak calmly. - </p> - <p> - “There’s a gulf,” Nancy said firmly, “between me - and the-<i>a</i>-tre goers, and I’m mighty sorry for you, Hester.” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t be,” cried Hester, impatiently. “I’m - happy and satisfied about marryin’ Fred!” - </p> - <p> - “What’s all this talk about marryin’?” Uncle Peter - called in at the doorway, as he paused to wave his bundle of birds and - squirrels at his nieces. “Jest leave a couple of girls alone, and - their tongues are sure to get to waggin’ ‘bout marryin’! - Come along, Hetty, and help me pick and clean this lot. It’s been a - fine huntin’ day, if ‘tis a trifle coldish for an old man like - me.” - </p> - <p> - “You old!” laughed Hester, as they settled themselves by the - kitchen fire. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am gettin’ on,” cried Uncle Peter, seriously, - “and I don’t see how I am goin’ to do without you, - Hester. You are sure you want to marry Fred?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sure,” said Hester, quickly. “Uncle Pete, wasn’t - it jest marvellous for him to fall in love with me, when he’s a town - man and knows such a lot of girls with better manners and all that?” - Uncle Peter looked meditatively at the delicate rose complexion, the large - brown eyes, and the soft, waving hair. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t see as it was so dreadful queer,” he said. - “You’d pass in a crowd, Het.” - </p> - <p> - There was silence for a little while, Hester dreaming happy dreams of her - future, and Uncle Peter groaning inwardly at the prospect of being left to - live alone with the more spiritual of his nieces. Suddenly a gleam of hope - came to him, and he said: - </p> - <p> - “Mebbe you can’t marry him after all—town folks have a - great way of not makin’ a livin’, Hetty.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it,” admitted Hester, almost despondently, but her - face brightened as she added; “but it is such a great big store Fred - is clerkin’ in that I’m jest sure we won’t have to wait - long, Uncle Pete.” - </p> - <p> - The waiting time proved to be as short as Hester and Fred had hoped, for - in spite of his “worldliness” Fred was a faithful young - fellow, and the promotion which made possible a tiny flat, and - housekeeping on a limited scale, came even before he had expected it. - Uncle Peter did his best to be cheery at the simple little wedding, and - Nancy had baked as many cakes for them as if the young couple were not - starting out on a sinful career. Hester prized keenly the expressions of - affection which had been rare up to the time when her uncle and cousin had - realized what a difference her going would make in their lives, and her - grief at leaving her home amazed and almost annoyed Fred, who had grown to - look upon himself as her deliverer from a life which seemed very cramped - and hard to him. - </p> - <p> - “I wish there was somethin’ I could do for you, Hetty,” - Uncle Peter said, when the last of the wedding guests had departed, and he - and Nancy were hurrying Fred and Hester away to the train, for they were - going at once to their new home. He took her carpet-bag from her, and - awkwardly helped her to button the linen duster, which Nancy had insisted - should be worn to the station to protect the new travelling dress from the - mud. - </p> - <p> - “There is,” said Hester, tremulously. “Uncle Pete, if - you could jest make Nancy see that goin’ to the the-<i>a</i>-tre ain’t - incompatible with goin’ to Heaven some day, I ‘d be greatly - obliged to you.” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Peter drew a long breath. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve done a sight of work here, Hetty,” he said - tenderly, “and I’ve been dreadful fond of you, too, but I’ll - be damned if I will try to get a new notion into Nancy’s head, even - for you!” Hester sighed. “I s’pose it would be askin’ - a good deal of you,” she said simply “but, Uncle Pete, you - will remind her anyway that Fred and I won’t be able to afford goin’ - more’n once in a long, long time, won’t you? Now good-bye, - Uncle.” - </p> - <p> - He helped her into the wagon, and while Fred and Nancy were crossing the - yard, he stood looking at her with his lips twitching nervously. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye, Hester,” Nancy said, climbing up on the step of the - wagon. The two kissed each other, and Hester clung for a second to her - cousin’s neck. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Nan,” she whispered, “we have always played - together and done our work together—<i>don’t</i> feel hard to - me.” - </p> - <p> - Nancy looked down at her sadly. - </p> - <p> - “I ain’t a mite hard,” she said gently. “I ain’t - judgin’, Hetty, only there’s a gulf. Goodbye.” - </p> - <p> - She turned to Fred and held out her hand. “I wish you well,” - she said, in her clear, calm tones, and then she opened the yard gate and - stood inside, leaving Uncle Peter a chance for his farewell. - </p> - <p> - He wrung Fred’s hand, but no words came from his trembling lips. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll be very good to her,” Fred said hurriedly. “Good-bye, - sir. I hope you won’t mind if I say I consider it an honor to be - your nephew.” - </p> - <p> - At the time Uncle Peter grasped only the first words. “Yes,” - he said, “be good to her, Fred—she’s a good girl, a good - girl.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped on the hub of the wheel, and Hester threw her arms around him, - kissing vehemently his gray head and wrinkled cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t forget me,” she sobbed. “Oh, how can I - leave you and Nan and the old place? Goodbye, and I love you, I do so love - you, Uncle Pete!” - </p> - <p> - At a sign from Nancy the hired man whipped up the horses. As they drove - away Hester looked back at the clump of oak-trees around the house, and - then at the two figures at the yard gate. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I’d done more for’em all these years they’ve - been so good to me,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. - Fred held her hand close between both of his, but he made no answer, for - her grief dazed him. He knew that many elements in her life had been - distasteful to her; and why should a woman who was marrying the man she - loved, and was moreover going to town to live, grieve in this way? The - hired man turned in his seat and gave the needed word of comfort. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve done a sight for’em,” he said warmly, - “and you ain’t no cause to fret, Miss Hetty. We’ll all - miss you terrible.” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Peter wandered restlessly around the farm until dinner-time. An - aching heart was a new experience to him, and one that he did not know how - to meet. He went into the orchard and picked up apple after apple, and - after a mere taste flung each of them away; as he left the orchard he - stopped to look back at the mass of Spanish needle and goldenrod, through - which he had just made his way. - </p> - <p> - “How she did like all that yeller stuff,” he said aloud. - “What a sight of interest she took in everything about the place. - She was a good girl, and I wish I’d a quit swearin’—‘twould - have tickled her mightily. Hanged if I don’t quit it now!” - </p> - <p> - Nancy had an unusually good dinner ready for him. Preparing it had helped - her to pass the morning, for Uncle Peter’s was not the only aching - heart. She helped him lavishly to half a dozen vegetables, but for the - first time within her memory of him, he had no appetite. He pushed back - his chair before she brought his pie, and as he did so a sudden wave of - antagonism to her came over him; he had never spoken to her of her stern - words to Hester, but now involuntarily his criticism of her slipped from - him. - </p> - <p> - “Blessed if I can see how you could have been so hard on Fred, and - let pore Hetty go away feelin’ so broke up,” he said - impetuously. - </p> - <p> - Nancy pressed her lips together firmly. - </p> - <p> - “I never judged Fred himself,” she said. “I always - separated the sin from the sinner, and we are bidden to be unceasing in - denouncing sin.” - </p> - <p> - Uncle Peter said no more; he rose from the table and went out to the - porch, and as he sat there Fred’s words recurred to him, and roused - a glow of affectionate feeling. - </p> - <p> - “Proud to be my nephew,” he repeated. “He’s a fine - feller, he is, and Hetty’s done well for herself, if it is pretty - hard on us to be left.” He went back to the dining-room, where Nancy - was clearing the dishes away, and opening the door he called in - vehemently: - </p> - <p> - “Blamed if I care if he takes her to the the-<i>a</i>-tre every - night in the week!” - </p> - <p> - Nancy turned a startled face to him, forgetful of the fact that tears were - rolling down her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - The unexpected sight of her grief touched her uncle keenly; he had never - before seen her cry, and going over to her and laying his hand on her - shoulder, he said affectionately, “I’m a reg’lar old - brute, Nan. You must excuse me, and remember it’s losin’ Hetty - that’s sorter upset me. I orter be better ‘n usual to you, - instead of meaner, for I can see you are grievin’ too.” - </p> - <p> - “I have more cause to be grievin’ even than you, Uncle Peter,” - Nancy said sadly, “for there’s an impassable gulf between - Hetty and me now.” Uncle Peter’s hand slipped from her - shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Gulfs be damned,” he said impatiently. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IN A GARDEN - </h2> - <h3> - By Neith Boyce - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>VER the wall of - the Mission, against the glowing west, the tops of the trees flickered in - the wind from the sea, shot through with level glancing arrows of clear - light. The sky was all astir with little soft, gold-tipped clouds. To the - languid hush of the hot day had succeeded a subtle animation like the - smile on the lips of a sleeping woman. - </p> - <p> - On this awakening air the last organ-notes of the vesper service died - away, and were echoed by the slow, rhythmic swing of the tall - eucalyptus-trees. The rustle of the leaves imitated the sound of the - devout dispersing from the chapel; and a magnolia shook out from its great - white chalices an incense more penetrating than any wafted before the - altar. Suddenly all this gentle derision seemed to voice itself in a burst - of mocking laughter, faint and far away, like the airy merriment of elves. - The sound approached and grew louder, running through the notes of a - treble scale. And the trees in the monks’ garden seemed to bend and - listen and to beckon while they shook all over with malicious glee. - </p> - <p> - Scurrying over the ground beyond, with bare, dusty feet, appeared a group - of creatures pulling each other by extended arms, or brown garments which - seemed a part of the earth, or by their braids of strong, black hair. Writhing - in this rough play they flung themselves against the wall. A palefaced - girl in a scarlet blouse, like a cactus-flower bursting from its dull - sheath, threw up her arms into the dense, dark foliage of an overhanging - fig-tree and dragged down the bough. - </p> - <p> - “They are ripe!—what did I tell you?” she cried, as at a - touch a purple, bloomy fig fell into her hand. She tore it open and - fastened her teeth, sharp and white as those of a squirrel, in the pink - flesh. - </p> - <p> - Her companions hung back, looking at her. - </p> - <p> - “If we are caught—” - </p> - <p> - “What do we care? Cowards! There—now you can put all the blame - on me. Eat, then, little pigs that you are!” - </p> - <p> - Her heavy-lidded eyes were cold and contemptuously smiling. Hanging to the - bough with both hands, she shook it roughly, and the ripe figs fell in a - shower, some flattening to pulp on the ground. The girls flung themselves - down, and, chattering, gathered the unspoiled fruit into the skirts of - their gowns. - </p> - <p> - “It is true; they are better than ours,” cried one. - </p> - <p> - “Trust the holy fathers to have the best,” added another, - lowering her voice. - </p> - <p> - “They taste better,” said Fiora, the tall girl in the scarlet - blouse, “because we are stealing them.” And she licked her red - lips with satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - “There must be better ones higher up,” said a fourth, - greedily, standing with her hands on her broad hips and her head thrown - back. - </p> - <p> - “Let us see,” responded Fiora. - </p> - <p> - Again she caught hold of the drooping branch, drew herself up, and in an - instant the thick foliage hid her from sight. Her companions, - half-smothered with laughter, besought her to return. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you are seen!” - </p> - <p> - “Catch!” cried Fiora. - </p> - <p> - A rain of soft bodies fell, thumping them about the shoulders. Through the - parted leaves an impudent face looked down, framed like a young faun’s - in living green. - </p> - <p> - “I am going higher—I am going to look into the garden!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Oh!” in frightened and delighted chorus. “You dare - not!” - </p> - <p> - “Listen, my children,” said Fiora, condescendingly. “They - say no woman has ever seen this garden. Well, I have a great mind to be - the first!” - </p> - <p> - Lying along the thick branch, she listened smilingly. - </p> - <p> - “It is forbidden!” - </p> - <p> - “You will be punished!” - </p> - <p> - “The holy fathers—” - </p> - <p> - “What have they in their garden,” she cried at last, “that - is so sacred that we may not see it? Would our feet soil the grass or the - paths?” - </p> - <p> - The girls looked at one another slyly and hid their faces; and their - malicious laughter, stifled with difficulty and uncontrollable, mingled - again with the eager murmurs of the trees. - </p> - <p> - Fiora, herself laughing, she scarcely knew why, disappeared, the leaves - closing behind her like a green sea. She crept along the great branch - until her feet found something firm—the top of the wall. Clinging to - the trunk of the tree which leaned against this wall, she tried to pierce - the thick layers of foliage below her, but in vain; nothing was to be seen - in the garden. She swore softly. Then, in trying to extend herself upon a - branch which projected into the garden, she slipped, catching vainly at - the nearest twigs, and with a thrill of alarm came to her feet upon the - forbidden soil. She clenched her hands, full of bruised leaves, against - her breast, as she crouched in the shelter of the drooping boughs. - Startled by the noise of her fall, her companions took flight like a covey - of birds, with a rustle, a faint murmur—silence. - </p> - <p> - Fiora sank to her knees and remained for some moments motionless, gazing - out into the garden. In the dusk, deepened by the shadow of encircling - trees, nothing was visible save narrow paths strewn with opal-colored - sea-shells glimmering amid fresh turf, and roses blooming in masses along - these walks and hiding the wall under their heavy leaves, thick with - flowers like pale flames. Silence—except for the applauding whisper - of the trees and the plash of water. There was no one in the garden. - </p> - <p> - Taking courage, the intruder pushed her way out from under the boughs of - the fig-tree. The freshly sprinkled grass caressed her feet. The perfume - of the roses and the magnolia blossoms, becoming more intense as the dew - began to gather, surrounded her like an invisible presence, seeming to - draw her on. She stole softly forward, her eyes alert for the least - warning and alive with curiosity. The path led her through an arbor - drifted deep with the perfumed snow of wistaria, and between banks of - golden pansies set in mosaic borders. At the intersection of this gleaming - streak with another a fountain played in a white basin, tossing high in - the air a crystal ball. The crest of the plume of water caught a gleam of - golden light, and the transparent ball glittered as it rose every instant - from shadow. Fiora paused to watch it and to follow the arrowy glidings of - the gold-fish in the basin. The short southern twilight was already ended. - It was now dark—the hour at which the fathers took their evening - meal. Yielding, therefore, to her fancy, she followed the windings of the - paths, stopping recklessly to pluck now a scarlet pomegranate, which she - ate with puckered lips; now a rose, crimson or yellow, or a long spray of - white roses with pink hearts, set close together on the stem. Huge cacti, - their gray, distorted bodies spotted with blood-colored blossoms, stood - here and there in clumps. Banana trees waved softly their long, graceful - fronds. The wind stirred with a dry rustle among palms with broad trunks - and large fans, and others, slender and lofty, with crests like stacked - swords, and among masses of pampas-grass tufted with great white plumes. - Along the wall, to which now and then Fiora’s wanderings in the - confined space brought her, grew apricot and peach trees heavy with ripe - fruit. These perfect sweets also she tasted capriciously and threw away - half-eaten. The place exerted a strange influence over her. The hour, the - delicious thrill of danger, the heavy perfumes, intoxicated her. It seemed - that the trees bent toward her to murmur something, that the pale faces of - the flowers held some mysterious message. They looked friendly; they - appeared to smile knowingly at her, to encourage her, to urge her on. - Vaguely she felt all this breathing, eager life a part of her, belonging - to her. She threw back her head, turning it from side to side with an air - of satisfied possession, drawing in the cool air through her nostrils and - parted lips with sensuous delight—this pale creature whose eyes - showed a savage response to the cajoling beauty about her. - </p> - <p> - Convinced at last that the garden held no secret, save that of certain - flowers and fruits cultivated to unknown perfection,—for she had - explored it from the limiting wall to where the pallid outline of some - building of the Mission gleamed through the trees,—she came back to - the fountain and sat down on the wooden bench at the path’s edge, - her flowers heaped in her lap. She gave herself a few moments more to - watch the leaping ball, which now sparkled like silver in the midst of - glittering spray. A shaft of moonlight, striking through the trees upon - the jet of water, crept steadily downward. The girl, her eyes fixed on - this trembling column of white fire and foam, fell in a vague, trance-like - dream. The ripple of the fountain in her ears drowned the echo of slow - footsteps advancing along the path. - </p> - <p> - It was Father Anselmo’s custom, while digesting his supper of meat - pasty and chocolate, to pace the garden, whose beauty seldom failed to - inspire him with poetical images, and to add each evening some dozen lines - to his panegyric ode on Saint Francis. Anselmo was, in fact, a poet,—but - a poet whose strictly regulated fancy never openly strayed beyond the - confines of the cloister. His gentle muse sang consecrated themes alone. - And if, surrounded by an indolent, veiled fervor of tropical nature, apt - to long, arid trances, and to sudden outbursts of fierce luxuriance, his - imagination was sometimes troubled, these secret vagaries were repressed - or found no acknowledged utterance. In his black, shapeless robe, above - which his placid face showed like a sickly moon, the father, whether - meditating on the pasty or Saint Francis, seemed no prey to the poetic - ardor; its afflatus left him undizzied and peaceful. Yet the mystery of - the night, the garden’s magic, must have struck some responsive - chord within him. For how else should his bodily eyes have beheld beneath - the shadow of the acacia bushes a creature not human, surely not divine; - no spiritual vision, but an apparition born of the earth and evil. It sat - half-visible, buried to the chin in flowers, motionless, its face a mere - pale shimmer, its great shadowy eyes fixed upon him. These eyes were - terrifying. - </p> - <p> - Anselmo retreated some steps upon their discovery; then, after much - hesitation, advanced again, extending the cross of his rosary and - muttering with trembling lips certain words of proved potency. But neither - holy symbol nor exorcism availed against the evil spirit. It refused to - flee; sat dumb—it seemed to Anselmo disdainful. Suddenly, wrathful, - he took another step forward; the creature drew in its breath sharply, - with an audible sound; its lips parted, showing a row of gleaming teeth. - Anselmo paused. - </p> - <p> - This was, he perceived, the spirit of the garden, and it was plainly - hostile. Was he, then, the intruder? Vaguely a sense of helpless fright - invaded his soul. Yes, the trees were in league with this being; they bent - towards him threateningly! The air was full of veiled alarms. What of the - rosebushes which even now reached out clutching hands to detain him? An - overblown white rose broke and fell in a soft shower about his shoulders, - and he started; a bat swooped down with swift, filmy wings, just grazing - his head; he shrank back. - </p> - <p> - Could it be that he was in danger, that his wandering thoughts were known, - that his sinful fancies had thus taken shape to confound him? Anselmo - crossed himself. It was true—moved by the garden’s spell he - had sometime in reverie invoked the animating principle of this beauty of - earth, which he knew well was soulless and evil—and behold it - incarnate! - </p> - <p> - Yet the apparition did not menace him overtly, perhaps it felt his - spiritual armor proof. Nevertheless, it was his part to fly possible - danger, to deliver over the unhallowed domain to its true possessor. What - part had he in these caresses of the breeze, these wooings of flowers, - these marriages of insects, this glamour of nocturnal magic? - </p> - <p> - Knowing, as he did, the evil power of the moon at its full, how had he - been persuaded to walk in debatable ground where that demoniac glory, - rising warm and wanton above the trees, could mock and threaten him? Under - the branches of the acacia the shadow sat still in deeper shadow; save - that the rays of the moon fell upon two slim, naked feet, which the short - grass could not cover. It had taken, then, the form of a woman, that the - garden and its tradition might be doubly desecrated! Anselmo’s - indignation was not fierce enough to nerve his soul, weakened by mystic - terrors. He turned to fly, but, instead, uttered an exclamation, calling - in a trembling voice: - </p> - <p> - “Brother Emanuel!” - </p> - <p> - “I am coming,” was the answer. - </p> - <p> - Another black robe, another pale face, appeared beside him, and, like him, - started back at perceiving the strange figure. After consultation in - whispers the bolder monk approached the acacia. - </p> - <p> - “This is no spirit, Brother Anselmo—it is a woman!” he - cried. - </p> - <p> - “A woman! How could a woman get into the garden?” - </p> - <p> - The first speaker cast a troubled glance in the direction of the high - wall. - </p> - <p> - “True,” he said uncertainly. “Still it must be.” - </p> - <p> - But involuntarily he moved a step nearer his companion. - </p> - <p> - Both glanced down at the slender feet in the grass. These seemed to move, - and the spirit, or woman, turned her head swiftly from side to side. Her - breath came quicker, but the monks could not hear it, or they might have - taken courage. - </p> - <p> - “It is astonishing,” murmured Brother Emanuel, uneasily. - </p> - <p> - While they stood undecided between the attack and the retreat, suddenly - from the chapel near by the organ gave voice in a deep, swelling chord, - which climbed by subtle and suave modulations and soared aloft into a - tender melody. - </p> - <p> - “It is Brother Angelo,” whispered Anselmo. - </p> - <p> - “It is holy music!” said Emanuel, devoutly, and he made the - sign of the cross in the air before him. - </p> - <p> - The tremulous notes, growing louder, drowned the rustle of the leaves, the - plash of the fountain, the sigh of the wind. It seemed as though the - garden hushed half-unwillingly to listen, when a voice, humanly deep and - sweet, but spiritualized into something not less than divine, took up the - melody and bore it higher and heavenward, pouring out into the night a - flood of ecstasy and aspiration. The march of the music was solemn and - splendid, and its soul was a joy unearthly and beyond utterance. - </p> - <p> - The black-robed brothers stood and listened, rebuked and dumb, turning - their faces toward the glimmering wall of the chapel, and forgetting for a - moment the fears which had agitated them, with their cause. What were all - the potencies of the passionate earth, so easily diverted from good, - against this royal dominion? - </p> - <p> - The evil-seeming spell was broken. A sudden movement, no sound but a - stirring of the air, recalled their attention. The foliage of the acacia - trembled as though a bird had taken wing. The bench was vacant, flowers - strewed the ground before it, the presence had vanished. Her white feet or - a breath of air had borne her away. The diapason of the organ drowned the - sound her flight might have made; and the trees bent as though to bury in - shadow her possible path. Emanuel made a long step forward. - </p> - <p> - “Woman or spirit, she is gone!” he cried, and stooped to see - what trace of her those scattered roses might show. Anselmo grasped his - companion’s sleeve. - </p> - <p> - “Do not touch them,” he entreated, glancing fearfully over his - shoulder. “Who knows what spell is upon them?” - </p> - <p> - True, when found next morning, withered and scentless, these flowers - appeared commonplace enough. Nor did there exist other proof that on this - spot two brothers of the order had beheld a strange and dangerous vision. - None the less was their sober account accepted implicitly by the brethren, - of whom the wiser ever thereafter avoided to walk in the garden at the - moon’s full; though certain of the more youthful were known to - adventure themselves at that place and season. - </p> - <p> - It is not recorded that their daring and zeal met with any reward or - recognition. Nor, perhaps, is this to be wondered at. For if any wandering - spirit, coveting, yet not daring to enter the garden, had strayed near to - the confining wall, it must have heard daily the solemn chant of the - Church’s exorcism directed against all powers unholy; it must daily - have beheld a slow procession of monks make the circuit of the - shell-strewn paths, sprinkling the ground with holy-water to purify it - from the contaminating touch of a woman’s foot. And if, spirit or - woman, it were still undeterred, there was Angelo’s music at evening—like - another flaming sword at the gate of this Eveless Eden! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - ORESTE’S PATRON - </h2> - <h3> - By Grace Ellery Channing - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Signore - Americano, musing over his morning coffee on the Villa terrace, gazed - intently into the distance where Florence lay invisible behind the hills. - </p> - <p> - “Buon’ giorno, Signore!” called Oreste, reining in - Elisabetta and lifting his cap with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Buon’ giorno!” returned the Signore, starting. “Ah, - you are going to the city, and I wanted to go myself!” - </p> - <p> - Oreste looked troubled. - </p> - <p> - “Signore,—how much I am sorry! It displeases me, but I am - already promised to my patron. When one is poor, one must think of the - francs for the family,” he added apologetically. - </p> - <p> - The Signore, who knew no such necessity, frowned. - </p> - <p> - “This is the fifth time this Carnivale—and you just married! - If I had a <i>sposina</i>—” - </p> - <p> - “The Signore’s <i>sposina</i> would lack for nothing,” - smiled Oreste. “We others,—we must do as we can. As for Gioja, - she goes to pass the day with her <i>nonna</i> at Vincigliata. I will - bring the Signore’s mail as usual.” - </p> - <p> - The Signore waved his hand impatiently, and knocked the ashes from his - cigarette, then, as the shabby cab, with Elisabetta pulling heroically - back against the steepness, wound from sight, his glance softened. It was - a piece of fortune surely for a Vignola cabman to have a city patron. - Fortunes were not to be made up here where nobody but the <i>forestieri</i>, - who came from time to time to make a <i>villegiatura</i> in one or another - of the villas, would think of wasting francs for the sole purpose of - getting somewhere. The inhabitants stayed where they found themselves - placed by Providence. To all intents, Vignola might be a hundred miles - from Florence instead of a bare six. Besides, a stranger Signore passes - with the season, but a city patron remains. Nuisance as it was to have his - own plans conflicted with, the Signore forgave Oreste. - </p> - <p> - Fifteen minutes later this melting mood congealed again, as a slender - figure stole quietly down the Way. - </p> - <p> - It was Gioja, walking with her usual listless grace. - </p> - <p> - Her small head, its crisply waved Tuscan hair bound with a kerchief of - dull blue, was carried far back as no kerchiefed head has a right to be; - and her eyes, blue as the kerchief but not dull, looked straight ahead, - dilated and musing. She did not see the Signore,—a thing that could - have befallen no other girl in the village, unless it were blind Chiara, - and the Signore watched her go with a frown,—for this was not the - direction of Vincigliata. And why was she starting so early, unless to - defeat the glances with which all these closed doors would soon be alive? - </p> - <p> - Yet he continued to watch her. There were other girls in the village just - as pretty. Many a strain of noble blood had gone to the making of these - Vignolese peasants. This was not the first girl the Signore had seen who - looked as if—change her gown and tie a bonnet over her hair—she - might loll in her carriage of an afternoon at the Cascine with the best of - the fine ladies in the city below. But there was no other whom the Signore - ever leaned over the wall to look after. And as he leaned his frown - deepened; he was sorry for Oreste; but—marry a girl like that and - leave her alone, in Italy! Anybody might foresee the end. And he frowned - again, not at Gioja this time, who had disappeared from view, but at a - mental image, wearing, it is true, an air dangerously like that of Oreste’s - <i>sposa</i>. - </p> - <p> - Yes, indeed, anybody might foretell the end. That was what the whole - community, already buzzing with the scandal, said. And it was exactly what - the Padre said when, five minutes later, he came up the path and sank upon - the marble seat, mopping his brow beneath the beaver hat. - </p> - <p> - “I have been to Oreste’s,” he said apologetically, - “and thought I would look in upon the Signore in passing. There was - nobody there.” - </p> - <p> - The Signore, engaged in pouring red wine for his guest, made no response, - and the priest stole a troubled glance at him as he took the glass from - his hand. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps, Signore, you may have seen them pass, and can tell me if - that child went with her husband?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the Signore, after a minute’s deliberation, - “I could not.” - </p> - <p> - His guest sighed as he sipped the wine. He had grown gray in the service - of the village. He had known Gioja from her babyhood. His was the hand - which had held and oiled and dipped her at the font, and had led her from - then until her present estate; and he, if any one, had a right to borrow - trouble, seeing that all troubles were brought to him in the end. His - fine, thin lips shut above the wineglass in the sensitive line which marks - the better of Rome’s two types. His soul was straight and simple. - The one vanity it owned was to be on terms of companionship with the - occupant of the big villa. The half hour on its terrace or in its salotto - formed his social dissipation, and dearly did he prize the importance it - gave him in the eyes of his flock. Nay, it gave importance to the whole - community. - </p> - <p> - “Not every village has a priest like ours,” said the gossips, - complacently, “that a so-educated stranger Signore would make so - much of.” - </p> - <p> - Moreover, if his people were poor, God alone knows how poor their priest - was, and the Signore possessed a fine taste in wines,—true Chianti, - a very different thing from <i>vino rosso</i> at eighty centesimi the - flask,—while his lavishness was that of his country. - </p> - <p> - As for the Signore, he would pour the oil from a fresh flask any time to - unseal the lips pressed together as now over the case of Oreste’s <i>sposa</i>. - </p> - <p> - “The truth is,” sighed the priest, “the end is too easy - to foresee. The child is not like others; and there is nothing worse than - that. That’s what Luigi’s <i>sposa</i> said yesterday when I - rebuked her for thinking evil, and recalled to her how Gioja helped nurse - her three through the fever only last spring. ‘Oh, I’m not - saying she has n’t a heart,’ said Luigi’s <i>sposa</i>; - ‘but you can’t deny that all is not right when a girl is - different from all the rest; it is better to have less heart and be more - like one’s neighbors.’ And Luigi’s wife had reason. - Nothing is worse than to be different from all the folk about you. When I - had her safely married, I thought indeed there would be an end of trouble;—Heaven - grant it do not prove a beginning!” - </p> - <p> - “Does she not love her husband?” - </p> - <p> - “Who can tell?” sighed the priest, impatiently. “Oreste - is not one to set the Arno afire, but he is a good lad. But about her he - is a mule,—a very mule. Would you believe, Signore, when I ventured - a word,—I, whose duty it is,—he flared up like a Befana torch,—he - whose manner to me ordinarily is a lesson to the community!” - </p> - <p> - The Signore smiled and reflected upon the strength of man. - </p> - <p> - “One would say I had spoken ill of the Saints,” continued the - exasperated priest. “And the thing is becoming insufferable,—such - a tale of scandal as some one whispers to me every day. One would think - she has neither eyes nor ears, and cares not whether she has friends or - foes for neighbors.” There is, in truth, no such broad and flowery - path to unpopularity as this which Gioja undeviatingly pursued. Nobody who - elects to be unlike his neighbors gets social good of it. Had not the - Signore himself seen? - </p> - <p> - Bad enough it was to have her sitting wide-eyed and absolutely indifferent - at her machine, and so pretty that one could see the youths looking at her - when they pretended not to; or mooning over her straw work with never a - word of gossip or a little story about a friend, more than if they were - all stones: but what did these absences all by herself mean, which looked - the worse now that she was a decent man’s wife? It was an absolute - scandal—which is only another name for a godsend sometimes—to - a sober community. - </p> - <p> - Oreste might pretend to shut his eyes,—he had always been a fool - about her; but it could not be asked that all the village should do the - same, especially those girls who would have made decent wives if any one - had given <i>them</i> the chance, and those lads who would have known how - to keep a wife in order if they had taken one. - </p> - <p> - The priest, thinking of these things, sighed. He, too, might affect - blindness; but he would need to be stone deaf as well to escape hearing - what every tongue in the village felt it a duty and a privilege to confide - to him daily. - </p> - <p> - “It must be admitted that the Signorina Americana has something to - answer for,” the priest wound up, as he invariably did, and always - with an indulgent accent which forgave while it accused. - </p> - <p> - The Signorina Americana!—how many times was she not levelled at the - ears of the Signore Americano who had inherited her tradition with the - villa of which he was the next lessee. If the contadini were to be - believed, there was little for which she might not be held accountable. - They spoke of her smilingly, Oreste tenderly, the priest indulgently (the - Signorina also had possessed a generous taste in wines), and Gioja not at - all. Yet apparently it was precisely Gioja who might have had most to say. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes; if I could have foreseen when I brought that child to her! - But what harm could come to her from earning a few francs as the - Signo-rina’s maid? I chose her for the very reason that she had more - gentleness and was more educated than the others,—the Signorina, - your countrywoman, was herself very educated and full of <i>gentilezza</i>. - But she was too good to Gioja, and then she could never be made to see. - She had a way with her,—when I began to remonstrate with her she - would fill up my glass and ask about my poor, and, before I knew it—<i>altro!</i> - she was very generous, your countrywoman. But if there are many like her - in your country it must be a terrible place; a man would not possess his - own soul.” - </p> - <p> - The Signore laughed. - </p> - <p> - “She would sit here—precisely where I sit now—and smile - a little smile she had, and twist this rose-vine about her fingers, and - just so she twisted us all. Ah,” he concluded, lifting his glass, - “she was truly terrible, that Signorina; but <i>simpatica, altro!</i> - never have I seen so <i>simpatica</i> a signorina.” - </p> - <p> - <i>Simpatica!</i> When you are that, there is nothing else you can be; and - when you are not that, nothing that you can be is of any use. When - everybody, down to the newsboys and cab-openers, loves you and doesn’t - know why,—you are <i>simpatica</i>; when people would rather do - things for you than not, and don’t care about the payment,—then - you may be sure you are <i>simpatica</i>; when the expression of their - eyes and the tones of their voices change insensibly when they look at and - speak to you,—there is no room to doubt that you are <i>simpatica</i>. - You may not be rich, nor beautiful, nor “educated” (such a - very different thing from book-fed), but you do not need to be. <i>Simpatica</i> - is the comprehending sky of praise in which separate stars of admiration - are swallowed up. - </p> - <p> - While the Signore figured rapidly the mischief possible of accomplishment - by a dangerous Signorina possessing this attribute, the priest drank - another glass of wine and returned to the trouble of his soul. - </p> - <p> - “I thought, indeed, with a wife’s work to do, she would settle - down like others; but Oreste encourages her wilfulness.” - </p> - <p> - “Why do you not speak to Gioja herself?” - </p> - <p> - “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the priest, crossing himself. - “I have tried that once. She has a terrible nature,—that - child! I have never told any one; but see if I have not reason to say so, - Signore.” He sipped his wine agitatedly, and then began with - feeling:— - </p> - <p> - “It was the Signorina to begin with; she saw that the child was - pretty, and she put ideas in her head. And in fact, though Heaven forbid I - should compare Gioja, who is only a little <i>contadina</i>. with a real - Signorina, yet she has always seemed to me to have a little something - about her which recalls the Signorina herself,—a way of walking and - carrying her head. And the Signorina had not an idea of keeping her in her - place. She was always giving her gowns and ribbons and trinkets and - vanities of all kinds,—that was her way, always giving. The end of - it was that one day I surprised that child with a hat of the Signorina’s - on her unhappy head; yes, actually, Signore, if you will credit me, a hat,—a - <i>cappello di signora</i> on her head!” He spread his hands in - deprecating despair. - </p> - <p> - The Signore looked blankly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Signore, you are like your countrywoman; it is impossible to - make you understand! But it must be a country,—yours! For a girl - like Gioja to put a hat on is to declare herself without shame at once. - Honest girls of her class let such <i>roba di signore</i> alone; yes, and - rightly, for God has put people in their places. A girl who showed herself - in a signora’s hat would find it impossible to live in Vignola; she - would be hooted out of the village. And as for the wife of a lad like - Oreste pretending to that,—half-a-dozen lovers would not be a worse - scandal. Those at least the others could understand, but a <i>cappello di - signora</i>—” He stopped to take several agitated sips, - shaking his head all the time. “I do not say she would have been so - mad as to cross the threshold in it (the Signorina had given it to her to - sell for the feathers upon it); but who could tell what such a girl might - do? I scolded her well for her wicked vanity, and such ideas above her - place. Santa Maria!—lovers and such are enough, without a scandal - like that among my people. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what was the end? Signore, she rushed off and hung that hat, - with at least twenty francs’ worth of good feathers on it, in the - Madonna’s chapel, beside ‘Maso’s crutch and the little - hearts and legs and other offerings to Our Lady! There it hung, where all - the world would see it, and every tongue in the place be set wagging, if I - had not providentially gone in and found it before Mass next day. And even - then what could I do? It was the Madonna’s, and I dared not remove - it. But Heaven sends accidents, and as it chanced, <i>providentially</i>, - Signore, my candle brushed the feathers in passing and, <i>presto</i>, I - dropped it quickly into a bucket of water. It was not fit for Our Lady - after that, so I took it away, and I myself made it up to her in candles, - that no one might feel hurt. And after all nobody was the richer for all - those francs’ worth of feathers; they were singed more than I hoped, - and did not bring me in Florence the price of the candles. Oh, she has a - terrible nature,—that Gioja! No, no, <i>grazie</i>,—if I must - speak to Oreste, I must; but to her!—candles cost, Signore, and I am - a poor man.” - </p> - <p> - Still shaking his head, he rose to depart. - </p> - <p> - The Signore, left alone, paced the terrace a few times, smiling to - himself; then he sat down again,—this time in the priest’s - place,—and fell to musing, and as he mused his fingers stole almost - furtively to the long rose-tendrils, and twisted them gently, while the - smile died abruptly on his lips. - </p> - <p> - Presently he rang, and Giuseppina came out. - </p> - <p> - “You may take away these things,” said the Signore, “and - bring me pen and paper. Oh, and by the way, Giuseppina, in future put my - seat here,—the valley sees itself better.” - </p> - <p> - Coming from the post that evening the Signore was aware of a slender shape - slipping along through the deepening shadows ahead. Quickening his steps, - he overtook it easily. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Buon sera</i>; so it is you, Gioja?” - </p> - <p> - “Si, Signore!”—the voice was both startled and - appealing. - </p> - <p> - But the Signore strode along looking keenly at the downcast face. - </p> - <p> - “Oreste is not with you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Signore; he went to the city.” - </p> - <p> - “And you have doubtless been visiting your nonna?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Signore,”—the voice was almost inaudible. - </p> - <p> - The Signore turned on his heel, with a curt “<i>Buona sera!</i>” - and was still muttering things under his breath when, fifteen minutes - later, he beheld from the terrace Oreste and Elisabetta toiling wearily up - the hill. - </p> - <p> - “How well she times it,” he thought contemptuously, as the - bell of the big gate sounded, and he heard Giuseppina’s challenge: - “Who is it?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Amici</i>, friends,” answered Oreste’s voice, and - Oreste swiftly followed, with his frank smile and a square envelope of - dull blue, which the Signore’s hand involuntarily stretched to - grasp. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ecco</i>, Signore,—the only one!” said Oreste, with - that polite gesture of regret with which he daily accompanied this small - comedy. The Signore having possessed himself of the letter avidly, put it - into his pocket with ostentatious carelessness and coolly lighted a - cigarette. Oreste smiled comprehendingly but respectfully. - </p> - <p> - “You have had a long day of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Signore,” Oreste smiled with the satisfied air of one - who has done a good day’s work. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you have made a handful of money,” continued the - Signore, severely. - </p> - <p> - Oreste shrugged his shoulders. “Not great things,—but, <i>altro</i>, - I am content.” - </p> - <p> - The Signore shrugged in his turn. “Each to his own mind. Your <i>sposina</i> - has also made a long day; I saw her just now.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes; it is a long way to Vincigliata, when one must walk. The - Signore’s commands?” - </p> - <p> - “None.” - </p> - <p> - Truly, the Signorina Americana, if this was her work, had small reason to - be proud of it. The Signore’s frown enveloped even the blue - envelope, at which he stood staring long after Oreste had left the room. - </p> - <p> - And so it ran through the spring months,—the mournfully beautiful - Tuscan spring. The nightingales in the villa gardens sang and sang, at - dusk, in the moonlight, and at dawn, and the fireflies glittered all - through the darkness up and down the olive slopes. An intenser life - quickened in the little community as the summer stirred in the veins of - her children. The youths went singing up and down the hills, and the girls - and women lingered over their water jars at the fountain in the square. - For what is it to be poor in the summer time? - </p> - <p> - Sometimes the Signore, lying awake at night, heard Oreste’s mellow - voice as he passed by to the little house. But through all this gayety of - being Gioja stole silently and dreamily, and the whisper of turned heads - and eyes askance followed her. For there were the ever-recurring <i>festas</i>, - when Oreste went to the city, and where then did Oreste’s <i>sposa</i> - go? That is what the community would like to know; for the tale of her - grandmother was quite too large for the village throat. She kept her - secret well,—yes; but there is only one kind of a secret possible to - the Italian mind. - </p> - <p> - “Birbone!” said the women, with contempt of Oreste, while the - men laughed and shrugged their shoulders. Oreste had caught a pretty <i>sposa</i> - who had thought herself much too good for them, but, <i>ma chè</i>,—he - was paying for it. - </p> - <p> - It was impossible that the public curiosity should content itself with - being curious. Maria, one of those public-minded souls which never lack in - any community, toiled all the way over to Vincigliata, and brought back - personal assurance from the <i>nonna</i> herself that that pious - granddaughter had not been seen in Vincigliata all these months. - </p> - <p> - “Eight good miles I trudged in all that sun, and a day’s work - lost,” declared Maria, mopping her brow in the midst of an excited - and sympathetic group. “<i>If</i> my legs ache! But for the good of - the community I did it; and what I know to-night the priest shall know - before morning. I made haste to go to-day, for to-morrow, being the <i>festa</i> - of our Saint John, Oreste goes to the city, and that <i>civetta</i>—” - </p> - <p> - And nobody could say but that Maria had done well, and the girl deserved - whatever might come of it. - </p> - <p> - But when the priest, sad-eyed and stern, knocked at the door of the little - house in the early morning after Mass, no one was there. Having delivered - a vain fusillade, to the accompaniment of many suggestions offered from - the neighbors’ windows, the priest turned away and betook himself, - with a clouded brow, to the Signore, who had invited him, by Oreste, to - breakfast with him that morning. He was waiting for him now on the terrace - with a morning countenance; and the breakfast-table, heaped with roses, - wore a festal air which did not escape the priest, preoccupied though he - was. - </p> - <p> - “You also are keeping a feast, Signore, to appearances?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, indeed! a <i>festa</i> Americana?” - </p> - <p> - “No, my own. And now what is it about these two? Oreste, I know, - went to the city. I tried to engage him, but he was pre-engaged to that - patron of his. And Gioja,—well, I saw her pass a little later.” - </p> - <p> - “While we were in the church,—the guilty child!” said - the priest, sternly. “But where can she have gone?” he added, - sighing. “I have been much to blame; I have been too negligent; I - should have dealt with her from the first. <i>Culpa mia!</i>” He - crossed himself and looked so discouraged that the Signore was touched. - </p> - <p> - “Listen, <i>amico mio</i>,” he said. “As you say, it is - a bad business; and, arrange it how you will, it will never be well that - those two shall live here. The last of it will never be heard,—if I - know your people. I am going away to Livorno next week, and I have asked - Oreste to go with me. I like the fellow, and away from here she may come - to her senses. She is young, and, guilty though she may be, she does not - seem case-hardened.” - </p> - <p> - “Going away!” exclaimed the startled priest, in dismay. - “And going to take those two away from their own country,—to a - foreign place! What an idea,—but what an idea!” - </p> - <p> - “Scarcely foreign; it is only the other side of Florence.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, ah! to you, but to us villagers! It is not a little thing to - leave one’s home, where one has been born and bred, and knows his - neighbors, after all, whether they be good or bad. It is a great thing to - know one’s neighbors. And to go so far!—but they will think - twice before they say ‘Yes.’” - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, Oreste goes willingly. I do not think he is so - blind; he knows well they are not friendly to his <i>sposa</i> here.” - </p> - <p> - “And Gioja,” said the startled priest, “will she go?” - </p> - <p> - “He says so.” - </p> - <p> - The priest drew a long breath, half relief, half regret, and wholly - wonder. - </p> - <p> - “Well, well, it is perhaps the best that could happen. But to lose - two of my flock—and to leave one’s country like that! You are - a strange people, you Americans. And what becomes of us without either you - or the Signorina Americana here in the villa?” - </p> - <p> - “There are more Americans,” replied the Signore, smiling; - “and who knows but that your Signorina will return to make you more - trouble yet?” - </p> - <p> - The priest shook his head. “The next time she may bring her own - maid. Not another girl from our village shall she turn the head of, that - Signorina,” and the very tone of his voice as he said it was witness - that he affirmed what he knew to be false. The Signore understood and - laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Put it all away, <i>amico mio</i>, for to-day, and go with me to - Florence. Gioja has gone; and you can do nothing but listen to your - people, who will deafen you before night. Come and see your <i>bella - Firenze</i> in her <i>festa</i> dress. We will take a tram below and find - a cab at the gates.” - </p> - <p> - The priest’s face brightened like a child’s. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Signore, now it is I you are proposing to carry away! But why - not? It is long since I was in Florence, and I have already said service - here. But it is not necessary to say anything to my people. Discretion, - Signore, discretion is a great thing!” - </p> - <p> - And thus it happened that when the village folk saw the good father depart - in company with the Signore <i>forestiere</i>, they sagely concluded, with - that sense of the importance of our own affairs common to the race, that - the two had gone to Fiesole, or who knew but even Florence, to consult the - authorities in the matter of that unhappy Gioja. And, in point of fact, - though the priest was fairly running away from the subject, he was - destined to run straight into its arms instead. - </p> - <p> - Florence was all in <i>festa</i>; and if there is anything lovelier than - Florence in <i>festa</i>, who has seen it? The streets ran over with - bright sunshine; and the Florentines, reinforced by <i>contadini</i> from - all the neighboring towns, in holiday garb, made a bright, shifting mass - for the sunbeams to play over. Arno rolled its now shallow stream like - muddy gold, and pale golden palaces stood loftily up and looked down at - her. Over her streaming Ways, Florence shook the bells in all her towers - every fifteen minutes, and at intervals the deep, golden-throated voice in - Giotto’s Tower answered with a rich hum, hum-m, hum-m-m, like a - melodious summer bee. The strident notes of the <i>grilli</i>, in their - little wicker cages, brought from the Cascine at dawn, completed the - joyous pandemonium. - </p> - <p> - The Signore’s spirits ran at higher tide than even the bright tide - of humanity about him. He laughed at all; he bought flowers of the boys - and girls who ran after the carriage holding up glowing armfuls, until the - carriage-seat was heaped, and the priest held up his hands at the - extravagance. He climaxed his folly by buying all the remaining <i>grilli</i> - in their cages, and letting them loose upon the grass of the Cascine. - </p> - <p> - “Do not scold, <i>amico mio</i>,” he said to the priest gayly; - “I told you it is a <i>festa</i>. I have come into a fortune, and it - is written that nobody must be shut up to-day or hungry.” He tossed - a handful of soldi to a group of children. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid your fortune will not last long,” replied the - priest, shaking his head. - </p> - <p> - But he forgot his own prudence when, a little later, they went to a - restaurant,—not Doney’s, where the foolish tourists go, - fancying themselves in Italy, and where the priest would have been - miserable,—but Gilli’s on the Piazza Signoria. There, it being - a feast day, and his host newly come into a fortune, the good father ate, - for the honor of religion and his own temporal good, such a meal as had - never before found its way to his stomach, and washed it down with glasses - of Chianti, not merely old (vecchio), but extravagantly old (stravecchio). - Golden moments were these, and he put down his glass at last with a sigh - of regret that it was impossible to prolong them further. His limit of - possibility was reached. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said the Signore, casting an extravagant fee upon the - table, “where next?” - </p> - <p> - “To the Baptistery and the Duomo, my son,” answered the - priest, with sudden gravity, crossing himself, “to say our <i>grazie</i>, - and put up a little prayer to our good Saint John.” - </p> - <p> - It was precisely upon emerging from the door of Gilli’s in this - comfortable and untroubled frame of mind, arising from the perfect balance - of the carnal and the spiritual, that he came face to face with the worst - trouble of all. For, straightening his shabby hat and smoothing his shabby - cassock, what should his eyes fall upon but Oreste,—Oreste, who, - having that moment emerged from a café below, was assisting a very elegant - signora into his cab. Just as he got her safely tucked in, his eye caught - the two pairs staring at him. His sturdy face blanched; then, before - either could make step forward, he had shut the door, sprung quickly to - the seat, and, touching up Elisabetta, with a glance of defiance whirled - away. The two left, staring, drew a long breath. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ebbene</i>,” remarked the Signore, at last, “so the - patron was a <i>padrona</i>; perhaps Gioja has not been so much to blame - after all.” - </p> - <p> - “I will know,” answered the priest, sharply. - </p> - <p> - The Signore said a word to the nearest cabman, slipping something into his - hand, and in a moment they were bowling up the Via Calzaioli. It cost a - city cabman nothing to keep Elisabetta in sight; and they drew up in the - Piazza del Duomo just in time to see Oreste deferentially assisting his - Signora to alight at the Cathedral steps. He saw them and his eyes shot - such a glance of stern warning that both men sat stupidly, and the next - moment nearly fell over each other as the Signora, in her silks and - nodding plumes, swept by,—for, lo, it was Gioja! - </p> - <p> - In another instant she had swept up the steps and the great doors had - swallowed her. Then Oreste’s manner changed. He leaned against the - cab-door, and turned upon the two men a regard which said: “And now - what have you to say about it?” - </p> - <p> - There was a decidedly awkward silence while they drew near; then the - Signore burst out laughing. - </p> - <p> - “You have found a fine patron, <i>amico mio!</i>” he said. - </p> - <p> - “What folly!” ejaculated the priest, holding up his hands and - recovering breath at last. “Gran’ Dioy what folly!” - </p> - <p> - “Reverendo,” replied Oreste, quietly, “perhaps not so - much folly as some of you have thought. Perhaps I know what the tongues up - there wag like, and if I choose not to mind, whose affair is that? If it - pleases us to please ourselves, who is the worse for that?” - </p> - <p> - “And the scandal!” exclaimed the priest. “And the waste, - and the ideas you are putting in Gioja’s head,—the wicked - vanity and pride—Oh, I told the Signorina how it would end!” - </p> - <p> - “As for that, Reverendo, you will pardon me; but tongues must wag - when they are hung in the middle, and if they wag about Gioja,—why - it does n’t hurt her, and some one else goes safe. And as for the - waste,—the price of a fare now and then,—why if it suits us to - live on polenta six days, and take our pleasure on the seventh, whose - misery is that? I have never yet lacked my soldo for the Church or for a - neighbor poorer than I.” - </p> - <p> - “And the ideas you are encouraging in her unhappy head!—but I - will have something to say to that child.” - </p> - <p> - “Reverendo,” interposed Oreste, sternly, “by your leave,—you - are a good man, half a saint, and I am only an ignorant peasant, but there - are some things priests and nuns do not understand, and what one does not - understand, that one should not meddle with. The Signorina understood; she - knew well it was neither pride nor vanity in Gioja, but just a kind of <i>poesia</i> - which made her like to play the signora. The Signorina understood because - she herself was full of <i>poesia</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the Signorina,—the Signorina!” interjected the - priest, in despair. - </p> - <p> - “She <i>knew</i>,” Oreste went on. “You remember the - time of the hat, Reverendo?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>If</i> I remember!” groaned the priest. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ebbene!</i>” said Oreste, emphatically, “when I - found it out, I went straight to the Signorina and told her. She was on - the terrace, and she sat down and laughed a little. You remember our - Signorina’s way of laughing?” - </p> - <p> - It was to the priest that he addressed this; but it was the Signore, - looking straight before him and smiling, who looked as if he remembered. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing would do,” continued Oreste, “but that she must - jump into my cab then and there, with only a lace on her head, and she a - Signorina! [here the Signore laughed aloud]—and drive straight to - Florence, not to one of the small shops, but to the great milliner’s - on Tornabuoni, where she bought a hat,—who knows what it cost?—and - she bade me take it to Gioja and tell her to wear it when she liked, for - there was nothing wicked about it.” - </p> - <p> - The priest groaned again. - </p> - <p> - “Only,” added Oreste, with the suspicion of a twinkle, “she - bade us say nothing about it, lest you, Reverendo, might think it your - duty to lecture the child again; and it was a pity, she said, to make so - good a man uncomfortable. So, as she could not wear it openly, we had to - find a way under the plate; and as the whole village would have been - talking if we went away together, I had to make that little story of a - patron. Once outside of Vignola, I wait for Gioja, and there in the olive - grove she makes herself into a signora; and on the way home we stop again, - and—the signora’s hat and gown stowed away under my seat—my - little <i>sposa</i> climbs up beside me and we talk it all over. And then - the next day I count my francs, and the folk call me ‘<i>Birbone</i>;’ - and the lads think evil of my Gioja because she would never look at them; - and we laugh in our sleeves. What does all that matter when one is happy?” - </p> - <p> - “And so,” said the priest, sternly, “you let all Vignola - think your wife has a lover, and say nothing?” - </p> - <p> - “They have to think something; and isn’t it better they should - think she has a lover, Reverendo, than a <i>cappello di signora?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Surely,” assented the priest, quickly; “a lover, at - least, they can all understand; and only too many of them—Madonna - pardon them!—have had; but a signora’s hat nobody in the - village has ever had, and they would never pardon Gioja for having. And - they have right; Gioja has no business with a signora’s hat, nor you - to waste your time and money, as if you would be <i>bambini</i> all your - lives. And for you, a man, to make yourself the servant of your wife,—oh, - it is shameful, <i>vergognoso!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Pardon again, Reverendo, but that, too, you can’t understand. - If it is Gioja’s <i>poesia</i> to play the signora,—why, Gioja - is <i>my poesia</i>. As for its lasting, <i>altro!</i> the future is long; - and if we had others to feed all that might be different. She is only a - child herself now; but when the good God sends a child to a child, that - makes a woman of her; He himself sees to that. When that comes, she will - care nothing to play the signora with her stupid Oreste. All this our - Signorina knew; for that night, when the child came to me weeping, and - saying how wicked she had been, and begging me to forgive her and marry - her at once, <i>at once</i>—I, Signori, who would have married her - any moment for years!—it put me in trouble. I had fear to take her - like that, and perhaps have her sorry for it later. But I went to our - Signorina with her, and told her all; and she looked at us both and said: - ‘Marry her, Oreste; you safely may;’ for the Signorina - understood. And so—I married her.” - </p> - <p> - The eyes of the two young men met suddenly, and exchanged across the gulf - of position and race one rapid thrill of comprehension. The priest looked - half-timidly at both; but perhaps he, too, comprehended something, for he - said meekly,— - </p> - <p> - “After all, I did no harm.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps not,” replied Oreste, with his frank smile; “but - that was not your fault, Reverendo. And now, if the Signore and you will - excuse me, that was the bell of the Elevation. If Gioja saw you, she would - have no more pleasure; and that would be all the more a pity, because it - is our last <i>festa</i> here. We are going to live with the Signore and - his Signora. Is n’t it so, Signore?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, ah!” exclaimed the priest, with vivacity, “so that - was your <i>festa</i> and your fortune, Signore? And that is why you have - so much sympathy for even the <i>grills</i> and these foolish children! - Well, well, it is perhaps the best that could happen; for it would be - impossible to go on giving scandal like this, and if I said a word you - would all be for taking my life. It may do for Gioja, who is not like the - others; but Heaven forbid the other <i>ragazze</i> should get such ideas - in their heads; I have enough to do to keep track of them and their - affairs as it is.” - </p> - <p> - “Signori!” said Oreste, warningly. The two slunk behind the - next cab, and from there beheld the stream of life suddenly burst from the - big doors of the Duomo,—men and women and children, prince and - citizen and peasant, and among them a slender, graceful shape, her - cappello di signora sitting well upon the ruffled gold of her hair, and - her long skirt raised in one gloved hand with a gesture at which the - Signore’s heart beat suddenly faster against the blue envelope above - it. So very excellent an imitation of the Signora that even an expert need - not blush to be deceived by it. - </p> - <p> - Oreste stepped forward and flung open the cab-door with ostentation. The - Signora mounted languidly, and sank back against the cushions, making a - great rustling of silk. The loungers on the Duomo steps stole covert - glances at the pretty woman. Then Oreste slammed the door, took off his - hat, and approached deferentially. - </p> - <p> - “Commanda, Signora?” he said, loud enough for everybody to - hear. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Alla casa</i>,—home,” responded the Signora, with - superb languor. - </p> - <p> - And, mounting upon the seat, with a parting glance of mingled triumph and - humor in the direction of the two watchers, Oreste, Elisabetta, and the - Signora whirled triumphantly away. - </p> - <p> - The two left upon the sidewalk remained speechless for a few minutes; then - the priest’s eye caught his companion’s, deprecatingly, but - with an echo of Oreste’s twinkle. - </p> - <p> - “That Signorina,” he said, with an indulgent sigh, “she - has much to answer for!” - </p> - <p> - But the Signore, looking into the distance and laughing softly to himself, - said not a word. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE APPEAL TO ANNE - </h2> - <h3> - By Edward Cummings - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I—FROM ROGER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OU are my friend. - Therefore I am sure of your patience. My dearest, yield it to me now, of - all times! This is a confession and prayer. - </p> - <p> - True, I might dissemble still. Chance lends the ready garment. - </p> - <p> - But I am resolved I will have no more lies. I will speak the truth, though - I lose you. I never knew much good to come of lies. - </p> - <p> - Dear, if you love me much, this will pain you bitterly. I should be glad - to die now, if so I rightly might, that you might think of me always as - you do now, and <i>she</i> might never know, or be wounded in her faith - and pride. - </p> - <p> - For me has been destined the doing of that wrong I look upon as the - deadliest of all. Treachery is the crime, and the crime is mine. - </p> - <p> - Let me tell you again, you tender woman, you dearest and noblest in the - world, how I love you. I think of you constantly, I yearn for your sweet - companionship. You are my dear ideal,—you are to me all peacefulness - and worth and wisdom and womanly greatness and incomparable grace. You are - the pure air to me. - </p> - <p> - Dear, it is because my love for you is the best that is in me that I am at - such pains to make my confession absolute. My heart grows imperious at - thought of you, and leaps for the highest course, though that bids for the - supernal sacrifice of losing you—you, so sweetly gained! For you I - should be happy to die now, heart in hand. - </p> - <p> - It would be sweet, I think, to die now, to leave this black dilemma, to - vanish utterly. And yet, while you live, all splendor and all graces are - here! - </p> - <p> - ... Dear Anne, there is another woman I have been making love to—how - I loathe to write the name—Doris Ewing, who loves me as I love you, - and to whom I grew tender just in hopelessness of you. - </p> - <p> - So far away in the North you were, so like the figment of a fond - impossible ideal, and she was here beside me, dark-eyed and sweet. I loved - her. So often I said it—so sweetly she believed, and the habit grew. - “I love you,” I said, even when I knew that love was just - like. For often she was but as a small craft on the heaving sea of my - passion, the sea that ran to its flood-tide for you! - </p> - <p> - I told her repeatedly I loved her—and lied. Was it any the less a - lie that the spirit of romance was strong within me, and my heart-hunger - made me mad? I loved her in this fashion, say, because she was loving, and - my heart was full of love. - </p> - <p> - It did not come to me forcibly at the time that I was lying. I had come - into the habit of her, and the words did not stick in my throat, as lies - usually do. I did not despise myself. My duplicity I learned to - contemplate with equanimity and to forget, and so I lied ardently and - successfully. What a bad success it was! - </p> - <p> - For Doris loved me dearly, and cried over me a bit, now and then, I - suspect, and was beautiful and happy. I wondered, sometimes (forgetting - the reason that lay in my larger desire—you!), why I did not really - love her. - </p> - <p> - Such is my story, as well as I understand it. - </p> - <p> - She is very sweet, and I am very fond of her. I seek to extenuate nothing; - I write the crude facts as I know them. She has black hair and eyes; she - is very white and slender, with nestling ways. She is not very learned or - rich, but patrician and proud; all agree that she is beautiful. She is - debonair and sweet, and when I think of you she is nothing to me—nothing! - </p> - <p> - But I tried to love her just in love’s despite; and she was happy in - the main, and I was half-resigned. I stifle when I think of that. - </p> - <p> - How pitiful it all was! - </p> - <p> - Often she leaned, touched my shoulder, and spoke with downcast eyes:— - </p> - <p> - “Do you really love me?” - </p> - <p> - “Very tenderly.” - </p> - <p> - “Passionately?” - </p> - <p> - “Passionately.” - </p> - <p> - “With all your heart?” - </p> - <p> - “With all my heart.” - </p> - <p> - “Forever?” - </p> - <p> - “Forever.” - </p> - <p> - She mistrusted me no more than the day mistrusts the sun. - </p> - <p> - And one night I sat late in my room, thinking. It was cold; the wild wind - arose, hissing in the stark trees. Out in the cold sky the stars shone - white and multitudinous. There came to me a wanton mood; I floated with - it, pensive and relaxed. I had no wish to change it, but desired only to - sit peacefully through the midnight until sleep should come, to lightly - conjecture and mildly reflect, to clasp my knees by the fire and await the - fortunes of the hour. Life had grown trivial. - </p> - <p> - And by degrees the thoughts of you came intensely and possessed me. That - was the night I wrote you that mad long letter of adoration and despair. - </p> - <p> - Ah, you were to me impossible! I had been half-resigned. But that night - passion reigned. It was my dearest tribute just to tell you of the love I - had for you. If it was madness, it was a sweet madness. - </p> - <p> - I thought when your letter would come I would sit for a while with it in - my hand, and dream the sweet, the terrible, the improbable,—before I - opened it to read your kind wording (I knew it would be kind) of what my - despair taught me to expect. - </p> - <p> - Then the wires shot stupefying joy. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Everything! Why did you wait so long? Come to me now—at - once! I give you all!</i>” - </p> - <p> - I had the message there at the street. I gazed blankly. Then with - realization came tumultuous sweetness that was pain. Doris, across the - way, stopped singing. - </p> - <p> - “Good news, Roger?” - </p> - <p> - “The best, and the worst!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Tell me about it, when I come.” - </p> - <p> - ...Do your eyebrows slope, and your lips upcurl? - </p> - <p> - I have written it all out. When she comes (she is coming soon) I shall - tell her all, as I have told you. This is to be the blackest hour of my - life. I have made up my mind to tell her the truth. It is her right. But - my heart has so often failed me. If this is tenderness, why what a false - tenderness it is! - </p> - <p> - I have no more hopes of you now than I had when I wrote you. But I belong - to you, and will always belong to you, just for your once loving, even - though you despise me, now and forever. - </p> - <p> - I shall tell her frankly, extenuating nothing. <i>For I will have no more - lies</i>. On that I am resolved. - </p> - <p> - Anne, I do not truly live without you, and I crave the intensest living. I - think of you always as I saw you first—tall and fair, with the gold - across your temples, and the museful, wistful mouth with its serious - thinking silences and then its soft rapid speech, and the eyes, the blue - eyes, that had for me such exquisite language. You are repose—Heaven! - And I am in a hell of my own making, and, dearest, I could not help it! - Ah, I am pleading! I did not mean to plead. - </p> - <p> - Did you have a dream of me, as noble, say? Here am I, who love life - because of you, who love you more than that life or my hope of heaven. But - what to you is such a love? - </p> - <p> - She is coming soon, and I shall tell her. I say I shall have no more - deception. I am yours—yours! I dare not write the prayer that is in - my heart. I cannot say farewell. Remember, when you despise me worst, I am - yours! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II—FROM DORIS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he letter sent - with this was found sealed and bearing your name and address in the room - where Roger died yesterday. He had spoken of you so often that I came - almost to know you. That is why I am writing this note; you were his - friend, and one so noble as he must have noble friends. I thought for a - moment I would ask you to let me read the letter; but I could not bear to - see it and know that it was his last, and written to another.—The - trouble was his heart. Will you be present? I cannot write any more for - crying. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III—THE TWO WOMEN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>aid Doris: “You - are just as I pictured you. May I call you just Anne? How long they - prayed! I did not know you would come. I could not think who you were, - standing beside his grave so beautiful and tearless. I could not see well - for weeping, and the wind was cold, and my head ached. Oh, the wan face! - The black clothes—I did not like the black. I wanted to lie down - there with him and be covered up. The clay was so cold and wet. Oh, how - cold my heart grew! Did you think they prayed long? I was so cold!” - </p> - <p> - “I have never been told how he died,” said Anne. - </p> - <p> - “I entered the library, where he was waiting for me,” Doris - replied. “It was near twilight. He sat by the window, looking out. - When I came in he turned and his face was pale. The room was cold. The - fire had gone out. I never saw him pale before; I was frightened and cried - out. He came to re-assure me, and his face was so pale! He looked at me - long and anxiously—so anxiously. I did not understand this look, it - was so strange. It hurt me because I did not understand it. Now I know it - was physical suffering. He went back to the window and sank into his - chair. ‘Are you not ill?’ I asked. He answered, ‘A - little,’ and added, ‘It will pass.’ But he did not speak - at all or touch me, and when I stroked his forehead he leaned suddenly - forward, his face in his arms, on the window-sill, and would not answer - me. I ran out to tell them he was ill. When the doctor came I was told he - was dead. They gave me his letter to send you, and tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “You do not wish,” said Anne, “to read the letter?” - </p> - <p> - Doris did not reply. - </p> - <p> - “It would make you less able to realize that he is—gone,” - said Anne, gently. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Doris, “and then it was to you,—not - me.” - </p> - <p> - The other’s face was suffused with tender pity. She spoke - impulsively, and yet with a timorous boldness, as one who ventures upon - hazardous and novel ways:— - </p> - <p> - “Doris, he loved you with all his heart!” - </p> - <p> - “He told you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “He spoke of you so often, Anne. We shall always be friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, always.” - </p> - <p> - “You are sure he loved me so?” The girl’s mouth tremored - at the corners. “He did not tell me often enough.” - </p> - <p> - “He loved you dearly,” said Anne. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, if you knew what sweet comfort you give! You are sure?—quite - sure?” - </p> - <p> - “He loved you with all his heart,” repeated Anne. - </p> - <p> - “I will go, Anne. I thank you so much! I think I can weep again, - now. For a while, goodbye. Give me both your hands, and kiss me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE DEAD OAK - </h2> - <h3> - By Anna Vernon Dorsey - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE November day - was drawing to a close. The shadows were deepening in the pine forest that - lay on one side of the sandy road. On the other side, the corn-stalks - stood in level rows against the yellow of the sunset. My horse limped - painfully, for he had cast a shoe several hours since, and my hurried ride - through a thinly inhabited part of lower Maryland, with which I was - unfamiliar, had so far brought me near no blacksmith’s shop. Great, - then, was my relief, on passing the wood, to find a three-cross-roads, and - a small house with a shed from which rang the measured stroke of the - anvil, while the square of the door was ruddy with the forge fire. - </p> - <p> - After calling loudly and waiting in vain for a reply, I dismounted. Just - then the blacksmith came to the door,—a big, low-browed, long-haired - fellow, of few words. After examining my horse’s feet, he announced - that it would be necessary to replace not only the missing shoe, but also - three others. - </p> - <p> - As he proceeded slowly to work, I saw that there was before me the - prospect of a long wait which did not promise to be agreeable, for the man - was either surly or stupid, and gave out monosyllabic replies in answer to - my questions about the country. A dreary country it was, that through - which I was passing,—flat, sandy, impoverished, the virtue having - been tilled out of the soil for two hundred years. Now that the old landed - proprietors had departed to the cities, the majority of the inhabitants - were miserable poor whites and negroes, principally fishermen and - oystermen. Here and there one came across a relic of the past,—an - old manor-house, ruined or deserted, the property generally of one man, a - former overseer, who seemed to own most of the country. - </p> - <p> - And yet there was a charm of the past over this low-lying land,—a - blaze of glory in the west, reflected in the broad river that almost - lapped the roots of the huge pine forests that grew along its banks. - </p> - <p> - As I stood at the door of the smithy, looking eastward, I could see only - one exception to this sombre monotony of pines. On the roadside, in the - middle of a dense sweep of meadows, entirely isolated, stood a huge - oak-tree, the only one of its kind to be seen for miles around. - </p> - <p> - “That must be a pretty old tree,” I remarked. - </p> - <p> - “The Dead Oak? Many a hundred years old, I reckon.” - </p> - <p> - “It doesn’t look dead to me,” I answered; “it has - a dense foliage.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s what they call it,—the Dead Oak. A man hung - himself to it three years ago,” said the smith, with some show of - animation. - </p> - <p> - “One of the neighborhood?” - </p> - <p> - “No; a stranger round here. Nobody ever could find out where he come - from,—Washington likely. The niggers say it’s ha’nted.” - </p> - <p> - “How is that?” I asked, much interested. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know; just ha’nted,” said the man gruffly, - relapsing into silence amid a fire of sparks. - </p> - <p> - Leaving my taciturn companion, I sauntered down to the road, my steps - turning intuitively in the direction of the old tree. - </p> - <p> - A chill wind came from the river, and a flight of crows with harsh cries - arose from its branches, as it stood, the central landmark in the stretch - of meadows. On one side of the road was a zigzag rail fence, and on the - topmost rail of this, under the tree, I seated myself. The lowest branches - almost touched my head, and the dry and dense foliage rustled with every - breeze. - </p> - <p> - Just beyond were two wooden posts, the entrance of a carriage-way leading - through a corn-field to what I had not noticed before, a large house far - back from the road. As I sat there, facing the afterglow of the sunset, I - became aware of the figure of an old negro coming slowly through the - corn-rows, through the gate,—a bent negro with bushy white hair. - Taking off his rabbit-skin cap, with a courtly bow he seated himself on - the roots of the tree. - </p> - <p> - For some moments we sat there in silence, the old man, with his hands - folded, gazing into the west. - </p> - <p> - “Good evening, uncle,” I ventured to remark. “Do you - live near here?” - </p> - <p> - “Not far away,—up dat a-way,” waving his hand - indefinitely in the direction of the shadowy mansion. - </p> - <p> - “Have you lived here long?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Many an’ many a year,” he responded wearily. “Ebber - sence I cum inter de world. I belonged to Mars’ Brooke up yonder.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you must know about the man who hung himself here three years - ago?” - </p> - <p> - “He war n’t no man,” said the old darky sternly. “He - wuz first quality, my young gen’leman. I ought ter know, kase I - buried him bofe times.” - </p> - <p> - At these words, suddenly a thrill ran over me, a sense of mystery, - something accursed brooding over this desolate spot. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Who was he?” - </p> - <p> - “Befo’ de Lord, boss, I don’ know, an’ nobody else - does. It came about dis ‘er’ way: De first time wuz years an’ - years ago. Dar wuz good times in de country den. De quality had n’t - all gone away an’ sol’ de ole places to oberseers an’ po’ - white trash. Mars’ Harry Brooke wuz keepin’ bachelor’s - hall up dar, an’ many’s de high ol’ times and junketings - dey had. Well, one night dey had a gran’ time, a-drinkin’ an’ - a-carryin’ on, he an’ de udder young gemlemens.‘Bout day - de party bruk up, kase de wuz sober enuff den ter ride home. I wuz a young - chap den, an’ I wuz runnin’ on in front ter open de gate, bar’footed, - from de door, kase it war hot weather den, like Injum summer. When I open’ - de gate I scrich out ‘O Gord!’ an’ I like ter fall ter - de groun’, kase dar, wid his face all white an’ orful ‘gainst - de red leabes, a-lookin’ me right in de eyes, wuz a man tied to der - branch, wid a white han’chif aroun’ his neck. It didn’t - take me long ter jump fo’ward an’ take him down, an’ - when de gemlemen rid up dar he wuz a-lyin’ on de groun’ an’ - me a-settin’ right hyar on dis same stump wid his curly head on my - knees. He war n’t quite dead an’ his han’ kotch mine, an’ - his beautiful brown eyes closed a minute, an’ he gasped like an’ - died. All de gemlemen dat came up an’ stan’ ‘roun’, - dey say dey nebber see any one so handsom’ ez my young man wuz, jes - like one er de marble statues in de parlor, wid a eagle nose, an’ a - mouth many a young lady must ‘a’ kissed. But dose days wuz - ober fur him far ebber,—yes, mon. - </p> - <p> - “De quarest thing wuz, he didn’t hab nuthin’ on but a - shirt, an’ dat wuz de fines’ quality, real linin, embroidered, - but no mark or sign on it ter tell whar he cum from. Nobody ain’t - nebber seed him befo’ in dis part ob de kentry. Mars’ Harry - sont all ober the kentry, clar up ter Washin’ton an’ Baltimor’, - but nobody cum fo’ward ter claim him, so he wuz buried. De parson - say he can’t be buried in de cons’crated groun’, kus he - mus’ ‘a’ kill hisself, so me an’ anudder man - buried him in de medder, under dis tree, right nigh whar you is a-settin’.” - </p> - <p> - The old man’s narrative ran on monotonously. It seemed as natural, - as much a part of the scene, as the croaking of the frogs in the deepening - twilight, in which it seemed that I could almost see that white face with - its aquiline nose and large brown eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Dat wuz long ago, long ago,” the old man resumed, “long - ago. De War come an’ went, an’ Mars’ Harry wuz killed, - an’ de firs’ people lef’ de kentry and de kentry wuz - like new-made sod, dirt up’ards; but I nebber fo’got my young - gemleman, real quality, hangin’ hyar in dis tree, away from all his - people. Well, boss, many years parse, an’ Mars’ Harry’s - oberseer done bought de ole place up dar. One night ‘bout three - years ago dey gib one er dese hyar big abricultural suppers, an’ dey - set dare all night eatin’ an’ drinkin’ like dere betters - used ter do. It wuz de same time er year, but misty an’ damp an’ - in de early mornin’ I wuz comin’ long de road an’ I see - a crowd gaddered aroun’ de tree, jus’ like it wuz dat udder - mornin’ long time ago. When I come up, boss, for Gord! dar wuz my - young, beautiful gemleman a-lyin’ on de groun’, stiff an’ - stark, in his shirt, wid dat hankerchief ‘roun’ his neck. I - wuz glad ter see him ag’in, but he war n’t nearly alive, like - he wuz befo’. De doctor wuz dere, an’ he felt him an’ he - say, ‘Dis man bin dead fo’ days. Who has hang dis corpse to - dis tree? Who is de man?’ Jes’ like dey say befo’, - ‘Who is de man?’ Nobody remember’ him ‘cept’n’ - me. De ole crowd dat wuz dere befor’, de quality, dey all parsed - ‘way, what wid de War an’ one thing ur nudder, all gone but - me. But I nebber said nuthin’ ter be called ole crazy nigger,—no, - mon. Dare he wuz, shore ‘nuff, de same eagle nose an’ brown - eyes an’ curls, de same leetle scratch, like de razor done scratch - him on de chin. I knowed him, an’ I cyarried him; none er dem common - folks ain’t fetched him. Dey abertised eberywhar, but nobody ain’t - answer.‘’Case dey can’t. Dey war n’t nobody lef’ - ter answer ‘cept me,” and the old man gave an eerie chuckle. - “De doctors an’ de lawyers talk it all ober, but dey cay n’t - agree, an’ de parson, one er dese hyar new kind, he say he kin be - buried in de churchyard, but de people make a fuss, kase he mought er bin - a su’cide. So I helped bury him ag’in. Seems like I wuz - specially ‘pinted ter be his body-sarvant; dis time it’s right - outside de churchyard, an’ nobody don’t know it’s him - but me, kase dey all passed away.” - </p> - <p> - A pale, watery moon had emerged, the wind soughed among the pine-trees, - and away off an owl hooted. - </p> - <p> - “De nex’ time I’s gwine to bury him right in de - churchyard. He gwine ter come once mo’, an’ I ain’t - gwine ter die till den, an’ dat time he’s gwine ter be buried - in de churchyard, and he won’t come no mo’, an’ den I’ll - pass away.” - </p> - <p> - A shout came through the dusk from the smithy: - </p> - <p> - “Say, mister, come; here’s your horse.” The other words - were indistinguishable. I arose and started up the road reluctantly, - longing to know more of the mystery. The old man again removed his cap, - and so I left him, motionless, seated in the shadows, facing the faint - glow in the west. My horse was ready when I reached the forge, the - blacksmith standing dark and massive in the doorway. “An old negro - has just been telling me a remarkable story,” I said after mounting; - “that there have been two suicides found hanging to the old oak, one - long ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t say,” answered the blacksmith, impassively and - stolidly. “Ain’t lived here very long myself. Always been - called the ‘Dead Oak’ ever since I knowed it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, do you know an old negro with a bushy white head and beard, - who lives near the Brooke House? Who is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Might be old Sam, or Lige, or Cash. Lots of ‘em round here,” - answered the man, and that was all he would say. - </p> - <p> - I mounted and rode off rapidly, for there were still six hours of travel - before reaching my destination. - </p> - <p> - The moonlight was faint and chill, silvering the dry foliage of the old - tree. I drew rein under it, and peered vainly into the shadows for the - darker outlines of the old negro; he had disappeared, but it seemed to me - he was still present, sitting on the gnarled root, with the pallid face of - that young old corpse against his knee, waiting. - </p> - <p> - The owl hooted. A faint light shone from the dim mansion in the fields, - and I pressed on through a belt of low pines. When some distance on my way - I turned and looked back. The glow of the smithy was hidden. All the low - stretch of land was folded in twilight, and against the pale sky the Dead - Oak stood spectral and alone. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT’S BALLAD - </h2> - <h3> - By William Holloway, Jr. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span> was a stormy - evening of March, 1611. All day snow had fallen in a white whirlwind on - Port Royal, winning one by one its points of vantage, and submerging each - in turn relentlessly, till now the tiny colony had almost vanished in the - drifts. - </p> - <p> - Signs of outline there were none. The great stone gateway at the - southeast, carven above with the fleur-de-lis, was dim and shapeless even - to the sentry in the guard-room beside it; the bastion to the southwest, - its four cannon quite buried, melted vaguely into the darkness. Snow lay - everywhere. The gabled houses were turned into white misshapen monsters, - and strange fantastic mounds stretched across the Square. Even the flag of - France in the centre, beneath which the Seigneur of Port Royal stood each - year to greet his vassals, had suffered with the rest, the wind having - wrapped it tightly about its staff, and the interminable flakes blotted - out its lilies. - </p> - <p> - It was ten by the clock, and the colonists long since abed, so that, save - for the blink of the sentry’s candle, a stranger passing by the - guard-room would have seen no sign of life. But that was only because a - giant drift hid the great hall of the seigneurie from sight, for there a - few of them were still awake and drinking deep, in honor of the coming to - Acadie of the Duc de Montpelier, cousin of the king. - </p> - <p> - Within the long wainscoted room, Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port Royal, sat - musing before a huge log fire, with his thin white hands spread out to the - mellow heat. His face, delicately contoured and crossed by many lines, - gleamed with a ruddy hue while the flames roared up the high-arched - chimney; when they sank low again, it had the likeness of an ashen mask - against the blackness of his silken doublet. He was clad entirely in - black, even to his ruffles. His head was sunken on his breast. And thus he - sat gazing at the fire, his shadow on the wall behind keeping time - grotesquely to the leaping flames. - </p> - <p> - To his left Marc Lescarbot, the poet of the colony, listened across a bowl - of muscat to one of Imbert’s endless stories. He was tall and thin, - with dreamy gray eyes; there were girlish dimples on his cheeks. - </p> - <p> - Just now, however, his face was flushed and his fingers played nervously - about his girdle, for Imbert, after a fashion of his own, was emphasizing - the narrative with reckless flourishings of his naked sword. But even - then, with the point almost upon his breast, Monsieur Lescarbot by no - means lost his urbanity, for his smile, albeit a trifle anxious, was still - most wondrous sweet. As for Imbert, the story he was telling had excited - him beyond control. It was as if his wild sea-roving days had returned. - His black eyes flashed fiercely from out his red, scarred face; his - rubicund lips were protruded; his massive left hand was twined in the - coarse black hair that overhung his forehead. As the firelight danced - athwart him he seemed to Lescarbot, always fanciful, much like the gods on - the bowls of the Indian lobster-claw pipes, so broad was his short, squat - body and so flaming red his face. - </p> - <p> - On the right at a small table the Seigneur’s son, Biencourt, and the - Duc de Montpelier played at dice; the one eagerly, as if mindful of his - growing pile of pistoles, the other in listless unconcern. And this - difference the appearance of the two enhanced, for while Biencourt was - tall, blue-eyed, and smooth and fresh of face, the duc was short and dark, - with glittering black eyes and a pale, wearied countenance. And whereas - Biencourt was bravely dressed in doublet and hose of soft blue satin, the - duc wore a black velvet that harmonized sombrely with his paleness and his - listlessness. He had but that day reached Acadie from France, yet the - sight of the forest life about him, the fur-clad lackeys and strange - Indian relics, seemed scarcely to stir his pulses. Instead he sat in - silence by the table, carelessly toying with his white, ringed hands. - </p> - <p> - The round ended and Biencourt swept in his gains. “Doubles?” - he cried. - </p> - <p> - The duc nodded and pushed forward his stake. - </p> - <p> - “It was then the English came aboard us, Monsieur Lescarbot,” - roared Imbert, waving his sword, “and I leave you to judge how - fierce the fighting was with half our men already dead. The deck was a red - shambles, and in the midst stood Pierre Euston, blood from head to heel.” - </p> - <p> - “It is worthy of a ballad,” murmured his hearer. - </p> - <p> - The duc shivered and drew nearer the fire. “Do ballads flourish in - this frozen land?” he asked, with a languid lift of his black - eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - Poutrincourt started from his reverie. “Lescarbot is a famous poet, - monsieur le duc. For a ballad or love-song I know few to equal him.” - </p> - <p> - A blush reddened the poet’s dimpled cheeks. “The wilderness is - full of subjects,” said he, modestly. - </p> - <p> - The wind was rising higher and the stout oaken door rattled clamorously to - the white gusts. His highness the Duc de Montpelier shivered again and - looked about him somewhat curiously at the quaintly carven doors and the - bearskins and heads of deer that hung upon the dark wainscoted walls. - </p> - <p> - “It was then I came up from the lower deck,” went on Imbert, - “and side by side Pierre Euston and I charged together. Ah! Pierre - was a brave fighter in those days, I warrant you, and together we swept - the decks before us. And droll enough work it was, with the wounded dogs - of English laying their swords about our heels as we passed.” - </p> - <p> - “It was scoundrelly work,” broke in Biencourt, balancing his - dice-box on his fingers. “Nothing would please me better than a - meeting with this droll gentleman, this Pierre Euston.” - </p> - <p> - Half seriously, half amusedly, the quondam pirate shrugged his great - shoulders. “Tush! I was but a lad,” he said in a tone of - apology, “and I took no share beyond the fighting.” - </p> - <p> - The dicing went on. The duc threw and lost again and impassively as ever - filled his silver flagon from the pitcher on the long oaken table behind - him. “To your next ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot,” he said, - politely. But the wine was scarce half way to his lips ere there came a - strange interruption. The door opened slowly from without, and a woman - entered, an infant in her arms. - </p> - <p> - In after years, when alone with Imbert in the ruined fort, that scene came - back to Biencourt with startling vividness. Once again he beheld the long - room dyed red in the glow of the fire; once more he saw them as they - started to their feet and stood staring blankly at the stranger. And much - cause was there to stare, for women in Port Royal this winter there were - none,—least of all grand ladies, such as each movement showed this - to be,—while beyond the fort lay naught but a savage, unbroken - wilderness. And Biencourt remembered standing thus while one might slowly - count ten. - </p> - <p> - The duc was the first to speak. “You are cold, madame,” he - said softly. “You must drink some wine.” And, flagon in hand, - he approached her. - </p> - <p> - But the newcomer, who was blue-eyed and most marvellously fair of face, - waved him curtly back. “I have come to ask shelter for myself and - babe, from the lord of the seigneurie, monsieur, not to drink wine.” - Then, pausing as if for breath, she stood erect beside the door, slender - and lissome, a multitude of snow-flakes slowly melting in the red-gold of - her hair. - </p> - <p> - For a moment Poutrincourt was silent. Idly his thoughts travelled the - endless forest wastes of Acadie, snow-clad and inhospitable, where, this - winter of 1611, was no white settlement beside his own. He had even passed - up the great river to Quebec, where his friend Captain Samuel Champlain - had three years before planted the banner of the fleur-de-lis, when with a - start he became aware the woman’s eyes were fixed haughtily upon - him. Then, mindful of his duty, he stepped forward, bowing low, and bade - her welcome to his seigneurie of Port Royal, brushing the snow from her - long fur mantle with his own white hands. And in an instant more the - stranger was ensconced in a chair before the fire. - </p> - <p> - Biencourt and the duc resumed their gaming, Monsieur Lescarbot took out - his tablets preparatory to verse-making, and Imbert busied himself mulling - wine for the conclusion of the evening’s potations, which in Port - Royal were wont to be of the deepest. But no one ventured to mar the - hospitality of Port Royal with a question, and the newcomer proved more - taciturn than would have been expected from the laughing curves of her - lips, sitting moment after moment silent in the glow of the fire. - </p> - <p> - The wind still battered at the door and muttered angrily in the chimney, - but to Biencourt the room was filled with a new light—a strange - radiance that seemed to emanate from the stranger’s golden head or - the crimson kirtle which she wore. He forgot his game. He watched only her - drooping lashes, with a vague hope that soon she might raise them. And as - he watched, the pile of money before him lessened rapidly. - </p> - <p> - “I fear you bring me ill-luck, madame,” he cried at last, - ruefully smiling toward her. “These pistoles have a sorry trick of - vanishing since you came.” - </p> - <p> - The stranger raised her lashes, as he had hoped. - </p> - <p> - She smiled back responsively, and her eyes caught an amber light from the - leaping flames. “Would you turn me into the night again?” she - asked, jestingly, yet with a strange inflection in her voice as though - speaking to some one far away. - </p> - <p> - Biencourt shook his head. “This may bring me fortune,” he - said, in eager tones. And rising and striding to her side, he stooped down - and made the sign of the cross above the baby’s forehead—a - simple superstition, but evidently not to the newcomer’s liking, for - she said with some hauteur, “I, monsieur, am of the reformed faith,” - and leaned back coldly in her chair. - </p> - <p> - “Methinks, madame, you cannot have journeyed far,” broke in - Poutrincourt, who had been staring into the fire. “Your cloak had - little snow for much travel, and, besides, there was the babe.” - </p> - <p> - Madame’s face lost its haughtiness, and she smiled once more. - </p> - <p> - Poutrincourt rubbed his slender hands softly together. “All about us - is the endless forest, and lo! as if by magic you appear! Are you sure - there be no witchcraft in it?” - </p> - <p> - The stranger’s laugh rang through the hall, dying faintly amid the - armor in the far corner. “Mayhap I sailed hither in some sea-rover - from the Spanish lands, or perhaps”—and here she smiled - demurely—“I hid myself in yonder vessel that this day came - from France. Perchance I dared the drifts alone, or I may have bribed some - of the red savages to carry me. But where’er I came from, the sentry - at the gate is not to blame. The night is dark, and the snow has heaped an - easy road from outside over the bastion.” - </p> - <p> - “I am waiting, Monsieur Biencourt,” broke in the duc, with an - impatient glance at his opponent, who was still standing by the stranger - lady’s side. There was such anger in his tone that the other men, - remembering his former listlessness, glanced curiously at him. - </p> - <p> - His pale face was even paler than before; tiny drops of moisture glittered - on his forehead; one hand was clenched above his winnings, in the other - his dice-box trembled. “Does he love his pistoles after all?” - thought the poet, pausing in his poem. The wine was mulled at last and the - goblets filled. The Seigneur of Port Royal drank slowly and reflectively, - in small sips, glancing alternately from the fair-haired mother to her - dark-eyed, cooing child. “I have thought about your lodging, madame,” - he said at last, tilting his goblet to and fro. - </p> - <p> - “Here you would have no rest, else I would give you my own - apartments. This evening we are something quieter than usual, but oftener - the noise of revelling disturbs the forest far into the night. The hall is - full of men in leathern hunting suits, the red savages sit smoking by the - fire, there is gaming and wine-drinking, and in the intervals we sing the - songs of France. But without the fort, a half-mile beyond the gate, are - two disused huts. One of these I give you to inhabit. And that you suffer - insult from none, a protector shall go with you, who shall answer for your - honor with his own. There be two huts, and each shall have one. But this - night you will lodge here.” - </p> - <p> - The stranger leaned forward. Her slender fingers touched his arm. “You - have forgotten to name the one who is to guard me,” she said - hastily, a curious thrill vibrating through her voice. - </p> - <p> - The Seigneur pointed at Biencourt, and her face, which had seemed strained - and eager, relaxed again. “We shall be brave allies, shall we not?” - she cried, turning her blue eyes toward him. Biencourt laughed. “None - better,” he responded in great good-humor. - </p> - <p> - The storm was growing fiercer as the night went on. The door rattled more - noisily, and the flames in the great chimney waved to and fro in the - sudden gusts. The space on the other side of the table, feebly lit by two - candles in brazen candlesticks, became a battleground of shadows from the - group before the fire. The stranger lady, seeming not to mind the storm, - looked dreamily about her at the strange antlers on the walls, and at the - motto of the lords of Port Royal, carved above the oaken mantel, shielding - her baby’s face the while from the glare of the flames. Presently - her eyes met Biencourt’s. - </p> - <p> - “You are brave; is it not so?” she asked, with a laugh and a - toss of her head that spread her golden hair in sunshine over her - shoulders. - </p> - <p> - Imbert answered in his place. “Very brave, and a fine swordsman!” - cried the old pirate, while his black eyes flashed. “All Port Royal - knows the young admiral and his famous wrist-play.” - </p> - <p> - “Admiral!” Again the blue eyes looked into his, and again - Biencourt had the same strange feeling, as if the speaker’s thoughts - were far away, and she were merely toying with the words. - </p> - <p> - “Aye!” went on Imbert, coming nearer, and laying his monstrous - hands upon the mantel, “the late King Henry made him an admiral for - these waters months ere his martyrdom, and since then he has swept the - freebooters from the coast.” - </p> - <p> - His highness the Duc de Montpelier leaned lazily backward in his chair, - raising his black eyebrows. “So my good cousin, Henry of Navarre, - chose for his admirals beardless boys!” he said very softly and very - languidly. - </p> - <p> - There was an instant hush throughout the room, in which the clatter of the - door rose almost to a scream. Imbert drew in his breath with a sharp, - hissing sound; the poet looked up from his tablets, and Poutrincourt from - the fire. These latter were just in time to see Biencourt leap to his feet - and draw his sword, and almost before they understood the cause the fight - had begun. - </p> - <p> - The first of the encounter was much in the duc’s favor. He fenced so - strongly behind a certain affectation of disdain, and his thrusts came so - subtly home, that, ere five minutes had passed, Biencourt was bleeding - from a wound in his left shoulder. The duc lowered his sword and surveyed - his opponent. “Are you satisfied, monsieur?” he asked - placidly. - </p> - <p> - “Not yet!” cried Biencourt, angrily. - </p> - <p> - Imbert drew near and examined the wound. “A scratch!” he - called, contemptuously. Then, with a warning look, he lounged back to his - position by the mantel. The room was very still as the two faced each - other again,—the duc, dark and pale; Biencourt, with a crimson flush - upon his cheeks. - </p> - <p> - There was the same writhing of swords, the same chilly music of steel, and - once again the duellists swayed to and fro. Then for the second time the - duc’s sword found its mark; this time not far below the heart. - </p> - <p> - Biencourt leaned back, ashen white, upon Lescarbot’s shoulder. His - blood flowed fast and his eyes were closed as if in pain. The duc himself - approached and surveyed him, leaning the while a trifle wearily upon his - sword, for the last bout had been a fierce one. - </p> - <p> - “It was a brave fight,” he said slowly. - </p> - <p> - At the sound of his voice Biencourt’s blue eyes opened. “Can - you stay the bleeding?” he asked huskily of Imbert, who with the - deftness of an old campaigner was binding a mass of soft cloths about the - wound. - </p> - <p> - Imbert nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Then a moment more and I am ready.” - </p> - <p> - “But, monsieur,” the duc courteously interposed, “your - wound is deep and you have already done enough for honor. Believe me you - have this night shown a swordsmanship I never saw before—I who have - met and conquered every <i>maître d’armes</i> in France. It was but - by using all my skill I touched you.” - </p> - <p> - But with the duc’s insult still rankling at his heart Biencourt was - in no mood for fine speeches. “I can try once more,” he - answered rather grimly, “and I warn you to be on your guard. Let no - gleam of the stranger’s golden hair tempt you from your - watchfulness, or ill may well betide you.” - </p> - <p> - At this the duc’s pale face flushed and he shook his head in - fiercest anger. But he spoke no word. Then the two faced each other again. - </p> - <p> - Poutrincourt’s oval face was gray and haggard; Lescarbot looked on - half eagerly, half sullenly; Imbert, his hands twined in his shaggy black - hair, alone was imperturbable. And at one side, with head averted, the - stranger leaned idly in her chair, smoothing her baby’s forehead - with her hand. - </p> - <p> - This time there was no respite. The two pressed each other fiercely, their - swords flashing in the candlelight like twin twining snakes. To and fro - they swayed; a dozen times each saved his life as by a miracle; their - breath came in quick and quicker gasps, and still they fought on. The duc’s - face was now fiery red with passion, and it was evident no thought of - mercy lingered in his mind. And for the first time he became uncertain of - the result, for Biencourt was fighting with a dogged persistence that - boded ill. Try as he would, his thrusts were parried so that presently he - began half doubtfully to wonder if at last he had met his equal. And while - these thoughts lingered in his mind, giving to his wounded adversary’s - face a look of pale foreboding, the infant in the stranger’s arms - began crying shrilly. For an instant the duc glanced hastily toward the - chair in which she sat, his guard failed, and Biencourt, fainting from - loss of blood, ran him through the chest. - </p> - <p> - It was months ere Biencourt and the Duc de Montpelier met again. Then one - June afternoon, when Acadie lay in a yellow swoon, the duc appeared before - the two solitary huts, leaning heavily on a stick. - </p> - <p> - “We shall not quarrel again, I hope,” he said gayly, bowing to - Biencourt, who was lounging in the shadow of the forest. “Of a truth - I have no mind to stay longer in bed. And I have come, monsieur, both to - make amends for my discourtesy on the evening of our meeting, and to beg - the honor of your friendship.” - </p> - <p> - And having thus spoken, he bowed low again and waited, a short yet stately - figure set against a background of deep green spruce. But his face, as - Biencourt sprang forward to grasp his hand, showed haggard and drawn as if - through pain. - </p> - <p> - This was the beginning of a strange friendship. Lescarbot had turned the - duel into a ballad of Homeric proportions, variegated here and there with - choice allusions to the “listless lady by the fire.” This the - two read together, seated side by side on a rustic seat Imbert had - arranged in the shadow—all except the ending, which the poet, - despite his skill, had not yet been able to fashion to his mind. Beneath - them the bay sparkled in the sunshine; to the right lay the fort, with its - gleaming cannon; in the distance a purple mountain ridge reared itself - softly against the sky. Of this scene the duc seemed never to weary. - Morning after morning he lounged for hours on the rustic seat, idly - drinking in its beauty. It was at the second of these meetings he asked - Bien-court about his charge. - </p> - <p> - “You have no trouble with these Port Royal gallants?” he - queried. - </p> - <p> - Biencourt shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “And how does madame—Manette, the Seigneur told me was her - name—how does madame relish her forest life?” - </p> - <p> - “She is thinner and her cheeks are pale. Since her child died, I - fear she grieves.” - </p> - <p> - For a time the duc sat silent, carelessly digging with his scabbard in the - moist, black earth. “One may not see her?” he said at last, - doubtfully. - </p> - <p> - “Why not? Without doubt you will respect her honor, and she seems - lonely.” - </p> - <p> - On the duc’s lips a faint smile trembled. For a moment he seemed - about to laugh. But he only repeated, “So she seems lonely.” - </p> - <p> - Biencourt rose and knocked at the door of the adjoining hut. “Does - madame please to walk?” he called. - </p> - <p> - There was a reply from within, inaudible to the duc’s ears, and in - another moment the stranger lady, whose plain name of Madame Manette ill - consorted with her stately air, appeared equipped for walking. The duc - sauntered near. - </p> - <p> - “Madame Manette,” said Biencourt, “I have the honor to - present to your notice his highness Monsieur le Duc de Montpelier.” - </p> - <p> - The duc’s plumed hat swept the earth in greeting. “Methinks - the climate suits us strangers ill,” he said, gayly. “From - your face it steals the roses; me it hinders too long of recovery.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Manette shrugged her fine shoulders. “Are you in danger?” - she asked politely. The subject was evidently uninteresting. - </p> - <p> - The duc shook his head and smiled. His black eyes were full of a strange - light, and his lips quivered so that Biencourt, watching him, feared he - might be in danger of overtaxing his new-found strength. Then the three - set out through the forest, loitering along quaint footpaths brown with - fallen pine needles, or stooping to gather wild flowers in the shelter of - anciently bearded trees, where was naught but primeval stillness. - </p> - <p> - The walk that day, however, was a short one, for Madame Manette was weary, - so that presently they found themselves again before the log hut, with its - thatched roof and mossy walls. Vines of Imbert’s planting were - beginning to twine about the doorway, and in the air floated the dreamy - scent of bursting pine buds. A half mile in the distance the four cannon - on the bastion of Port Royal flashed brightly in the sunshine, and the - flag of France flaunted civilization and progress in the face of the hoary - forest; in a neighboring glade the conical wigwams of an Indian camp stood - brown and lonely in the shadow. - </p> - <p> - At the doorway Madame Manette paused a moment before saying adieu; and as - she leaned listlessly against the door, with her eyes fixed on the distant - fort, the duc asked a question. - </p> - <p> - “Your baby!” he cried, abruptly; “where may its grave - be?” - </p> - <p> - Madame Manette’s blue eyes were scanning the great stone gateway, - and for a moment it seemed she had not heard. Then, without turning her - head, she said slowly: “It is buried where you stand. Your feet, - monsieur, are above its heart.” - </p> - <p> - Her questioner moved hastily aside, a deep pallor on his cheeks, and - Madame Manette went on calmly: “It was my own choice it should lie - there; and my feet, passing over it each day, do but make it rest the - sweeter.” Then, bowing slightly, she retired within. - </p> - <p> - Next day the duc joined in the walk again, and on many succeeding days, - which was very natural, since he and Biencourt were constantly together. - Indeed, now that he had shaken off his listlessness, he had become a most - fascinating companion. To Biencourt he talked for hours of the court and - its affairs; Imbert he held under a respectful spell with stories of his - campaigns in the frozen north, where men perished by squadrons in the - snowstorms. But his fascinations could hardly be said to extend to Madame - Manette, who treated him throughout with a certain chilling disdain. His - remarks she answered in monosyllables; the flowers he gave her she - languidly let fall ere five minutes had passed. But, without a sign of - discomfiture, he next day gathered more and talked on, unconcerned. Very - frequently, too, he made excuses to speak to her alone, when the morning - stroll was ended, and before she had entered the hut. On these occasions, - which generally ended in her abrupt withdrawal, he betrayed a curious - dread of stepping upon the unmarked grave, standing always much to one - side. - </p> - <p> - The summer waxed and waned upon the hillside, dying day by day in - blood-red spots among the hardwood trees, and still Madame Manette - lingered in Acadie. Her seclusion was more rigid than before; it might be - that she was thinner, but that was all. At intervals, as vessels left for - France, the Seigneur called to offer her passage home, which each time she - smilingly refused, accompanying her refusal, however, with such liberal - gifts to the colony’s poor as sent Poutrincourt away in a maze of - wonder. She took pleasure in her seclusion, she told Biencourt one day, - when they were for an instant alone, and in their daily ramblings through - the forest. It had been a strange experience, this summer on the very - skirt of savagery, and her baby’s grave had bound her to the place. - But with the first snow she would return to France. And so time went on. - </p> - <p> - But after many mornings, there at length chanced one when Madame Manette - was indisposed, and there was no walking. Next day the same thing - happened, to the evident annoyance of the duc, who paced for hours up and - down before her door. On the succeeding morning, however, she appeared - again, looking very white and frail. She declined to walk, on account of - weariness, and spent an hour idly in the rustic chair. - </p> - <p> - “You are weak, madame,” cried Biencourt, eagerly, as they - walked back to her hut. “You need aid. Indeed, you seem to grow ever - frailer and more weary.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Manette turned on the threshold of her domains and surveyed her two - escorts with deliberation. There was a faint shadowy smile upon her lips, - and her marvellous hair lay in a golden blaze against the white hollow of - her cheeks. “He dreams—does he not?” she asked, - addressing the duc. - </p> - <p> - “I fear his dreams are true.” And Biencourt, glancing at him, - thought he had never looked so ghastly since his wound. His lips were - aquiver and his words came from them with a strange tremor. - </p> - <p> - But Madame Manette shook her head. “You are both over anxious,” - she said lightly, though even as she spoke her voice faltered wearily. - Then, with a bow and a glance at some wild-fowl flying near, she closed - the door behind her, leaving the two gazing at each other with a mute, - fearful questioning. - </p> - <p> - That night Biencourt chanced to be favored by a visit from Lescarbot. The - poet had been wandering about the forest, vainly striving to fashion an - ending to his famous ballad, and was consequently in a state of great - depression. His figure drooped; his gray eyes stared moodily before him. - And thus for hours he sat, while the moon rose above the trees and paled - the solitary candle with her rays. - </p> - <p> - “There will never be an end,” he cried at last, rising - pettishly and flinging the door open wide. “For months have I - thought upon it—the wild storm, the dicing, the newcomer, and the - duel—and each time I reel back, baffled like a child at the entrance - of a gloomy forest. For who can paint the motive that daily forms itself - beneath his gaze? And here is that which came perhaps from far.” - </p> - <p> - Monsieur Lescarbot’s troubled face relaxed. His analysis evidently - pleased him well, for he stepped briskly into the moonlight flung across - the doorway. - </p> - <p> - Biencourt made no answer. He was busy with a long epistle, which a vessel - on the morrow would carry to a certain black-eyed maid of honor at the - court of France, and scarcely heeded what the poet said. - </p> - <p> - “From far! Who knows how far?” Lescar-bot went on dreamily. - “Perchance from the royal”—here he paused and crossed - himself hastily, as heavy footsteps sounded near by. They came nearer - still, and the poet drew in from the doorway, falling upon his knees in - prayer. Biencourt sprang in wonder to his feet, and there, in the - brilliant moonlight, a few feet from the hut, saw what had so transfigured - his companion, a man bending laboriously beneath a heavy load—a load - with lifeless limbs, and loose hair waving in the night wind. Then he - knew, as the poet had known, it was the Duc de Montpelier with the dead - form of Madame Manette upon his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - A moment only the duc paused before he staggered across the threshold, - and, shivering violently, laid the body on the floor. Yet in that moment - the thought of his broken trust stung Biencourt like a lash, and half - unconsciously his sword flashed in the moonlight. But ere he could frame - the question surging to his lips, it was answered. - </p> - <p> - The duc sank down beside the body, his left hand resting on the ashen - face. “You will seek to know the meaning of the riddle,” he - said mechanically, without lifting his eyes from off her rigid form. - “It is very simple. She was my wife. Nay, do not start, monsieur”—as - Biencourt made a gesture of amazement. “It is as I say, and this is - the body of Madame la Duchesse de Montpelier, wife of a prince of the - blood, and—a Huguenot. And know you not”—and here the - duc spoke lower and his words came slowly, while he made the sign of the - cross—“know you not the Holy Father can disannul such - marriages if it be the interest of the Truth? And among all the Huguenots - of France—fierce and bitter as they have been and are—is there - none more relentless than the comte, her father.” - </p> - <p> - For an hour the duc spoke no word more. With his arms tightly clasped - about his wife’s stiffening form, he crouched beside her on the - floor. And at the table near by the two unwilling spectators sat watching. - </p> - <p> - Finally the duc spoke again, still with the same mechanical tone and with - his eyes still fastened on her face. “She came to Acadie without my - knowledge, by the connivance of some of her own faith at Rochelle, as she - herself told me, hiring a swift trading bark that dogged our course all - the way, and landed her in the darkness below the fort. And ever since our - meeting here has she been most bitter to me. She gave me no reproaches. - She was too proud, if you understand, but each morning her eyes rested - scornfully on me, as we left her at the door. Often, too, in the evenings, - would I wander about her hut, watching her shadow pass to and fro across - the window. Once I tapped lightly at the door, giving a secret signal we - had often idly used in France, and she bade me depart so sternly I never - ventured signal more. To-night it chanced I was standing not far from the - window, when suddenly I heard her fall. In an instant I was within, but - Manette was already dead. And now she is dead, monsieur,” went on - the duc, his eyes glittering feverishly as he tossed the golden hair - caressingly to and fro, “now she is dead, she is mine again. And I - will bury her this night in a secret place I last week learned of, so that - alien faces shall look on her no more, and where she shall slumber by the - dust of dead Indian chiefs, and near the noise of a rushing stream. For it - was by a brawling brook on her father’s estate that we first met, - and ever she loved its noises well.” - </p> - <p> - The rest of the night to Biencourt was always like a half-forgotten dream. - Together he remembered they had borne the icy body the distance of a - hundred yards, when, wearied from their recent wounds, he and the duc had - come perforce to a sudden stop. It was then he had left the duc and - Lescarbot with their burden, and, running to the fort, brought Imbert, - yawning, to their aid. After that the journey was easy, for Imbert poised - Madame Manette’s body on his giant shoulders, easily as a mother - might raise her child, and mile after mile bore it on through the waving - forest. Port Royal, its bastion and palisades swimming in yellow - moonlight, was left behind; the forest closed over them, dark and sullen, - and still they pressed on. The duc went first, leading the way without - hesitation, for the path was well marked, though in shadow, and even to a - stranger impossible to miss. And by this the others knew they were going - to the ancient sepulchre of the Indian chiefs—a place of mysteries, - where strange influences had their hiding-places. - </p> - <p> - The gray light of dawn was filtering coldly into the rocky well of - sepulchre when they arrived. On all sides were niches in the walls, each - niche a grave; and, drowning all voices in a hoarse clamor, a tiny stream - fell thirty feet adown the rock into a murky pool below, whence a chasm in - the cliff led it downward to the sea. - </p> - <p> - It was here they buried Madame Manette, erstwhile Duchesse de Montpelier, - the duc praying long and fervently. And that none might look upon her face - again, Imbert, going higher up the stream, changed its course by means of - massive rocks, so that now and forever that brawling stream flows down - across her grave. And here, with the vagrant spray falling thickly upon - their faces, did the duc bind them by a fearful oath to guard his secret - well from all save Poutrincourt. - </p> - <p> - Then, while the sun rose, they went slowly back to Port Royal through the - lightening forest. The duc staggered weakly; his eyes were sunken; there - was a grayness upon his face much like the grayness of the dead face he - had looked at so long. Nor did he speak until the great gate of the fort - loomed in sight, when, rousing himself as if from slumber, he said - musingly, “It is the ending of—a ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - ON THE BRINK - </h2> - <h3> - By Edwin Lefevre - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UDDENLY it dawned - upon them that they loved one another. They had been talking about - mind-reading, and he had looked long and steadily into her eyes when she - had challenged him to read her thoughts. They realized simultaneously what - had happened. She had known that she loved him, and he, that he loved her. - But each had sought to keep that knowledge from the other. Now they could - hide it no longer. - </p> - <p> - They remained silent for a long time, avoiding each other’s gaze. At - last their eyes met. - </p> - <p> - He said, “Well?” His voice expressed nothing; in his eyes - there was sorrow and—hope! - </p> - <p> - She shook her head, and he turned away his eyes; there was disappointment - in them that he would not show. Then she said, very quietly, “You - have read my thoughts?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, still without looking at her; “and you—” - </p> - <p> - “I have read yours.” - </p> - <p> - Tears were in her eyes. If his, too, were wet, she could not see, for he - was looking fixedly at a little pebble at her feet. At last he said, - passionately, “Oh, why did I meet you! Why should I suffer so?” - </p> - <p> - “And I?” she said. “Is it not worse for me? Is not my - sin greater, and therefore my punishment heavier, than yours? Oh,”—in - answer to an impatient gesture of denial,—“you will meet some - woman whom it will not be a sin to love, and you will—” - </p> - <p> - “You know I will not,” he interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you will,” she said, very gently; “and then—” - </p> - <p> - He raised his head and gazed steadily at her. Then he said, challengingly, - “You wish me to love another?” - </p> - <p> - She looked away from him and was silent. Gradually there crept into his - eyes a look of hope; and hope was slowly turning into exultation when she - spoke, so softly that he barely could hear her, “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - Then he said, altogether too calmly, in too commonplace a manner, “Oh, - very well, since you wish it—” - </p> - <p> - And she said, very firmly, “I wish it!” - </p> - <p> - Slowly they returned to the house. The sun was setting, and there was gold - and nacre and glowing blood in the sky. In the garden the wind stirred the - leaves gently, and there was sorrow in their song. - </p> - <p> - Her husband awaited them. “Is n’t it a beautiful sunset?” - he said to them from the piazza. “I suppose you’ve been - looking at it. You might write a sonnet about it, my boy.” - </p> - <p> - She went up to the gray-haired man and kissed him on the lips, and leaned - against him, until he wound his arm about her waist, and she rested her - head on his shoulder caressingly; and then she looked defiantly at the - young man, who had drawn near. - </p> - <p> - The young man’s hands closed tightly, and in his eyes there was - disappointment and anger and some contempt. “Yes, John, I believe I - <i>could</i> write a few elegies on the death of this Sun, who has shed - his blood in his fight with Night, and has spattered it all over the sky, - so that the angels will have to wash it off with their tears. Sunsets are - my forte, anyway—” - </p> - <p> - “I have never seen any of your verses,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Then you may congratulate yourself upon your lucky escape.” - </p> - <p> - The gray-haired man smiled good-naturedly and patted her cheek; and she - held it up to be kissed, and nestled closer to him. Then she looked at the - young man, and in her eyes there was still defiance, and, though she would - not have shown it, some interest. She said, “I have heard so much - about them that I should like to read them.” - </p> - <p> - “Really?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “You are reckless.” And the bantering tone did not hide from - her the significance that lay behind his words. - </p> - <p> - “You must show some of them to her,” said the gray-haired man - to him. - </p> - <p> - “All right. I’ll hunt them up, some time, and send them to - you,” said the young man to her. - </p> - <p> - “Have n’t you any here?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he replied; “but they are all love songs, and - therefore not worth the reading.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed!” she said. The gray-haired man patted her cheek - indulgently. This time she did not upturn her face for a kiss. And in her - voice there was an unnecessary indifference as she said to the young man, - “Will you let me read them to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” he replied, laughingly, though his eyes were - serious. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” she persisted. - </p> - <p> - “In the first place, because they are not worth anything; and then - you might get an impression that I really meant what I wrote, and that I - am deeply in love with some one.” - </p> - <p> - “And you are not in love?” There was a challenge in her voice. - The gray-haired man smiled at her girlish, artless curiosity. - </p> - <p> - “Certainly not!” the young man said decidedly. - </p> - <p> - “But were you in love when you wrote them?” - </p> - <p> - “I really don’t know,” he answered. “Perhaps I - was.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, <i>I</i> am,” she said, looking at him steadily. And - when his eyes had shown astonishment and had begun to shine with - irrepressible hope, she continued: “Indeed I am,—with my own - dearest husband, who is so good to me. Am I not, darling?” And she - entwined her arms about the gray-haired man’s neck and kissed him on - the lips twice. And the gray-haired man laughed and looked pleased. - </p> - <p> - The young man’s face was rigid and very pale. In the dusk they could - not see that his lips were twitching. But she had grown strangely quiet. - </p> - <p> - A great stillness had fallen upon the world. The evening star was shining - very brightly now, and in the east a little lone star was blinking - tremulously. - </p> - <p> - Presently she said, “I am afraid,” and shivered. - </p> - <p> - The gray-haired man drew her closer to him, kissed her, and said: “Afraid - of what, little coward? But come, it is time to go in, my child.” - </p> - <p> - The young man’s thoughts had been many during the brief spell of - silence that had preceded her words, and now he said: “Yes, <i>little - sister</i>, you ought to go in now.” - </p> - <p> - The gray-haired man laughed good-naturedly at this jest of his young - brother’s. But she drew a quick breath and went into the house - hurriedly. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he gray-haired man - was nodding over his newspaper in the library. She had just ceased to hold - the latest novel upside down in her hands. She hesitated for a moment; - then she arose, saying: “It is so warm here; I am going on the - piazza.” - </p> - <p> - The gray-haired man started. “What ‘s that, my dear?” he - asked, shamefacedly. He feared that she might think he had been asleep. - They had been married but four months. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to sit on the piazza; it’s cooler,” she - said. - </p> - <p> - “Is Dick there?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, then. But don’t stay too long; the night air is - not good for you.” It certainly was not good for him, so he remained - in the library nodding over his newspaper. - </p> - <p> - She went to the piazza. Sitting on the veranda-rail, the young man was - smoking. At the sound of her steps he started up eagerly; but when she was - near him, his eyes showed nothing, his face was calm. - </p> - <p> - “A beautiful night, is n’t it?” said she. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he acquiesced. He stifled a yawn ostentatiously. Then, - as though the thought had just struck him, “Shall I fetch you a - chair?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, thanks; I am going upstairs shortly,” she said, with - indifference. - </p> - <p> - “Shall I fetch you a chair?” This in another tone. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she answered. - </p> - <p> - He did so, and then resumed his seat on the veranda and smoked in silence. - </p> - <p> - Overhead, the sky was as molten sapphire and the stars seemed more - numerous than ever before, and brighter and nearer to the earth. - </p> - <p> - “Lovely, is n’t it?” she said at last. - </p> - <p> - “What is?” - </p> - <p> - “The sky, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - After a silence she said: “I’ve never seen so many stars - before; have you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, slowly, “there was one more last night,—mine!” - </p> - <p> - “Yours?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - There was another pause,—a long one. She was looking at a little - star that was shining very faintly low in the sky. Finally she said, - softly, “Show me your verses.” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot,” he said, almost in a whisper. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” She avoided his gaze. - </p> - <p> - “You know very well,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “But if I ask you as a great favor—” - </p> - <p> - “I should still refuse,” he said, wearily. - </p> - <p> - “You are very rude.” - </p> - <p> - “And you are very cruel,” he returned, monotonously. - </p> - <p> - “But not so cruel as you,—to arouse a woman’s curiosity, - and then to refuse, absolutely, to gratify it!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, so it is merely curiosity?” His voice trembled slightly. - </p> - <p> - She hesitated; her foot was tapping on the ground nervously. Then, as if - she had weighed the consequences, she said: “Of course, merely - curiosity.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you lied this afternoon, and you are only a coquette? I might - have known it!” He spoke with difficulty for his teeth were clinched - tightly. - </p> - <p> - “How dare you speak to me so?” she said, angrily. - </p> - <p> - And then he answered in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard: - “And how dare you forget that you are my brother’s wife?” - </p> - <p> - She gave a half-smothered cry of pain, as though he had struck her. Then - she buried her head in her hands and sobbed softly. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t!—Please don’t—Oh, don’t—Gladys—” - he said. It was the first time he had called her thus, by name, and she - said, between her sobs: “Oh, I am so unhappy, so unhappy!” - </p> - <p> - She raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. He - went toward her hesitatingly. By her side he paused; his hands were - clinched and held close to his face. He said hoarsely: “Don’t. - Don’t make—me—forget—” He drew nearer; she - held up her arms as if to ward off a blow, and then the gray-haired man’s - voice called out sleepily from a window on the other side of the cottage: - “Gladys! Dick!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” said the young man. - </p> - <p> - “You had better come in now.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Coming.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t breakfast the - next morning the young man said: “I am going back to the city this - morning, John.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you? When will you return?” said the gray-haired man. He - did not think his honeymoon had waned yet; but it never shines very - brightly on three people at once, and— - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” answered the young man. “I shall - go to Jack Livingston’s first; I promised to spend a week or two - with him. And then I think I’ll go to Maine. I am told the fishing - is exceptionally good this season.” - </p> - <p> - She said nothing. The gray-haired man began to talk about the anxious - cares of a floriculturist. - </p> - <p> - After breakfast she disappeared. The gray-haired man said good-bye to his - younger brother, to whom he had been as a father, and went out to consult - with his head gardener about a new variety of orchids which he had just - received from the Isthmus of Panama. - </p> - <p> - All that morning the young man wondered if she would not bid him farewell. - At last the groom came to tell him that the cart awaited him. - </p> - <p> - He was in the hallway, deliberating whether he should seek her, when she - came down the stairs slowly. Her face wore a look it had never known - before. Occasionally it is seen on some women when they wear the widow’s - garb for the first time,—a blending of sorrow and yearning, and, - withal, resignation. She halted at the foot of the stairs, her hand - resting upon the carved post. “So you are going?” she said, - monotonously. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” His voice was low. - </p> - <p> - “For a long time?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” He dared not look at her. - </p> - <p> - “It is for the best,” she said. He answered nothing. - </p> - <p> - The groom came to the door and said: “I beg your pardon, sir, but - the train is due now, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well, I’m coming.” - </p> - <p> - She gave two sharp little indrawn gasps. Then, speaking very quickly, she - said: “Wear this. My mother gave it to me when I was confirmed. When - she died I took it off because it reminded me of her and it made me cry. - It is sacred to me. It is all I can give you. I am sure she would not - blame me—” She paused and looked at him questioningly. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he answered, reverently. - </p> - <p> - “Take it!” She held a little ring, a plain gold band, toward - him, and he took it and with some difficulty placed it on his little - finger. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye!” she said. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her imploringly. His lips dared not utter what his eyes told - so plainly. It was a request, nothing more, but she shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye,” she repeated, extending her hand. - </p> - <p> - He took it and held it tightly. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye,” he said. Her hand remained in his. She could not - withdraw it and there were tears in her eyes as she said, gently, for the - last time: “Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye,” he said again. He bent over to kiss her hand, but - she drew it back quickly. Then she went up the stairs slowly. - </p> - <p> - He had resolved not to look back, but before the little cart had gone two - hundred yards he turned his head. There was no one on the piazza, and her - windows being curtained he could not tell whether she was looking at him - from her room. He gazed long towards the little cottage. Then, as he heard - the whistle of the approaching train, he turned his eyes to the front, and - his face took on a calm, resolute look. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - A WOMAN’S LIFE - </h2> - <h3> - By Anthony Leland - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>E is dead!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Miss ‘Lizbeth! and you alone with him?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I was alone with him.” - </p> - <p> - She said this in a manner which seemed to imply that there was nothing - strange in the fact that she was alone with him. She was always alone with - him, was she not? Was it necessary that she open the doors and call them - all in because he was dying? - </p> - <p> - They passed from the narrow hall into the front room with its green-paper - window-shades, its worn carpet and meagre furniture. His bed had been - moved down from the floor above when his last illness had seized him, and - here it had remained, a black walnut bedstead, with towering head-board, - which shut out the light from one of the two windows in the room. This - bedstead had been one of his few, his very few, extravagances in years - gone by, and in its dark shadow he lay now rigid. He had been a stern, - grizzled man in life, but the sternness then had been as very softness - compared with the hard, cold outline of the lace now upon the pillow in - the green light of the lowered window-shade. - </p> - <p> - They moved about the room on tip-toe, speaking in the hissing whispers - considered appropriate by them in the presence of death. - </p> - <p> - “When did it happen?” some one asked. - </p> - <p> - “Half-hour ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Had n’t I better call the doctor or the minister?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t see what good they’d be.” - </p> - <p> - Another woman crept in silently, a shawl huddled about her head. - </p> - <p> - “I jest heard,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - They waited in silence for her to go on. She was the woman of the village - who always officiated at the “laying out” of their dead. The - reason for this no one had ever sought. Possibly the right was hers - because she so enjoyed the grewsome privilege. At least she clung to it - tenaciously. - </p> - <p> - “Now, Miss ‘Lizbeth, you jest go upstairs and I’ll tend - to things,” she said, while the other women awaited her commands, - half resenting her cool assumption of control, but with a full - consciousness of her capability in “tending” to such “things.” - </p> - <p> - The bare little church, with its white walls and staring windows, its - stiff pine pulpit painted a dingy yellow, with the minister’s green - upholstered chair behind it, was well-filled the day of the funeral. A - “burying” was not a thing to miss without grave cause. There - were old men and old women in the congregation who had not missed a - funeral within ten miles of them for fifty years. They sat solemnly - waiting for the minister to begin the services, taking close notice of the - coffin and calculating its cost. Not a difficult problem for them with - their long experience. They also noted closely the appearance of the one - mourner who sat directly in front of the pulpit, alone save for the - presence in her pew of the woman who had come to her huddled under a - shawl. This strange woman always sat with the mourners as though she felt - a claim upon the bodies of the dead until their final surrender to mother - earth. But the dead man’s daughter sat away from her companion quite - at the farthest end of the seat, as if she would be as much apart from - them all in her present loneliness as she had been before. It was fifteen - years since she had sat with them in the church, and they looked at her - now with curiosity. A slight little woman, with tired eyes and dull brown - hair streaked with gray! - </p> - <p> - The minister arose and folded upon the open Bible his lean hands with - their great veins and yellow joints. He prayed long and laboriously, his - voice rising from a doleful sing-song drawl into a shout and then sinking - into a whisper. They wagged their heads knowingly in the pews and - whispered to one another that it was a “pow’ful effort.” - Toward the close of his prayer many eyes were turned expectantly toward - the woman who sat alone. The minister was calling loudly for “the - lost sheep who is not with us safe in the shelta’ of Zion’s - walls. O Lord!” he wailed, “make yoh wahnin’ plain to - her onseein’ eyes that she may seek safety from the wrath to come.” - If the woman heard or understood his words no acknowledgment of that fact - touched her thin face. She sat with folded hands, her eyes upon the narrow - front of the box like pulpit. Then the minister began his sermon. From the - earliest dawn of the dead man’s life, through his childhood, youth, - and manhood unto the last moment of his old age the speaker journeyed, - going unctuously over the dreary details of the meagre, common history. - They all knew it well enough, but they listened greedily, jealously - fearful that the speaker might overlook a single incident in the man’s - dull story. When he had exhausted every period of his subject’s - life, the minister began the apotheosis of the man. His goodness, his - charity, his uprightness, and, above all, his “tireless labors in - the vineyard of the Lord” were dwelt upon. He had in truth been - cruel and hard and mean. They all knew this, but he had lived and died - “a member in good standing,” and any other treatment of his - character by the preacher would have been a scandalous thing, unheard of - and not to be forgiven. At the close of his discourse the minister turned - his colorless eyes upon the woman who sat apart. “There was,” - he said, his voice falling into a slow and solemn drawl, “there was - one cross which our Lord and Master seen fit to bind upon the shoulders of - the brother who has jest gone befoh us into the glory of the Heavenly - Kingdum. A cross hard to bear, a cross whose liftin’ he had wrestled - for with the Lord Jesus often and mightily in prayer. But which Divine - Providence seen fit to allow to remain upon the shoulders of his faithful - son. It was, my brothers and sisters, the refusal of the only one of his - kin to accept the Lord, to wash herself in the blood of the Lamb, to join - with those who journey onward safe in the arms of Jesus into the glory of - everlastin, life.” His voice had risen into a shout. “The - night is comin’, the day is almost done. Oh! let us pray for them - who falters and will not turn from the wrath of God befoh it is too late.” - His voice sank suddenly into a whisper, and the words “too late” - went hissing out over the heads of the people who sat with craning necks - and knowing faces cruelly turned toward the woman, whose eyes for a single - instant had not left the front of the dingy yellow pulpit. - </p> - <p> - The hearse, with the one closed carriage of which the village boasted, - moved slowly away from the church along the muddy road, followed by a - straggling line of wagons. The majority of the people lingered about the - church door watching the woman who sat stiffly erect in the carriage, the - minister facing her, at her side the woman who seemed to have so strange a - love for the dead. This woman sat with her handkerchief pressed to her - eyes as if she must needs make amends for the other’s stony - composure. - </p> - <p> - The road, after leaving the village in the bottom lands along the river, - wound up the side of the bluff upon which the burying ground was situated. - It was an autumn day, and the golden haze of that most glorious of seasons - in the Missouri valley bathed the wide stretch of country upon which the - cemetery looked down. A sky of marvellous blue spread its canopy above - them, while the bright glow of the western sun brought out in pitiless - detail the dreary little home of the dead with its crude tiptilted - monuments and scattered, sunken graves, its rays enfolding with no - mellowing touch the group of sallow-faced men and women in rusty and - shapeless garb who clustered about the newly made grave. They lifted their - voices and sang quaveringly amid the strangely death-like stillness of the - declining day. It was a dismal tune in plaintive minors, and as they - dragged it out in unmusical and uncertain tones it seemed a fitting symbol - of their narrow, unlovely lives. When the last clod of reddish clay had - fallen upon the oblong mound, they turned and walked away to leave their - dead unnoticed until another of the living should pass from the grimness - of life into the—to them—greater grimness of death. - </p> - <p> - As the procession crawled along the heavy road toward the cluster of - houses upon the river’s bank, the minister, his great hands resting - upon his knees, his pale eyes blinking solemnly, began:— - </p> - <p> - “E-eliz’beth, you are left alone now.” She nodded her - head in affirmation. “You haven’t much of this world’s - goods.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve kept two of us from starvin’ for five years. I - reckon I can keep myself,” she replied stiffly. - </p> - <p> - “Yoh father was well-fixed once, but the Lord seen fit to deprive - him of his earthly treasures that he might lay more store by them gifts - which is above earthly price.” - </p> - <p> - “He was a graspin’ man and over-reached himself.” - </p> - <p> - The woman beside her sniffed reproachfully and glanced at the minister - with sorrowful air. The man stirred uneasily and lifted a hand in - expostulation. - </p> - <p> - “A daughter shouldn’t jedge. If you was enlightened by the - spirit you would n’t be so lackin’ in Christian charity.” - </p> - <p> - She had endured much that long afternoon, and she raised her eyes now - defiantly. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve done my duty by him—I’ve done my duty for - twenty years without complainin’.” - </p> - <p> - “The pride of the onregenerate must be humbled,” returned the - minister. - </p> - <p> - She vouchsafed no reply, and they went on in silence, the setting sun - touching with softened light her worn face and tired eyes. - </p> - <p> - The sun was low in the western sky when the two women reached the small - house, once white but now a dirty gray, with great yellow streaks - following the lines of the overlapping clapboards. The black waters of the - swiftly flowing river were flecked with red and gold under the level rays - of the sun, the rounded hills on the other side of the stream were softly - blue, toward the east a white fog was rising. A flock of wild geese high - in the gray-blue sky was flying swiftly southward, spread out in a great - straggling V. The mournful cry of their leader reached the two women - faintly, the flight of the wild geese was an unfailing sign of approaching - winter, and they watched the black lines of the flying fowls until they - vanished in the southern sky, their weird cry growing fainter and sadder - and finally dying away, leaving the swish of the river against its muddy - bank the only sound which troubled the quiet of the autumn twilight. Two - women with hushed voices and funereal faces waited inside the dingy front - room of the house. - </p> - <p> - “It was a right smart gathering,” said one of them. - </p> - <p> - “I never see a finer,” said the other. - </p> - <p> - “And the minister was mighty pow’ful,” ventured the - third in mournful tone. - </p> - <p> - They looked at the dead man’s daughter expectantly. Common decency - surely required some expression of gratified approval of the congregation - and the sermon. But she was folding her shawl carefully, laying it upon - the bed alongside her rusty bonnet. She seemed not to have heard their - voices. Then she sat stiffly by the window looking out at the mud-clogged - road. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you feel reconciled, Miss ‘Lizbeth,” one of the - women began. - </p> - <p> - “I reckon I am. He’s been awful hard to take care of,” - she replied with her hard honesty. She turned her eyes away from the - window and looked wearily at her visitors. - </p> - <p> - “It’s supper time. There ain’t any use of your stayin’ - with me.” - </p> - <p> - The three women arose, angry at their dismissal. - </p> - <p> - “I ‘lowed you’d want some one to stay with you the first - night,” said one of them with a lugubrious sniff. - </p> - <p> - “I ‘ve got all the nights of my life to stay alone in. I - ‘bout as well begin now.” - </p> - <p> - She watched them as they went away through the deepening gloom, their - heads together nodding wisely. They were talking about her, of course. She - knew well enough what they said. She knew how hard and strange and - unfeeling they were calling her. And as she sat alone by the window she - wondered whether she was all these. The bed in its dark corner brought to - her mind the picture of the man who had first quit it for his narrow bed - upon the hillside. She fancied that she saw his hard, thin, yellow face - upon the pillow now; that she heard his querulous voice demanding her - attention, upbraiding her for some fancied forgetfulness, fiercely - denouncing her for her lack of “religion.” How hard he had - been! As the woman’s thoughts travelled back along the years she - could not recall one kind word, one touch of thankfulness for her - unremitting care, for her absolute immolation of life, hope, love upon the - altar of “duty.” Twenty years! what a long time it seemed! - </p> - <p> - She passed into the back room and pressed close to the little square - looking-glass which hung against its wall. The daylight was well-nigh - gone, but she could yet discern the reflection of her face against the - background of gray twilight. How old she looked! How sallow she had grown! - There were great lines about her mouth and deep furrows between her eyes. - And her hair,—how dingy it was with its streaks of yellowish gray! - Twenty years ago she had been proud of her hair. It had been bright and - soft. She was twenty years old then, and there were roses in her cheeks, - and her eyes, so pale and tired now, had been blue and fresh then. She - wondered if she had wept their color and their brightness away. Perhaps - that was the reason no tears were left for her father. She had shed them - all long ago for the man whom she had loved and given up. - </p> - <p> - She did not return to the front room where the great bed loomed so weirdly - in the gloom, but sat by the one window in the little back room, half - kitchen, half dining-room, looking out upon the river growing blacker and - colder in the falling night as it flowed from out of the west where a - rapidly diminishing, dull red streak marked the track of the vanished sun. - </p> - <p> - Twenty years since her mother died and her sister, selfish in her new life - as a wife, had said that ‘Lizbeth’s duty lay in their father’s - house. He might marry again or die in a few years. Surely it was not so - hard for a young girl to wait. So she had waited, her lover fretting as - lovers will, until one day she had awakened to the fact that a man’s - patience is not like a woman’s. There had been one awful night which - she remembered after all these years with a shudder. A night when, for the - first and only time in her hard life, she had turned hotly upon the stern - old man and told him of her love and of her wrecked girlhood, praying - wildly for some help, for some sympathy. She caught her breath sharply now - as she recalled her father’s bitter words. That same night her lover - left. Fifteen years had come and gone since then. The great world had - taken him, and whether he lived or had been claimed again by mother earth - the woman who sat and dreamed of the past alone in the dusk knew naught of - him. She had practised a woman’s faithfulness; she had reaped a - woman’s hard reward. Afterwards her sister died and left to her care - a blue-eyed babe. How she had poured out upon that baby boy the pent up - mother-love within her. But the gods in their wisdom had taken him too. In - this still night as she lived over again the years which were gone, she - seemed to feel the clasp of those baby arms about her neck and to hear the - crooning of that soft baby voice. - </p> - <p> - And then came the long years of her father’s illness when she knew - no moment of rest or peace. It had been a long struggle between a loveless - woman on one side and gaunt starvation upon the other without one word of - gratitude to strengthen her. And they called her hard because she could - not weep! She looked at her hands, holding them up close to her face. How - misshapen and ugly from toil they were! - </p> - <p> - It was quite dark now and the river murmured strangely under the wind - which was creeping down from the north. Her hands fell back into her lap - and two great tears coursed slowly down her worn face—not for the - man who lay under the stars in the little cemetery on the hill, but for - her own vanished youth and love and hope. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - “WHEN THE KING COMES IN” - </h2> - <h3> - By Anthony Leland - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>HE slunk along in - the shadows listlessly, staring with unheeding eyes at the shuffling - crowds upon the sidewalks, at the fly-blown, tawdry splendors of the shop - windows, and at the yellow gloom of the pawn-shop. The autumn wind swept - sharply up from the river, and she drew her old plaid shawl about her - tightly with one hand, while with the other she covered her swollen and - discolored cheek. The sidewalks and roadway were covered with a thin, - slippery coating of mingled filth and mud. An autumn mist, heavy with - smoke, pressed itself tightly down upon the street, deadening the light of - the electric lamps at the corners into mere splotches of a dully-luminous - gray. Frowsy, palefaced girls hung about dark doorways where they bandied - mirthless jests with lounging men and boys. In front of a bar-room, whence - came the fangling notes of a piano and the scream of a high-pitched - soprano voice, a man stood and urged the passers-by to go in and witness - “the dizziest ‘vawdyville’ in the city.” The woman - in the old plaid shawl passed him without heeding his blatant voice. She - had heard his sing-song shout many times; the “dizzy vawdyville” - was nothing new. There never was anything new in Myrtle Street; it was - ever the same ugly, sordid, joyless place day and night, week in and week - out. It was always crowded with people, but it was always strangely sullen - and mirthless. You never heard any one laugh there. At times when some one - slipped and fell upon the slime of the pavement, or when one of the - white-faced girls hurled shrill defiance at a man or at her companions, a - hoarse human bark rent the air, but it was not a laugh. Even the children, - who scrambled in the gutters and crept in and out of the dark alleys, - forgot to laugh. - </p> - <p> - The woman with swollen and discolored cheek, who was crawling along in the - shadows, halted in front of a dram-shop on a corner, and gazed doubtfully, - longingly, at its swinging door. She was wondering if perchance Red Mike - would trust her for a drink. She felt keenly the chill air from the river. - She was strangely weary and down-hearted, too. - </p> - <p> - Earlier in the evening she and her man had quarrelled. He was drunk, as - usual, and had struck her, but for some unaccountable reason she had not - screeched and struck back and tried to claw his face. She had simply - grabbed her old shawl and escaped into the street, where she had wandered - about for an hour. It was very odd that she had acted thus, and now she - was shamefaced about asking Red Mike for a drink of whiskey! He got all - their meagre earnings, anyway, did Red Mike, and he was usually easy - enough about donating a dram or two when they were down in their luck, and - heretofore she had n’t minded asking him. And if he chanced to - refuse, she eased her mind by a good mouthful of curses, which she spat at - him like a cat. But tonight she was foolishly squeamish about asking him; - she feared the loafers about the bar would jeer at her if he refused; her - face pained her where Con’s blow had fallen, and she was cold and - shivering, and—well, she was losing her nerve. So she turned away - from the hot glow of the bar-room door and passed on into the mists of the - street. - </p> - <p> - As she crawled along there came to her ears a quick thud of a drum-beat - and the sound of men and women’s voices singing. Marching through - the gloom they came, a flapping banner above their heads, the red shirts - of the men and the blue, scarlet-banded bonnets of the women lending for a - moment a patch of color to the dim dinginess of the street. Suddenly they - paused and fell upon their knees in the road, while a man’s voice - wailed out a prayer. Time was when Myrtle Street gibed at the - Salvationists and threw rocks at them and hustled them about. But that was - when the red shirts and the flapping banner were something new. The - newness was gone now, and Myrtle Street merely shuffled indifferently - past, and the beat of the big drum, the strident voices of the exhorters - were quite as much a part of the night sounds of the place as the bawling - of the showman or the chatter of the frowsy girls. The woman, shivering - under her shawl and fondling her bruised cheek, glanced apathetically at - the kneeling men and women, when quickly her eyes became fixed upon the - face of one of them whom she knew. It was Maggie, the girl who once - occupied a dark little hole of a room next her own in the big tenement - house where she yet lived. Maggie! a forlorn, starving thing of whom she - had lost track entirely—in truth, she had not thought of her since - the day when the poor, sniveling, pale-faced creature had been turned into - the street for not paying her rent. Myrtle Street does not waste much time - in tracing the whereabouts of unfortunate acquaintances, nor in thinking - of them after they drift out of sight under the ever-mounting wave of - disaster which laps hungrily thereabout. But Maggie in a big bonnet, with - her eyes closed and kneeling in the mud, was enough to arouse Myrtle - Street’s benumbed curiosity. So the bedraggled woman on the sidewalk - pressed quite close to the curb and stared at her, wondering vaguely at - the transformation. The man ended his prayer, and his companions, rising - to their feet, began to sing again. The woman on the curb took no heed of - the words which they sang. She was not for some moments vividly conscious - of the song at all; she was conscious only of being tired and cold. Her - curiosity regarding Maggie was dying, and she loitered with the little - group which huddled upon the curb, simply because she had nowhere else to - go. But as she stood there in the mist with her sunken eyes staring - vacantly into the night, the music which touched her ears began to affect - her oddly. It was a curious, wailing melody, with a barbaric accompaniment - of jingling tambourines, and as its monotonous, insistent swing beat the - air a strange feeling of awakening began to stir her dull veins. She - weaved to and fro a little in unison with the measure of the song. She - closed her eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. She clutched her - shawl. She felt a wild desire to cry out or sob. Suddenly they ceased to - sing, and she opened her eyes with a start. Maggie stepped into the little - semi-circle of men and women, and in high, hard tones began to speak. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Those is great, great words, my friends, which we have just - sung,” she said; “awful words! Terrifyin’ words! Did you - hear ‘em? Did you understand ‘em? Did they come home to you? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “‘When the King comes in, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Like lightning’s flash will that instant show - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Things hidden long from friend and foe. - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Just what he is will each one know, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - When the King comes in.’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Think of it! Think of it! Like a flash will it be, and you will - know and I will know—everybody will know just what we are. Oh! It is - awful! Like lightning’s flash will that coming be—remember - that! Don’t try to believe it is far off. It isn’t. It may be - to-night. It may be within an hour—a minute—a second, for you - and me. But be it near or far, it’s coming, coming, coming!” - Her voice shrilled piercingly, and the woman, listening so intently upon - the curb, felt a thrill of excitement at the sound. It was not clear to - her what it all meant, but she had a queer feeling of awe as she looked at - Maggie’s drawn face and listened to her strained, sharp voice. - “My God!” the girl continued, “think of it! Think if He - comes to-night and finds you in all your sin and wickedness and filth. - Think, think and be afraid. Think, and before it’s too late, get - saved! I am saved, and I thank God to-night for it!” - </p> - <p> - A low chorus of “Glory to God!” - </p> - <p> - “I believe!” - </p> - <p> - “I believe!” came from her companions. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad to-night to stand here to tell you that I am saved and - happy—oh! so happy! Why do you wait? Some of you know me—I was - sinful and tired and afraid once, but not now, thank God! not now. I’m - saved, saved, saved!” - </p> - <p> - Louder and wilder grew the girl’s cry. She waved her arms violently, - and paced rapidly to and fro. The listening woman shifted her position - from the sidewalk to the gutter. Her hands loosened their clutch upon her - shawl; she wrung them constantly as she looked with wondering eyes at - Maggie—Maggie who was n’t tired nor afraid any more, and was - happy, and all because she was “saved”! What did it all mean? - How had it happened? - </p> - <p> - The girl stopped abruptly in her walk, and, as though answering her - thought, cried, “It is so easy to get saved, too. All you have to do - is to throw yourself on your knees and call on Jesus, and give yourself up - to Him, and all your sins and fears and troubles and burdens are gone, and - you’ll be happy and glad and free and saved forever!” - </p> - <p> - Without a pause her voice shot into the song which they had sung before; - but now its measure was changed to a clear, quick chant, with which she - kept time by a soft patting with her hands. Clearer and higher grew her - tones, and her companions, sinking to their knees, moaned in hushed voices - a weird accompaniment, while the gently shaken tambourines lent again - their strange barbaric rhythm, marked from time to time by the great drum’s - muffled beat. - </p> - <p> - Nearer and nearer to the semi-circle of kneeling figures stole the - listening woman. Tears were streaming from her eyes, her blue lips - quivered, a great sob tore itself from her tight throat. At length she - stood quite within the lines of the singers, and then, with a strange, - wild cry, she, too, fell upon her knees in the slime of the street. Her - old shawl fell from her head, her arms rested upon the drum, her swollen - face was buried in them. A great shout of “Glory to God!” went - up about her, and some one on the curb cried amazedly, “Why, it’s - old Kit!” But she heard only that monotonous wailing voice chanting - stridently “When the King Comes In.” Afterwards there came a - knowledge of some one’s arm across her shoulders, of whispered words - and urgent voices, a sensation of being lifted to her feet and helped - along the street, and then a confusing blur of yellow light from oil lamps - in a dingy hall. And at length full consciousness, dull fatigue, and an - overwhelming desire for sleep. - </p> - <p> - Maggie and one of the brothers in red jersey and jaunty cap walked home - with her, pouring into her ears encouraging advice in strange, cant words, - which she but half understood. At the doorway of the human hive where she - and Con slept and fought and starved the man looked sharply at Maggie. - </p> - <p> - “You are sure!” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—they’re married,” replied the girl. - </p> - <p> - “You will come to the barracks early to-morrow morning?” he - asked, turning to Kit. - </p> - <p> - She promised to do so, and, passing into the dark hall, climbed upward to - where Con lay in drunken stupor. - </p> - <p> - The following morning Kit stepped into a new world—a world of - friendly words and close companionship. The squalidly poor know nothing of - that luxury called friendship. They are huddled together in vast crowds, - squeezed and packed by scores within narrow limits, jostled and elbowed by - their kind at every turn. They are suffocated by close association. But of - fellowship, of interest in one another’s aims, of sympathy with one - another’s hardships, they know nothing. Like starving dogs over a - bone, they growl and snarl and fly straight at throats. So, when Kit crept - half sullenly into the barracks and was greeted by a loud chorus of - interested questions and by unstinted praise, the unfamiliar warmth of - friendly words thawed into life her sluggish sensibilities. And, too, an - entirely new view of herself and the world was suddenly opened to her - bewildered gaze,—for the first time in her hard life she was looked - upon as a human being of some importance. They told her that she was - suddenly become different from her kind, she was better than they, she was - “saved.” Not only that, but she must “save” - others. She must quit the old life, and work for the common good. Her new - friends were as uncouth and as poor and as hard pressed as herself. In - their attitude there was none of that maddening condescension, none of - that supercilious casting of surplus comforts at her feet, as one would - toss a half-eaten orange toward a hungry-eyed beggar brat, which was the - only sort of charity Kit had known of hitherto. The friendship of the - Salvationists was the frank comradeship of plain men and women; their - charity was the outcome of a crude, but living, religious idea. And their - wild enthusiasm caught her dull soul in its sweep and lifted it a little - above the fetid mists of her world. Some latent spark of womanly ambition - was stirred into life, and with halting, dogged feet she tried to climb - out of the dank valley of her past. - </p> - <p> - It was a wearisome task, but the exhilarating sense of friendly interest - in her success sustained her. The old appetite for strong drink stung her, - but the excitement of the new life helped to dull the craving. She tramped - the streets with her companions, her cracked voice shouting quaveringly - with them as they sang. She stepped sometimes into the little semicircle - at the street corners to tell excitedly “how glad she was that she - was saved.” She knelt with the others and prayed aloud for those who - were not as she. She was one of a great, enthusiastic army, held up and - aided by the superficial strength which comes of close fellowship and - common aims. But with that growth of strength in one quarter there came a - strange weakness in another. She was growing childishly afraid of Con, and - with the growth of that fear there started into life and waxed strong a - new loathing and hatred for his rum-soaked person. She would have fled - from him, only that her new masters told her she must stick to him. It was - her duty to cling to him and to “save” him. Their first - injunction she obeyed meekly; but to their second command she turned a - deaf ear. She knew what Con was; they did not. Every human creature in the - wide world might be saved—except her husband. He was beyond the pale - of humanity. So long as she did not bother him, he paid little attention - to her goings and comings. Only once she ventured to protest when he had - spent a week’s earnings for drink (Con had a “pull” with - the ward “boss,” and when there were no other means of getting - money for drink he found employment with the street-cleaners), and he had - knocked her down for her temerity, and after that she held her peace and - wished dumbly that he might die. - </p> - <p> - At length there came a proud day when Kit, after unwonted labor over her - wash-tub, was the possessor of a decent black gown and of the long-coveted - poke bonnet. It was the eve of a great rally at the barracks, when some - officer of high degree from “headquarters” was to review the - ranks of his army. At the close of day, when the long shadows were - beginning to steal across the bare little room, with its musty bed, its - one chair, and its rickety table pushed into a corner, Kit crouched upon - the floor close up under the gray light of her window, intent upon her - work. There were but a few stitches needed to complete her gown, and her - stiff fingers fumbled eagerly with the unfamiliar needle. Her thoughts - were busy with the glories of the morrow, and she crooned one of the - Salvationist hymns as she sewed. And to her singing in the twilight there - came the sound of shuffling footsteps outside her door. She looked up - apprehensively as the door flew open to admit her husband. He was drunk, - sullenly, brutally drunk. - </p> - <p> - “Where’s my supper?” he demanded, falling heavily into - the chair. “Where’s my supper, I say?” he repeated, - fixing an evil eye upon her. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll get it now, Con. I was busy workin’ on my dress, - an’ I clean forgot your supper,” she explained, humbly. - </p> - <p> - “Yer dress?” he asked. “What right’s a measly fool - like you with dresses? Le’s see it.” He stretched forth his - hand. She caught the black garment sharply away from him. - </p> - <p> - “No, you’ll spoil it!” she cried, tossing the dress into - a corner behind the bed. “You just set still there, an’ I’ll - get you somethin’ to eat.” - </p> - <p> - “Eatin’ be damned!” he replied, surlily. “I want - somethin’ to drink. Here! you take the can an’ get somethin’ - from Mike’s. ‘F you can buy clothes, you can buy drinks.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, Con, not now. Wait till I get supper.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t want no supper! You rush de can, I tell you!” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t!” - </p> - <p> - “The hell you won’t!” - </p> - <p> - He started from his chair and went towards her, but something in her eyes - made even his sodden senses recoil. He looked at her dubiously a moment, - and then stumbled out of the room, muttering thickly. - </p> - <p> - As the door closed behind him, the woman sprang for her gown, and, - dragging it from the corner, slipped it on. A few more stitches were - needed in it, but she dared not wait to take them. A great terror filled - her soul. She felt that her husband would return quickly, uglier and - wilder by a few drams. With shaking fingers she pinned her gown together - as best she might. She smoothed her scanty, dry, dead hair with her hands, - and then she lifted her bonnet from the bed. She held it a moment - admiringly, drawing her fingers softly over its trimmings of dark-blue - silk, and along its narrow band of scarlet ribbon, where the bright gilt - letters shone. She put it on her head and tied the soft strings carefully - under her chin. She glanced hesitatingly at the old plaid shawl, wishing - that she had a better one, but the night was cold, and she drew it about - her shoulders. With a little sigh of relief she turned to leave the room. - As her hand touched the door-latch she heard Con’s heavy tread upon - the stairs. She noted that he staggered a little, and with a quick - indrawing of her breath she drew herself flat against the wall in the - shadows. The man threw the door open fiercely, steadying himself against - the jamb as he peered into the dim room. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you, you she-devil?” he called. - </p> - <p> - The woman made no sound, and he stepped inside the room, with his broad - back towards her. Inch by inch she crept along against the wall towards - the door, as he stood turning from side to side in his maudlin search for - her, and as her feet touched the threshold he turned and saw her. He - rushed forward and grabbed her arms. - </p> - <p> - “Givin’ me the dirty sneak, are you?” he growled, - shoving her inside the room and closing the door. “What d’ yer - mean? Eh?” - </p> - <p> - Kit made no answer. She backed off, her face gleaming white inside her big - bonnet. - </p> - <p> - “Yer a nice one, ain’t you?” he continued. “Won’t - get me nothin’ to eat or drink, an’ spendin’ yer money - fur clothes, an’ then tryin’ to make a sneak! Oh! I was onto - you all the time! You white-faced fool! What d’ yer mean? Eh? Damn - you, what d’ yer mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Stop, Con! Don’t hit me!” - </p> - <p> - He stumbled forward deliberately and struck her upturned face. She - staggered into the corner by the table, and faced him again. A tiny stream - of something red trickled down her cheek. Her eyes were suddenly ablaze. - </p> - <p> - “Let me go!” she shrieked. “Let me go!” - </p> - <p> - “Yer’ll go an’ get de can filled, that’s where yer’ll - go!” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t—<i>never!</i>” - </p> - <p> - A spasm of hate and rage and terror writhed in her face. With the - quickness of desperation she caught a knife from the table and waited for - him. - </p> - <p> - He lunged towards her with uplifted arm. Before his blow fell she gave one - swift thrust, and his arm came down simply upon her shoulder. For a moment - he stood strangely still. He clenched his fist; his teeth were tight; he - breathed hard through his nose. - </p> - <p> - “Damn you——” Then he reeled and fell. - </p> - <p> - And as the woman stood there in the gathering gloom, with his blood - crawling towards her on the floor, she heard the beat of a drum, and the - sound of voices singing shrilly, far down the street. On they came, nearer - and louder, until her listening ears heard the thrum of the tambourines. - Under her window they passed, and away into the night, until at last their - sound was lost in the ceaseless, sullen tumult of Myrtle Street. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - MANDANY’S FOOL - </h2> - <h3> - By Maria Louise Pool - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>E ain’t got - hungry for termarters, be ye?” - </p> - <p> - Some one had knocked at the screen door, and as there was no response, a - man’s strident, good-humored voice put the above question concerning - tomatoes. - </p> - <p> - But somebody had heard. - </p> - <p> - A woman had been sitting in the kitchen with a pan of seek-no-further - apples in her lap. She was paring and quartering these and then stabbing - the quarters through and stringing them on yards of white twine, - preparatory to festooning them on the clothes-horse which stood in the - yard. This horse was already decorated profusely in this way. A cloud of - wasps had flown from the drying fruit as the man walked up the path. He - swung off his hat and waved the insects away. - </p> - <p> - “I say, have ye got hungry agin for termarters?” he repeated. - </p> - <p> - Then he rattled the screen; but it was hooked on the inside. - </p> - <p> - He turned and surveyed the three windows that were visible in the bit of a - house. - </p> - <p> - “They wouldn’t both be gone, ‘n’ left them apples - out,” he said to himself. “I’m ‘bout sure Ann’s - to home; ‘n’ she’s the one I want to see.” - </p> - <p> - A woman in the bed-room which opened from the kitchen was hurriedly - smoothing her hair and peering into the glass. She was speaking aloud with - the air of one who constantly talks to herself. - </p> - <p> - “Jest as sure’s I don’t comb my hair the first thing, - somebody comes.” - </p> - <p> - She gave a last pat and went to the door. There was a faint smirk on her - lips and a flush on her face. - </p> - <p> - Her tall figure was swayed by a slight, eager tremor as she saw who was - standing there. She exclaimed:— - </p> - <p> - “Goodness me! ‘T ain’t you, Mr. Baker, is it? Won’t - ye walk right in? But I don’t want no termarters; they always go - aginst me. Aunt Mandany ain’t to home.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, ain’t she?” was the brisk response. “Then I - guess I will come in.” - </p> - <p> - The speaker pushed open the now unfastened door and entered. He set his - basket of tomatoes with a thump on the rug, and wiped his broad, red face. - </p> - <p> - “Fact is,” he said with a grin, “I knew she was gone. I - seen her goin’ crosst the pastur’. That’s why I come - now. I ain’t got no longin’ to see Aunt Mandany—no, - sir-ee, not a grain of longin’ to see her. But I thought ‘t - would be agreeable to me to clap my eyes on to you.” - </p> - <p> - The woman simpered, made an inarticulate sound, and hurriedly resumed her - seat and her apple-cutting. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t you se’ down, Mr. Baker?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Her fingers trembled as she took the darning-needle and jabbed it through - an apple quarter. The needle went into her flesh also. She gave a little - cry and thrust her finger into her mouth. Her large, pale eyes turned - wistfully towards her companion. The faded, already elderly mouth - quivered. - </p> - <p> - “I’m jest as scar’t ‘s I c’n be if I see - blood,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker’s heavy under lip twitched; his face softened. But he - spoke roughly. - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t mind that bit er blood,” he said, “that - won’t hurt nothin’. I don’t care if I do se’ down. - I ain’t drove any this mornin’. I c’n jest as well as - not take hold ‘n’ help ye. I s’pose Mandany left a - thunderin’ lot for ye to do while she’s gone?” - </p> - <p> - “Two bushels,” was the answer. - </p> - <p> - “The old cat! That’s too much. But ‘t won’t be for - both of us, will it, Ann?” - </p> - <p> - The woman said, “No.” - </p> - <p> - She looked for an instant intently at the man who had drawn his chair - directly opposite her. He was already paring an apple. - </p> - <p> - “I d’ know what to make of it,” she said, still in a - whisper. - </p> - <p> - “To make of what?” briskly. - </p> - <p> - “Why, when folks are so good to me ‘s you be.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, sho’, now! Everybody ain’t like your Aunt Mandany.” - </p> - <p> - “‘Sh! Don’t speak so loud! Mebby she’ll be comin’ - back.” - </p> - <p> - “No, she won’t. ‘N’ no matter if she is.” - </p> - <p> - The loud, confident tone rang cheerily in the room. - </p> - <p> - During the silence that followed Mr. Baker watched Ann’s deft - fingers. - </p> - <p> - “Everybody says you’re real capable,” he remarked. - </p> - <p> - A joyous red covered Ann’s face. - </p> - <p> - “I jest about do all the work here,” she said. - </p> - <p> - She looked at the man again. - </p> - <p> - There was something curiously sweet in the simple face. The patient line - at each side of the close, pale mouth had a strange effect upon Mr. Baker. - </p> - <p> - He had been known to say violently in conversation at the store that he - “never seen Ann Tracy ‘thout wantin’ to thrash her Aunt - Mandany.” - </p> - <p> - “What in time be you dryin’ seek-no-further for?” he now - exclaimed with some fierceness. “They’re the flattest kind of - apples I know of.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s what Aunt says,” was the reply; “she says - they’re most as flat’s as I be, ‘n’ that’s - flat ‘nough.” - </p> - <p> - These words were pronounced as if the speaker were merely stating a - well-known fact. - </p> - <p> - “Then what does she do um for?” persisted Mr. Baker. - </p> - <p> - “She says they’re good ‘nough to swop for groceries in - the spring.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker made a deep gash in an apple, and held his tongue. - </p> - <p> - Ann continued her work, but she took a good deal of seek-no-further with - the skin in a way that would have shocked Aunt Mandany. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she raised her eyes to the sturdy face opposite her and said:— - </p> - <p> - “I guess your wife had a real good time, didn’t she, Mr. - Baker, when she was livin’?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker dropped his knife. He glanced up and met the wistful gaze upon - him. - </p> - <p> - Something that he had thought long dead stirred in his consciousness. - </p> - <p> - “I hope so,” he said gently. “I do declare I tried to - make her have a good time.” - </p> - <p> - “How long’s she be’n dead?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Most ten year. We was livin’ down to Norris Corners - then.” - </p> - <p> - The man picked up his knife and absently tried the edge of it on the ball - of his thumb. - </p> - <p> - “I s’pose,” said Ann, “that folks are sorry when - their wives die.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker gave a short laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Wall, that depends.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, does it? I thought folks had to love their wives, ‘n’ - be sorry when they died.” - </p> - <p> - Here Mr. Baker laughed again. He made no other answer for several minutes. - At last he said: - </p> - <p> - “I was sorry enough when my wife died.” - </p> - <p> - A great pile of quartered apples was heaped up in the wooden bowl before - either spoke again. - </p> - <p> - Then Ann exclaimed with a piteous intensity: - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m awful tired of bein’ Aunt Mandany’s fool!” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker stamped his foot involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - “How jew know they call you that?” he cried in a great voice. - </p> - <p> - “I heard Jane Littlefield tell Mis’ Monk she hoped nobody’d - ask Mandany’s fool to the sociable. And Mr. Fletcher’s boy - told me that’s what folks called me.” - </p> - <p> - “Damn Jane Littlefield! Damn that little devil of a boy!” - </p> - <p> - These dreadful words burst out furiously. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps Ann did not look as shocked as she ought. - </p> - <p> - In a moment she smiled her immature, simple smile that had a touching - appeal in it. - </p> - <p> - “‘T ain’t no use denyin’ it,” she said; - “I ain’t jes’ like other folks, ‘n’ that’s - a fact. I can’t think stiddy more ‘n a minute. Things all run - together, somehow. ‘N’ the back er my head’s odd’s - it can be.” - </p> - <p> - “Pooh! What of it? There can’t any of us think stiddy; ‘n’ - if we could what would it amount to, I should like to know? It would n’t - amount to a row of pins.” - </p> - <p> - Ann dropped her work and clasped her hands. Mr. Baker saw that her hands - were hard, and stained almost black on fingers and thumbs by much cutting - of apples. - </p> - <p> - “Ye see,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “sometimes I - think if mother had lived she’d er treated me so ‘t I could - think stiddier. I s’pose mother’d er loved me. They say - mothers do. But Aunt Mandany told me mother died the year I got my fall - from the cherry-tree. I was eight then. I don’t remember nothin’ - ‘bout it, nor ‘bout anything much. Mr. Baker, do you remember - your mother?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker said “Yes,” abruptly. Something made it impossible - for him to say more. - </p> - <p> - “I d’ know how ‘tis,” went on the thin, minor - voice, “but it always did seem to me ‘s though if I could - remember my mother I could think stiddier, somehow. Do you think I could?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker started to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll be dumbed ‘f I c’n stan’ it,” he - shouted. “No, nor I won’t stan’ it, nuther!” - </p> - <p> - He walked noisily across the room. - </p> - <p> - He came back and stood in front of Ann, who had patiently resumed work. - </p> - <p> - “Come,” he said, “I think a lot of ye. Le’s git - married.” - </p> - <p> - Ann looked up. She dropped her knife. - </p> - <p> - “Then I should live with you?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Of course.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed. - </p> - <p> - There was so much of confident happiness in that laugh that the man’s - heart glowed youthfully. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be real glad to marry you, Mr. Baker,” she said. - Then, with pride, “‘N’ I c’n cook, ‘n’ - I know first rate how to do housework.” - </p> - <p> - She rose to her feet; her eyes shone. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker put his arm about her. - </p> - <p> - “Le’s go right along now,” he said, more quickly than he - had yet spoken. “We’ll call to the minister’s ‘n’ - engage him. You c’n stop there. We’ll be married to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t ye wait till I c’n put on my bunnit ‘n’ - shawl?” Ann asked. - </p> - <p> - She left the room. In a few moments she returned dressed for going. She - had a sheet of note-paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen in her hands. - </p> - <p> - “I c’n write,” she said confidently, “‘n’ - I call it fairer to leave word for Aunt Mandany.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” was the response; “go ahead.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker said afterward that he never got much more nervous in his life - than while Ann was writing that note. What if Mandany should appear! He - wasn’t going to back out, but he didn’t want to see that - woman. - </p> - <p> - The ink was thick, the pen was like a pin, and Ann was a good while making - each letter, but the task was at last accomplished. She held out the sheet - to her companion. - </p> - <p> - “Ain’t that right?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Baker drew his face down solemnly as he read:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - Dere Aunt Mandane:— - - I’m so dretfull Tired of beeing youre fool that ime going - too be Mr. Baker’s. He askt me. - - Ann. -</pre> - <p> - “That’s jest the thing,” he said explosively. “Now, - come on.” - </p> - <p> - As they walked along in the hot fall sunshine Mr. Baker said earnestly:— - </p> - <p> - “I’m certain sure we sh’ll be ever so much happier.” - </p> - <p> - “So ‘m I,” Ann replied, with cheerful confidence. - </p> - <p> - They were on a lonely road, and they walked hand in hand. - </p> - <p> - “I’m goin’ to be good to ye,” said the man, with - still more earnestness. Then, in a challenging tone, as if addressing the - world at large, “I guess ‘t ain’t nobody’s - business but our’n.” - </p> - <p> - Ann looked at him and smiled trustfully. - </p> - <p> - After a while he began to laugh. - </p> - <p> - “I’m thinkin’ of your Aunt Mandany when she reads that - letter,” he explained. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE WAY TO CONSTANTINOPLE - </h2> - <h3> - By Clinton Ross - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>RS. DENBY poured - the tea. - </p> - <p> - “Now, speaking of Constantinople.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Denby blushed. I envied Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes,” said I, “I have read Gautier, and that is a - very good monograph of Marion Crawford’s. I was there once myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Were you?” said Mrs. Denby, demurely. “Do you take - sugar?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, tell me!” I began, for I saw I was expected to show some - interest. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t, Dick,” began Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it’s only Tom,” said Denby, fondly; but not half so - fondly as he had before he had found her, and persuaded her, and—I - always have had such bad luck with the woman whom it’s worth while - trying to marry! - </p> - <p> - “You see,—it’s a silly story. Dick’s usually are,” - began Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Denby. “Now, you know—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you must,” said Mrs. Denby, despairfully. - </p> - <p> - “Paris was a glare of splendor that February,—after the North - Atlantic,” Denby went on. “Did you ever leave New York of a - dismal day of winter fog and a week after find yourself in Havre? The - boulevards are gay, the shops resplendent. Paris is a different place from - Paris in July,—when hordes of our countrymen swoop down on it like - the Huns. It’s like the rural visitor doing Fifth Avenue in August, - and wondering why New York is so much talked about. But Paris in February - is the Paris one dreams of when the word is pronounced, with all its - suggestiveness of the world’s gayety. Yet, it was cold that - February,—as bitter as in New York; and after coming back one night - to my lodging on the Avenue Carnot, where the cab was unable to make its - way because of the frozen sleet on the smooth paving of the hill the - Avenue des Champs Elysées climbs,—that night I concluded I had not - intended exchanging New York for wintry unpleasantness, and decided to go - to Constantinople. Constantinople, where I had never been, seemed so far - away, and I did not know that it, too, could be bleakly dismal in the - spring. The next morning I booked on the Orient Express. That evening I - was snugly put away in my compartment, and the morning after was looking - on a Bavarian landscape.” - </p> - <p> - “You always were impulsive,” Mrs. Denby interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; nothing proves that more than my conduct the next morning at - breakfast in the dining-car. I appeared late. The place was crowded. A - very pretty girl—” - </p> - <p> - “Did you really think so then?” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I did, or else I shouldn’t have taken the seat opposite - beside a little chap who was ogling and embarrassing her dreadfully.” - </p> - <p> - “Such a man’s horrid,” commented Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “I saw at once he was one of those little Parisians, whose kind I - know well, who in some way lose their appropriateness when transplanted. - For I knew at once they were not acquaintances. The girl appeared alone, - English or American—I could not be certain. Now, I was sure the man - was objectionable,—not quite a gentleman,—or, if he had been, - he had distorted the quality.” - </p> - <p> - “Now you need n’t explain,” said Mrs. Denby. “My - honest opinion is that you took the seat for exactly the same reason as - he, because——” - </p> - <p> - “Because the girl was pretty?” said Denby. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t say she was,” Mrs. Denby hastened to add. - </p> - <p> - “‘I beg pardon, Monsieur,’ said I to the man, when he - glared. Presently the Swiss brought the young lady’s bill, when a - strange agitation appeared in my vis-à-vis. I saw and felt for her. She - had no money. She probably had her ticket, but had lost her purse. She did - not attempt to go back to the Wagon Lit. - </p> - <p> - “‘I am going to Constantinople,’ she said. - </p> - <p> - “‘I beg pardon, Madame,’ began the Swiss. - </p> - <p> - “‘Cannot the bill— - </p> - <p> - “‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle,’ said the Swiss, and he - looked desolated, with a contrary gleam in his eye. - </p> - <p> - “Here the man by my side dropped from the category of the gentleman - to that of the cad. - </p> - <p> - “‘If Mademoiselle will allow me,’ he began eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “I leaned under the table, pretending to pick up a purse, which I - really took from my pocket. - </p> - <p> - “‘I think this is your purse,’ I said in English. - </p> - <p> - “For an instant she scanned me. The Frenchman looked daggers. She - was blushing. - </p> - <p> - “‘Thank you,’ said she, and I knew she was an American; - ‘how stupid of me to have dropped it.’ - </p> - <p> - “And from my purse she paid the bill, nodded to me, ignoring the - Frenchman, and without further word left the buffet. - </p> - <p> - “The particular French cad evidently wanted to pick a quarrel with - me, and for a moment I was debating with myself whether I might not have - been an ass. A fool’s money goes the way of his scanty wit. The girl - might appear pretty, innocent, attractive—and yet—I swallowed - my coffee, and returned to my compartment, which I had to myself. The door - was open. Presently I saw the young woman of the breakfast-table walking - up and down the aisle. I was determined I should not notice her. Suddenly - I heard her voice at the door. - </p> - <p> - “‘Sir, what can you think of me? But I couldn’t help it, - really,—I have lost my purse. Here is yours; I will return the six - francs at Constantinople.’ - </p> - <p> - “I saw a tear; and I was sure my knowledge of femininity——” - </p> - <p> - “Conceited,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Could not be at fault,” Denby continued. “I bowed. - </p> - <p> - “‘I’m glad to be able to make the loan—’ I - began. - </p> - <p> - “‘It’s good of you,’ said she. - </p> - <p> - “‘But if you have lost all your money, I don’t see—’ - </p> - <p> - “‘What?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘How can you avoid borrowing more?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘That man at the table made me feel so detestably,’ she - began. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, you must n’t mind!’ - </p> - <p> - “‘And you really are so nice—What do you know about me?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, I can tell.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I think you generally can,’ said she. - </p> - <p> - “‘Isn’t that interesting?’ said I, pointing out of - the window at some peasants in the field. - </p> - <p> - “‘Ah, yes!’ said she. - </p> - <p> - “‘May I sit down?’ said I. - </p> - <p> - “We had reached her seat. - </p> - <p> - “‘Why, certainly, I shall be glad to have you.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘How does it happen—’ I began after a moment. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, here’s your purse,’ she interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “‘Now, really, please. It won’t inconvenience me in the - least. There are only five louis there, and I have my portemonnaie - besides, and—’ - </p> - <p> - “‘And?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I believe I said I should be delighted.’ - </p> - <p> - “’ Oh, you did, but you began a—’ - </p> - <p> - “‘What?’ said I, feeling uncomfortable. - </p> - <p> - “‘A question. I know what it was.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Well, if you do—’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I’m from Illinois. We don’t regard chaperones as - so necessary; besides—’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Besides?’ I could n’t resist saying. - </p> - <p> - “‘I believe women should take care of themselves.’ - “‘But they can’t—always.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘You mean—’ she began rather indignantly. - </p> - <p> - “‘Well—well—they sometimes have to borrow, you - know.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘That’s—that’s mean of you.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, I—I beg pardon.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘You needn’t. I wish I could return your six francs. I - am going to Constantinople to meet my father, who is up from the east. I - went all alone—because—there was nobody.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I’m sorry,’ said I. ‘Now don’t mind - me, please.’ - </p> - <p> - “She looked at me then. - </p> - <p> - “‘I suppose I shall have to tolerate you. You are the only - American on this train.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I consider myself your guardian,—with letters - testamentary.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘I am forced to it,’ said she, but smiling.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, she did n’t smile,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh,’ said I, ‘this is deliciously lucky. I - thought I should have this ride alone.’ - </p> - <p> - “At this moment—for some time had passed—the Swiss - announced luncheon, which she—” - </p> - <p> - “How horridly forward it all sounds,” interrupted Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Which she took with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear, I wonder at it,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “She had to,” said Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, of course, you had the money,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Well, she tolerated—” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the word, I think,” assented Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “We walked the station at Vienna. We took an ice at Buda-Pesth. We - wondered about Queen Nathalie at Belgrade. We bought beads at Sofia. We - shivered over the Bulgarian soldiers squatting on the platform against - Turkish banditti. I told her how an Orient Express had been held up the - autumn before, a Frankfort banker abstracted, and his ears sent to his - counting-house with a request for a gold payment or else his tongue would - follow.” - </p> - <p> - “That was horrid of you,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Well, at Constantinople, her father was not there.” - </p> - <p> - “It was terrible,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “But I knew the American Consul’s wife, who took in the - situation.” - </p> - <p> - “It was very nice of her,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “We roamed about the Pera; sentimentalized in San Sofia; bargained—” - </p> - <p> - “With your money,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “In the bazaars. We rode in a palanquin, and drove to the Sweet - Waters of Europe, danced at the Russian Legation,—where she was - irresistible.” - </p> - <p> - “Your eyes!” said Mrs. Denby, with severe sarcasm. - </p> - <p> - “One day her father appeared. She counted out three louis—” - </p> - <p> - “And five francs sixty centimes,” said Mrs. Denby. - </p> - <p> - “‘That isn’t all,’ said I. - </p> - <p> - “‘Why, let me see,’ she began. - </p> - <p> - “‘It isn’t all,’ said I. ‘There’s my - heart.’” - </p> - <p> - “It was a very silly speech—not at all original,” said - Mrs. Denby. “I should think you would be ashamed to repeat it—before - visitors. But, Mr. Pemberton, you haven’t told me whether you take - sugar?” - </p> - <p> - “Sugar, thanks,” said I. “That’s a good story. It - reminds me of an episode in Hunter’s novel—” - </p> - <p> - “This is a better story,” said Denby. - </p> - <p> - “Dick!” said Mrs. Denby, looking at him with sudden - earnestness. “Do you mean that—now!” - </p> - <p> - I felt, as is often the case lately, the superfluous bachelor. I went to - call on Sally Waters. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - THE OLD PARTISAN - </h2> - <h3> - By Octave Thanet - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SAT so far back - in the gallery that my opinion of my delegate friend dwindled with every - session. Nevertheless my unimportant seat had its advantages. I could see - the vast assembly and watch the throbbing of the Republican pulse if I - could not hear its heartbeats. Therefore, perhaps, I studied my neighbors - more than I might study them under different circumstances. The great - wooden hall had its transient and unsubstantial character stamped on every - bare wooden joist and unclinched nail. It was gaudy with flags and bunting - and cheap portraits. There were tin bannerets crookedly marshalled on the - floor, to indicate the homes of the different States. A few delegates, - doubtless new to the business and overzealous, were already on the floor, - but none of the principals were visible. They were perspiring and arguing - in those committee rooms, those hotel lobbies and crowded hotel rooms - where the real business of the convention was already done and neatly - prepared for presentation to the nation. I had nothing to keep me from - studying my neighbors. In front of me sat two people who had occupied the - same seats at every session that I was present, a young girl and an old - man. The girl wore the omnipresent shirtwaist (of pretty blue and white - tints, with snowy cuffs and collar), and her green straw hat was decked - with blue corn-flowers, from which I inferred that she had an eye on the - fashions. Her black hair was thick and glossy under the green straw. I - thought that she had a graceful neck. It was very white. Whiter than her - face, which had a touch of sunburn, as if she were often out in the open - air. Somehow I concluded that she was a shop-girl and rode a wheel. If I - were wrong it is not likely that I shall ever know. - </p> - <p> - The old man I fancied was not so old as he looked; his delicate, haggard - profile may have owed its sunken lines and the dim eye to sickness rather - than to years. He wore the heavy black broadcloth of the rural politician, - and his coat sagged over his narrow chest as if he had left his waistcoat - at home. On his coat lapel were four old-fashioned Blaine badges. - Incessantly he fanned himself. - </p> - <p> - “It can’t be they ain’t going to nominate him to-day?” - he asked rather than asserted, his voice breaking on the higher notes, the - mere wreck of a voice. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, maybe later,” the girl reassured him. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I wanted to attend a Republican convention once more before I - died. Your ma would have it I wasn’t strong enough; but I knew - better; you and I knew better; did n’t we, Jenny?” - </p> - <p> - She made no answer except to pat his thin, ribbed brown hand with her - soft, white, slim one; but there was a world of sympathy in the gesture - and her silent smile. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what your ma said when she came downstairs and found the - letter, and us gone,” he cackled with the garrulous glee of a child - recounting successful mischief; “made me think of the times when you - was little and I stole you away for the circus. Once, your pa thought you - was lost—‘member? And once, you had on your school-dress and - you’d tore it—she did scold you that time. But we had fun when - they used to let me have money, did n’t we, Jenny?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, now I earn money, we have good times, too, grandpa,” - said Jenny, smiling the same tender, comprehending smile. - </p> - <p> - “We do that; I don’t know what I would do ‘cept for you, - lambie, and this is—this is a grand time, Jenny, you look and - listen; it’s a great thing to see a nation making its principles and - its president—and such a president!” - </p> - <p> - He half turned his head as he spoke, with a mounting enthusiasm, thus - bringing his flushing face and eager eyes—no longer dim—into - the focus of his next neighbor’s bright gray eyes. The neighbor was - a young man, not very young but hardly to be called elderly, of an alert - bearing and kindly smile. - </p> - <p> - “I think him a pretty fair man myself,” said the other with a - jocose understatement; “I come from his town.” - </p> - <p> - What was there in such a simple statement to bring a distinctly anxious - look into the young girl’s soft eyes? There it was; one could not - mistake it. - </p> - <p> - “Well!” said the old man; there was a flattering deference in - his voice. “Well, well. And—and maybe you’ve seen him - lately?” The quavering tones sharpened with a keener feeling; it was - almost as if the man were inquiring for some one on whom he had a great - stake of affection. “How did he look? Was he better, stronger?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he looked elegant,” said the Ohio man, easily, but with a - disconcerted side glance at the girl whose eyes were imploring him. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been a Blaine man ever since he was run, the time Bob - Ingersoll nominated him,” said the old man, who sighed as if - relieved. “I was at that convention and heard the speech——” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that was a speech to hear,” said a man behind, and two or - three men edged their heads nearer. - </p> - <p> - The old Republican straightened his bent shoulders, his winter-stung - features softened and warmed at the manifestation of interest, his voice - sank to the confidential undertone of the narrator. - </p> - <p> - “You’re right, sir, right; it was a magnificent speech. I can - see him jest as he stood there, a stoutish, good-looking man, - smooth-faced, his eye straight ahead, and an alternate that sat next me—I - was an alternate; I’ve been an alternate four times; I could have - been a delegate, but I says, ‘No, abler men than me are wanting it; - I’m willing to fight in the ranks.’ But I wished I had a vote, - a free vote that day, I tell you. The alternate near me, he says, ‘You - ‘ll hear something fine now; I’ve heard him speak.’” - </p> - <p> - “You did, too, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - “We could hear from the first minute. That kinder fixed our - attention. He had a mellow, rich kind of voice that melted into our ears. - We found ourselves listening and liking him from the first sentence. At - first he was as quiet as a summer breeze, but presently he began to warm - up, and the words flowed out like a stream of jewels. It was electrifying: - it was thrilling, sir; it took us off our feet before we knew it, and when - he came to the climax, those of us that weren’t yelling in the - aisles were jumping up and down on our chairs! I know I found myself - prancing up and down in my own hat on a chair, swinging somebody else’s - hat and screaming at the top of my voice, with the tears running down my - cheeks. God! sir, there were men there on their feet cheering their - throats out that had to vote against him afterwards—had to because - they were there instructed—no more free will than a checked trunk!” - The light died out of his face. “Yes, sir, a great speech; never a - greater ever made at a convention anywhere, never so great a speech, - whoever made it: but it did no good, he wasn’t nominated, and when - we did nominate him we were cheated out of our victory. Well, we ‘ll - do better this day.” - </p> - <p> - “We will that,” said the other man, heartily; “McKinley—” - </p> - <p> - “You’ll excuse me—” the old man struck in with a - deprecating air, yet under the apology something fiercely eager and - anxious that glued the hearer’s eyes to his quivering old face—“you’ll - excuse me. I—I am a considerable of an invalid and I don’t - keep the run of things as I used to. You see I live with my daughter, and - you know how women folks are, fretting lest things should make you sick, - and my girl she worries so, me reading the papers. Fact is I got a shock - once, an awful shock,” he shivered involuntarily and his dim eyes - clouded, “and it worried her seeing me read. Hadn’t ought to; - it don’t worry Jenny here, who often gets me a paper, quiet like; - but you know how it is with women—it’s easier giving them - their head a little—and so I don’t see many papers, and I - kinder dropped off. It seems queer, but I don’t exactly sense it - about this McKinley. Is he running against Blaine or jest for vice?” - </p> - <p> - The girl, under some feminine pretext of dropping and reaching for her - handkerchief, threw upward a glance of appeal at the interlocutor. - Hurriedly she stepped into the conversation. “My grandfather read a - false report about—about Mr. Blaine’s sickness, and he was not - well at the time and it brought on a bad attack.” - </p> - <p> - “I understand,” said the listener, with a grave nod of his - head and movement of his eyes in the girl’s direction. - </p> - <p> - “But about McKinley?” the old man persisted. - </p> - <p> - “He’s for vice-president,” the girl announced, her eyes - fixed on the hesitating man from Canton. I have often admired the intrepid - fashion in which a woman will put her conscience at a moral hedge, while a - man of no finer spiritual fibre will be straining his eyes to find a hole - through which he can crawl. - </p> - <p> - “McKinley is not opposed to Blaine, is he?” she asked the man. - </p> - <p> - “The Republican party has no name that is more loved than that of - James G. Blaine,” said the man, gravely. - </p> - <p> - “That’s so, that’s so!” the old partisan assented - eagerly; “to my mind he’s the logical candidate.” - </p> - <p> - The Canton man nodded, and asked if he had ever seen Blaine. - </p> - <p> - “Once, only once. I was on a delegation sent to wait on him and ask - him to our town to speak—he was in Cincinnati. I held out my hand - when my turn came, and the chairman nearly knocked the breath out of me by - saying, ‘Here’s the man gave more to our campaign fund and - worked harder than any man in the county, and we all worked hard for you, - too.’ Well, Mr. Blaine looked at me. You know the intent way he - looks. He has the most wonderful eyes; look right at you and seem to bore - into you like a gimlet. I felt as if he was looking right down into my - soul, and I tell you I was glad, for I choked up so I couldn’t find - a word, not a word, and I was ready and fluent enough in those days, too, - I can tell you; but I stood there filling up, and squeezed his hand and - gulped and got red, like a fool. But he understood. ‘I have heard of - your loyalty to Republican principles, Mr. Painter,’ says he, in - that beautiful voice of his that was like a violin; and I burst in—I - could n’t help it—‘It ain’t loyalty to Republican - principles, it’s to you.’ I said that right out. And he - smiled, and said he, ‘Well, that’s wrong, but it isn’t - for me to quarrel with you there, Mr. Painter,’ and then they pushed - me along: but twice while the talk was going on I saw him look my way and - caught his eye, and he smiled, and when we were all shaking hands for - good-bye he shook hands with a good firm grip, and said he, ‘Good-bye, - Mr. Painter; I hope we shall meet again.’” - </p> - <p> - The old man drew a long sigh. “Those few moments paid for - everything,” he said. “I’ve never seen him since. I’ve - been sick and lost money. I ain’t the man I was. I never shall be - put on any delegation again, or be sent to any convention; but I thought - if I could only go once more to a Republican convention and hear them - holler for Blaine, and holler once more myself, I’d be willinger to - die. And I told Tom Hale that, and he and Jenny raised the money. Yes, - Jenny, I’m going to tell—he and Jenny put off being married a - bit so ‘s I could go, and go on plenty of money. Jenny, she worked a - month longer to have plenty, and Tom, he slipped ten dollars into my hand - unbeknown to her, jest as we were going, so I’d always have a dime - to give the waiter or the porter. I was never one of these hayseed farmers - too stingy to give a colored boy a dime when he’d done his best. I - didn’t need no money for badges; I got my old badges—see!” - </p> - <p> - He pushed out the lapel of his coat, covered with those old-fashioned - frayed bits of tinsel and ribbon, smiling confidently. The girl had - flushed crimson to the rim of her white collar; but there was not a trace - of petulance in her air; and, all at once looking at him, her eyes filled - with tears. - </p> - <p> - “Tom’s an awful good fellow,” he said, “an awful - good fellow.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure of that,” said the Canton man, with the frank - American friendliness, making a little bow in Miss Jenny’s - direction; “but see here, Mr. Painter, do you come from Izard? Are - you the man that saved the county for the Republicans, by mortgaging his - farm and then going on a house to house canvass?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s me,” the old man acquiesced, blushing with - pleasure; “I didn’t think, though, that it was known outside——” - </p> - <p> - “Things go further than you guess. I’m a newspaper man, and I - can tell you that I shall speak of it again in my paper. Well, I guess - they’ve got through with their mail, and the platform’s coming - in.” - </p> - <p> - Thus he brushed aside the old man’s agitated thanks. - </p> - <p> - “One moment,” said the old man, “who—who’s - going to nominate him?” - </p> - <p> - For the space of an eyeblink the kindly Canton man looked embarrassed, - then he said, briskly: “Foraker, Foraker of Ohio—he’s - the principal one. That’s he now, chairman of the committee on - resolutions. He’s there, the tall man with the mustache—” - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t that elderly man, with the stoop shoulders and the chin - beard and caved-in face, Teller?” It was a man near me, on the seat - behind, who spoke, tapping the Canton man with his fan, to attract - attention; already the pitiful concerns of the old man who was “a - little off” (as I had heard some one on the seat whisper) were - sucked out of notice in the whirlpool of the approaching political storm. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that’s Teller,” answered the Canton man, his mouth - straightening and growing thin. - </p> - <p> - “Is it to be a bolt?” - </p> - <p> - The Canton man nodded, at which the other whistled and communicated the - information to his neighbors, one of whom remarked, “Let ‘em - bolt and be d———!” A subtle excitement seemed to - communicate its vibrations to all the gallery. Perhaps I should except the - old partisan; he questioned the girl in a whisper, and then, seeming to be - satisfied, watched the strange scene that ensued with an expression of - patient weariness. The girl explained parts of the platform to him and he - assented; it was good Republican doctrine, he said, but what did they mean - with all this talk against the money; were they having trouble with the - mining States again? The Canton man stopped to explain—he certainly - was good-humored. - </p> - <p> - During the next twenty minutes, filled as they were with savage emotion, - while the galleries, like the floor, were on their chairs yelling, - cheering, brandishing flags and fists and fans and pampas plumes of red, - white, and blue at the little band of silver men who marched through the - ranks of their former comrades, he stood, he waved his fan in his feeble - old hand, but he did not shout. “You must excuse me,” said he, - “I’m all right on the money question, but I’m saving my - voice to shout for <i>him!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “That’s right,” said the Canton man; but he took - occasion to cast a backward glance which I met, and it said as plainly as - a glance can speak, “I wish I were out of this!” - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, with an absent but happy smile, the old Blaine man was beating - time to the vast waves of sound that rose and swelled above the band, - above the cheering, above the cries of anger and scorn, the tremendous - chorus that had stiffened men’s hearts as they marched to death and - rung through streets filled with armies and thrilled the waiting hearts at - home: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - The army and navy forever, three cheers for the - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - red, white, and blue!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But when the chairman had stilled the tumult and made his grim comment, - “There appear to be enough delegates left to transact business,” - the old partisan cast his eyes down to the floor with a chuckle. “I - can’t see the hole they made, it’s so small. Say, ain’t - he a magnificent chairman; you can hear every word he says!” - </p> - <p> - “Bully chairman,” said a cheerful “rooter” in the - rear, who had enjoyed the episode more than words can say, and had cheered - the passing of Silver with such choice quotations from popular songs as - “Good-bye, my lover, good-bye,” and “Just tell them that - you saw me,” and plainly felt that he, too, had adorned the moment. - “I nearly missed coming this morning, and I would n’t have - missed it for a tenner; they’re going to nominate now.” - </p> - <p> - The old man caught his breath; then he smiled. “I’ll help you - shout pretty soon,” said he, while he sat down very carefully. - </p> - <p> - The “rooter,” a good-looking young fellow with a Reed button - and three or four gaudy badges decking his crash coat, nodded and tapped - his temple furtively, still retaining his expression of radiant - good-nature. The Canton man nodded and frowned. - </p> - <p> - I felt that the Canton man need not be afraid. Somehow we were all tacitly - taking care that this poor, bewildered soul should not have its little - dream of loyal, unselfish satisfaction dispelled. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my countrymen,” I thought, “you do a hundred crazy - things, you crush <i>les convenances</i> under foot, you can be fooled by - frantic visionaries—but how I love you!” - </p> - <p> - It was Baldwin of Iowa that made the first speech. He was one of the very - few men—I had almost said of the two men—that we in the - galleries had the pleasure of hearing; and we could hear every word. - </p> - <p> - He began with a glowing tribute to Blaine. At the first sentence, our old - man flung his gray head in the air with the gesture of the war horse when - he catches the first, far-off scream of the trumpet. He leaned forward, - his features twitching, his eyes burning; the fan dropped out of his limp - hand; his fingers, rapping his palm, clenched and loosened themselves - unconsciously in an overpowering agitation. His face was white as marble, - with ominous blue shadows; but every muscle was astrain; his chest - expanded; his shoulders drew back; his mouth was as strong and firm as a - young man. For a second we could see what he had been at his prime. - </p> - <p> - Then the orator’s climax came, and the name—the magic name - that was its own campaign cry in itself. - </p> - <p> - The old partisan leaped to his feet; he waved his hands above his head; - wild, strange, in his white flame of excitement. He shouted; and we all - shouted with him, the McKinley man and the Reed man vying with each other - (I here offer my testimony to the scope and quality of that young Reed man’s - voice), and the air rang about us: “Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!” - He shrieked the name again and again, goading into life the waning - applause. Then in an instant his will snapped under the strain; his gray - beard tilted in the air; his gray head went back on his neck. - </p> - <p> - The Canton man and I caught him in time to ease the fall. We were helped - to pull him into the aisle. There were four of us by this time, his - granddaughter and the Reed “rooter,” besides the Canton man - and myself. - </p> - <p> - We carried him into the wide passageway that led to the seats. The Reed - young man ran for water, and, finding none, quickly returned with a glass - of lemonade (he was a young fellow ready in shifts), and with it we bathed - the old man’s face. - </p> - <p> - Presently he came back, by degrees, to the world; he was not conscious, - but we could see that he was not going to die. - </p> - <p> - “He’ll be all right in no time,” declared the Reed man. - “You had better go back and get your seats, and keep mine!” - </p> - <p> - I assured both men that I could not return for more than a short time, - having an engagement for luncheon. - </p> - <p> - “That’s all right,” said the Reed man, turning to the - Canton man, “I ain’t shouting when Foraker comes; you are. You - go back and keep my seat; I’ll come in later on Hobart.” - </p> - <p> - So the kindly Canton man returned to the convention for which he was - longing, and we remained in our little corner by the window, the young - girl fanning the old man, and the young man on the watch for a boy with - water. He darted after one; and then the girl turned to me. - </p> - <p> - No one disturbed us. Below, the traffic of a great city roared up to us - and a brass band clanged merrily. The crowd hurried past, drawn by the - tidings that “the light was on,” it choked the outlets and - suffocated the galleries. - </p> - <p> - “He’s been that way ever since he read, suddenly, that Blaine - was dead,” she said, lowering her voice to keep it safe from his - failing ears; “he had a kind of a stroke, and ever since he ‘s - had the notion that Blaine was alive and was going to be nominated, and - his heart was set on going here. Mother was afraid; but when—when he - cried to go, I could not help taking him—I did n’t know but - maybe it might help him; he was such a smart man and such a good man; and - he has had trouble about mortgaging the farm; and he worked so hard to get - the money back, so mother would feel right. All through the hot weather he - worked, and I guess that’s how it happened. You don’t think it’s - hurt him? The doctor said he might go. He told T——, a - gentleman friend of mine who asked him.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear, no,” said I; “it has been good for him.” - </p> - <p> - I asked for her address, which fortunately was near, and I offered her the - cab that was waiting for me. I had some ado to persuade her to accept it; - but when I pointed to her grandfather’s pale face she did accept it, - thanking me in a simple but touching way, and, of course, begging me to - visit her at Izard, Ohio. - </p> - <p> - All this while we had been sedulously fanning the old man, who would - occasionally open his eyes for a second, but gave no other sign of - returning consciousness. - </p> - <p> - The young Reed man came back with the water. He was bathing the old man’s - forehead in a very skilful and careful way, using my handkerchief, when an - uproar of cheering shook the very floor under us and the rafters overhead. - </p> - <p> - “Who is it?” the old man inquired, feebly. - </p> - <p> - “Foraker! Foraker!” bellowed the crowd. - </p> - <p> - “He’s nominated him!” muttered the old man; but this - time he did not attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned - against his granddaughter’s strong young frame and listened, while - the cheers swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound, - out of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus of the Battle Cry of - Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through - the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without. - </p> - <p> - The young Reed “boomer,” carried away by the moment, flung his - free hand above his head and yelled defiantly: “Three cheers for the - man from Maine!” Instantly he caught at his wits, his color turned, - and he lifted an abashed face to the young girl. - </p> - <p> - “But, really, you know, that ain’t giving nothing away,” - he apologized, plucking up heart. “May I do it again?” - </p> - <p> - The old partisan’s eye lighted. “Now they’re shouting! - That’s like old times! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James - G. Blaine!” - </p> - <p> - He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile still on his lips. - The “rooter” and I wormed our way through the crowd back to - the seats which the kind Canton man had kept for us. - </p> - <p> - We were quite like old acquaintances now; and he turned to me at once, - “Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved - so well as James G. Blaine?” - </p> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chap-Book Stories, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAP-BOOK STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 53991-h.htm or 53991-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/9/53991/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chap-Book Stories, by Various
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Chap-Book Stories
- Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales;
- Histories, Newly composed by Many Celebrated Writers and
- very Delightful to Read.
-
-Author: Various
-
-Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53991]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAP-BOOK STORIES ***
-
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-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
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-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- CHAP-BOOK STORIES
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By Various Authors
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Being a Miscellany of Curious and Interesting Tales; Histories, Newly
- composed by Many Celebrated Writers and very delightful to read.
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1896, By Herbert S. Stone & Co
- </h3>
- <h4>
- Chicago
- </h4>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/cover.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> WHITHER THOU GOEST </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> AN IMPASSABLE GULF </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> IN A GARDEN </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ORESTE’S PATRON </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE APPEAL TO ANNE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> I—FROM ROGER </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> II—FROM DORIS </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> III—THE TWO WOMEN </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE DEAD OAK </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT’S BALLAD
- </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ON THE BRINK </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> I </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> II </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> III </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> A WOMAN’S LIFE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> “WHEN THE KING COMES IN” </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> MANDANY’S FOOL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE WAY TO CONSTANTINOPLE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE OLD PARTISAN </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- WHITHER THOU GOEST
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Katharine Bates
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE wind stirred
- the tops of the maple trees in the Quinsby front yard, and the old man who
- stood on the steps, watching the shadows and the moonlight, sighed as he
- heard the soft rustling sound. He glanced back into the house, through the
- hall, into the bedroom, where his wife was lighting a candle preparatory
- to turning down the bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I reckon I’ll jest step down there a minit,” he
- whispered to himself, and hurriedly but softly went down the steps. Far
- down in a corner of the yard, near the front fence, a hammock hung between
- two small pin oaks, and it was here the old man went, looking back
- uneasily now and then, as if he expected a call from his wife. The hammock
- was an old one, and had evidently hung there all summer, for the meshes
- were torn and all the gay colors had faded to a dingy gray. It tossed
- lightly in the breeze as the wind grew stronger, and the old man’s
- hand trembled as he caught at its swaying folds.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Girls,” he whispered softly, “are you both here? Are
- you pushing the swing, Winnie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- A sudden flutter went over the leaves of a lilac bush near, and he turned
- quickly to it. “That’s Nan’s laugh-gigglin’ at
- yore old pa jest as usual, Nanny girl?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Father,” his wife called from the porch, “you better
- come in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned and hurried back to her. She stood on the steps with the candle
- still in her hand, its tiny flame looking almost blue in the moonlight.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mebbe a storm is cornin’ up and you’ll ketch cold,”
- she said when he reached her. Her voice was stern, but the look in her
- gray eyes was as sad as the trembling of his lips when he said to her,
- “Ain’t it jest the sorter night the girls use’ to beg to
- stay out, and not have to go to bed yet a while?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s a mighty pretty night,” she answered. She followed
- him into their room, closing the hall door after her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t shet it, Mira, don’t! It seems as if you was
- shettin’ the children out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Quinsby turned to him. “Hiram, I must speak out to you,”
- she said. “I don’t see any more’n you why the Lord
- thought best to take our girls, our two good, pretty girls, but He has
- done it, and it ain’t right for you to be lettin’ yoreself
- fancy you hear ‘em ‘round on nights like this. I’ve
- faith to believe if we can keep ourselves outer sin for the rest of our
- days we shall see the children again—but not here, Hiram, not here
- in the old place.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know it ain’t Nan and Winnie sure ‘nough,”
- Hiram answered apologetically, “but these nights make me think of
- ‘em a terrible lot—and the leaves goin’ so and so in the
- wind does sound real like Nan’s laugh. Mira, I was out in the garden
- while you was puttin’ the dishes away and strainin’ the milk,
- and jest as the moon came out and the wind started up I heard a laugh like
- Nan’s, and then something danced by me that must have been Winnie. I
- hurried down the path after it, and there by the poppy bed were the girls,
- rompin’ jest like children again, ‘most grown girls that they
- are. As the wind came up more they laughed again, not so soft as they had
- been doin’, but a real burst of gay laughin’ like they use’
- to work themselves up to, and then they ran towards the arbor and peeped
- out from the honeysuckle, and Nan called, ‘Here, Pa,’ and
- Winnie sorter sang out, ‘Father, Father,’ in her soft way.”
- Mrs. Quinsby put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a little shake.
- Her eyes were frightened, and her voice came quick and stern.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hush, Father,” she said. “You are doin’ yoreself
- an injury. The girls are in heaven, not here, and don’t you let go
- yore grip on yore mind. Think of me, Hiram—you’ve got me left,
- and I can’t stand the thought of the lonesomeness if you let your
- senses go. You and me have been married so many years, Hiram, we could n’t
- get on without each other. Why, it seems to me the good Lord would surely
- let me get foolish too—mebbe it ain’t fittin’ for one of
- my years to say it, but I’d ruther, yes, I’d <i>ruther</i> if
- it comes down to choosin’ between my senses and you, Hiram!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The far-away look disappeared from Hiram’s eyes. “I was jest
- thinkin’, Mira,” he said reassuringly. “It was only that
- the night was so powerful pretty. But now we won’t talk of the
- children any more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Quinsby drew him back to the porch again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t think me hard, Father,” she said entreatingly,
- “but I want you to be sure. Look over there towards the church; you
- can see the dark heap of trees against the sky in the churchyard, can’t
- you? There’s where the girls are—there’s where they are.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course, Mira. Though how the Lord could take those pretty
- young things, and our only two, that had come to us when we was long past
- hopin’, is more’n I can see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They went to bed, but later in the night Mrs. Quinsby waked suddenly. Her
- first thought was that the storm was really coming and she had left the
- pantry windows open. She slipped out of bed, but as she realized that her
- movement did not disturb her husband, a blind terror came over her; she
- struck match after match before she could make herself believe he was not
- there. Then she picked up a shawl and flung it over her nightgown, and,
- regardless of her bare feet, rushed out to the garden. The wind was
- blowing hard and the moon was half hidden by the lightly scudding clouds,
- but Hiram’s laugh—the pleased, indulgent laugh that his girls’
- nonsense had so often produced—guided her to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That you, Mother?” he called as she ran down the path.
- “What a couple of colts you’ve brought up, Mira. Reckon you
- could find their beat anywheres in Mizzourer for friskiness? Just see
- those girls racin’ round—a storm comin’ up always did go
- to their heads. Hear Nan laugh! Ain’t she the greatest girl for
- foolin’ you ever saw?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He pointed to some tall hollyhocks that she could see were bending low
- with the wind, and added, “Watch her bow; Nan was always as easy
- movin’ in her body as a saplin’ or a tall flower.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Quinsby put her arm around his shoulder. “Oh, he’s let go—you’ve
- let go, Father, and I’m left! I can’t stand the lonesomeness,
- I can’t, I can’t!”
- </p>
- <p>
- They moved toward the arbor. As they passed under the drooping
- honeysuckle, Hiram laughed aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are putting their hands over our eyes to make us guess which
- is which—the little geese!” Mrs. Quinsby put her hand to her
- forehead and pressed the cool honeysuckle leaves against her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- She laughed too. “I knew it,” she whispered, “I knew the
- Almighty would let me go with him. He knew how it was with Hiram and me.”
- Aloud she said, “I guess Winnie. Yore hands ain’t as soft as
- Winnie’s, Nan.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- AN IMPASSABLE GULF
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Katharine Bates
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER ELSTON’S
- two nieces, Nancy Rollins and Hester Elston, stood on opposite sides of
- the frame, working together silently. Suddenly Hester dropped her needle,
- straightened her lithe young figure, and throwing back her pretty head,
- said hurriedly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t see how you can feel so, Nan! You must see how good
- he is, as well as bein’ different from any boy we’ve ever
- known round here on the Prairie. Ain’t he always thoughtful ‘bout
- pleasin’ Uncle Peter? And he’s gone to church reg’lar
- with us every Sunday he’s been here, ain’t he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pauses, catching her breath after her eager speech, and looking
- yearningly at Nancy. The older girl’s pale face hardened as she
- caught the imploring glance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He seems to me to be very worldly,” she said coldly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The color rushed to Hester’s cheeks, and she bent quickly over the
- frame; for a few moments she sewed vigorously, saying to herself with
- fierce indignation, as she worked:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I declare if I think Nancy is so spiritual, after all—a
- judgin’ Fred like that, and all because he told her he liked to go
- now and then to the the-<i>a</i>-tre!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Resentment, however, never lingered long in Hester’s heart, and at
- last she raised her head again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you did feel different, Nan,” she said gently. “I
- can’t bear to think of you not takin’ to the man I’m
- goin’ to marry. You and me have always seemed jest like sisters ever
- since Uncle Pete took us to raise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy’s blue eyes met the pleading brown ones more gently this time.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she said slowly, “you <i>have</i> been jest like
- a sister to me, Hetty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Hester ran around the frame and threw her arms around her cousin with the
- eager expression of affection which always embarrassed Nancy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nan,” she cried, “I jest do wish you could see it the
- way I do. Fred is so good, and it’s only because he lives in town
- that he has gotten to like such things as the-<i>a</i>-tres. You do take
- to him sure ‘nough, don’t you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy’s voice quivered as she answered the passionate appeal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know he’s got pleasant ways, and he’s right
- principled about a lot of things, but, Hetty, there’s no denyin’
- he puts pleasure before servin’ the Lord, and we are told mighty
- plain in the Bible not to make friends with the Mammon of unrighteousness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Hester bit her lip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There’s some folks, and real good ones, too, who think havin’
- some pleasures like Fred cares for and bein’ real down good
- Christians, too, ain’t incompatible,” she said, struggling to
- speak calmly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There’s a gulf,” Nancy said firmly, “between me
- and the-<i>a</i>-tre goers, and I’m mighty sorry for you, Hester.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You needn’t be,” cried Hester, impatiently. “I’m
- happy and satisfied about marryin’ Fred!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What’s all this talk about marryin’?” Uncle Peter
- called in at the doorway, as he paused to wave his bundle of birds and
- squirrels at his nieces. “Jest leave a couple of girls alone, and
- their tongues are sure to get to waggin’ ‘bout marryin’!
- Come along, Hetty, and help me pick and clean this lot. It’s been a
- fine huntin’ day, if ‘tis a trifle coldish for an old man like
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You old!” laughed Hester, as they settled themselves by the
- kitchen fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I am gettin’ on,” cried Uncle Peter, seriously,
- “and I don’t see how I am goin’ to do without you,
- Hester. You are sure you want to marry Fred?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sure,” said Hester, quickly. “Uncle Pete, wasn’t
- it jest marvellous for him to fall in love with me, when he’s a town
- man and knows such a lot of girls with better manners and all that?”
- Uncle Peter looked meditatively at the delicate rose complexion, the large
- brown eyes, and the soft, waving hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t see as it was so dreadful queer,” he said.
- “You’d pass in a crowd, Het.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was silence for a little while, Hester dreaming happy dreams of her
- future, and Uncle Peter groaning inwardly at the prospect of being left to
- live alone with the more spiritual of his nieces. Suddenly a gleam of hope
- came to him, and he said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mebbe you can’t marry him after all—town folks have a
- great way of not makin’ a livin’, Hetty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know it,” admitted Hester, almost despondently, but her
- face brightened as she added; “but it is such a great big store Fred
- is clerkin’ in that I’m jest sure we won’t have to wait
- long, Uncle Pete.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The waiting time proved to be as short as Hester and Fred had hoped, for
- in spite of his “worldliness” Fred was a faithful young
- fellow, and the promotion which made possible a tiny flat, and
- housekeeping on a limited scale, came even before he had expected it.
- Uncle Peter did his best to be cheery at the simple little wedding, and
- Nancy had baked as many cakes for them as if the young couple were not
- starting out on a sinful career. Hester prized keenly the expressions of
- affection which had been rare up to the time when her uncle and cousin had
- realized what a difference her going would make in their lives, and her
- grief at leaving her home amazed and almost annoyed Fred, who had grown to
- look upon himself as her deliverer from a life which seemed very cramped
- and hard to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish there was somethin’ I could do for you, Hetty,”
- Uncle Peter said, when the last of the wedding guests had departed, and he
- and Nancy were hurrying Fred and Hester away to the train, for they were
- going at once to their new home. He took her carpet-bag from her, and
- awkwardly helped her to button the linen duster, which Nancy had insisted
- should be worn to the station to protect the new travelling dress from the
- mud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is,” said Hester, tremulously. “Uncle Pete, if
- you could jest make Nancy see that goin’ to the the-<i>a</i>-tre ain’t
- incompatible with goin’ to Heaven some day, I ‘d be greatly
- obliged to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Peter drew a long breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’ve done a sight of work here, Hetty,” he said
- tenderly, “and I’ve been dreadful fond of you, too, but I’ll
- be damned if I will try to get a new notion into Nancy’s head, even
- for you!” Hester sighed. “I s’pose it would be askin’
- a good deal of you,” she said simply “but, Uncle Pete, you
- will remind her anyway that Fred and I won’t be able to afford goin’
- more’n once in a long, long time, won’t you? Now good-bye,
- Uncle.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He helped her into the wagon, and while Fred and Nancy were crossing the
- yard, he stood looking at her with his lips twitching nervously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye, Hester,” Nancy said, climbing up on the step of the
- wagon. The two kissed each other, and Hester clung for a second to her
- cousin’s neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Nan,” she whispered, “we have always played
- together and done our work together—<i>don’t</i> feel hard to
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy looked down at her sadly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ain’t a mite hard,” she said gently. “I ain’t
- judgin’, Hetty, only there’s a gulf. Goodbye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned to Fred and held out her hand. “I wish you well,”
- she said, in her clear, calm tones, and then she opened the yard gate and
- stood inside, leaving Uncle Peter a chance for his farewell.
- </p>
- <p>
- He wrung Fred’s hand, but no words came from his trembling lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ll be very good to her,” Fred said hurriedly. “Good-bye,
- sir. I hope you won’t mind if I say I consider it an honor to be
- your nephew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At the time Uncle Peter grasped only the first words. “Yes,”
- he said, “be good to her, Fred—she’s a good girl, a good
- girl.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped on the hub of the wheel, and Hester threw her arms around him,
- kissing vehemently his gray head and wrinkled cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t forget me,” she sobbed. “Oh, how can I
- leave you and Nan and the old place? Goodbye, and I love you, I do so love
- you, Uncle Pete!”
- </p>
- <p>
- At a sign from Nancy the hired man whipped up the horses. As they drove
- away Hester looked back at the clump of oak-trees around the house, and
- then at the two figures at the yard gate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish I’d done more for’em all these years they’ve
- been so good to me,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
- Fred held her hand close between both of his, but he made no answer, for
- her grief dazed him. He knew that many elements in her life had been
- distasteful to her; and why should a woman who was marrying the man she
- loved, and was moreover going to town to live, grieve in this way? The
- hired man turned in his seat and gave the needed word of comfort.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’ve done a sight for’em,” he said warmly,
- “and you ain’t no cause to fret, Miss Hetty. We’ll all
- miss you terrible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Peter wandered restlessly around the farm until dinner-time. An
- aching heart was a new experience to him, and one that he did not know how
- to meet. He went into the orchard and picked up apple after apple, and
- after a mere taste flung each of them away; as he left the orchard he
- stopped to look back at the mass of Spanish needle and goldenrod, through
- which he had just made his way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How she did like all that yeller stuff,” he said aloud.
- “What a sight of interest she took in everything about the place.
- She was a good girl, and I wish I’d a quit swearin’—‘twould
- have tickled her mightily. Hanged if I don’t quit it now!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy had an unusually good dinner ready for him. Preparing it had helped
- her to pass the morning, for Uncle Peter’s was not the only aching
- heart. She helped him lavishly to half a dozen vegetables, but for the
- first time within her memory of him, he had no appetite. He pushed back
- his chair before she brought his pie, and as he did so a sudden wave of
- antagonism to her came over him; he had never spoken to her of her stern
- words to Hester, but now involuntarily his criticism of her slipped from
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Blessed if I can see how you could have been so hard on Fred, and
- let pore Hetty go away feelin’ so broke up,” he said
- impetuously.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy pressed her lips together firmly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never judged Fred himself,” she said. “I always
- separated the sin from the sinner, and we are bidden to be unceasing in
- denouncing sin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Peter said no more; he rose from the table and went out to the
- porch, and as he sat there Fred’s words recurred to him, and roused
- a glow of affectionate feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Proud to be my nephew,” he repeated. “He’s a fine
- feller, he is, and Hetty’s done well for herself, if it is pretty
- hard on us to be left.” He went back to the dining-room, where Nancy
- was clearing the dishes away, and opening the door he called in
- vehemently:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Blamed if I care if he takes her to the the-<i>a</i>-tre every
- night in the week!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Nancy turned a startled face to him, forgetful of the fact that tears were
- rolling down her cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- The unexpected sight of her grief touched her uncle keenly; he had never
- before seen her cry, and going over to her and laying his hand on her
- shoulder, he said affectionately, “I’m a reg’lar old
- brute, Nan. You must excuse me, and remember it’s losin’ Hetty
- that’s sorter upset me. I orter be better ‘n usual to you,
- instead of meaner, for I can see you are grievin’ too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have more cause to be grievin’ even than you, Uncle Peter,”
- Nancy said sadly, “for there’s an impassable gulf between
- Hetty and me now.” Uncle Peter’s hand slipped from her
- shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gulfs be damned,” he said impatiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- IN A GARDEN
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Neith Boyce
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>VER the wall of
- the Mission, against the glowing west, the tops of the trees flickered in
- the wind from the sea, shot through with level glancing arrows of clear
- light. The sky was all astir with little soft, gold-tipped clouds. To the
- languid hush of the hot day had succeeded a subtle animation like the
- smile on the lips of a sleeping woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- On this awakening air the last organ-notes of the vesper service died
- away, and were echoed by the slow, rhythmic swing of the tall
- eucalyptus-trees. The rustle of the leaves imitated the sound of the
- devout dispersing from the chapel; and a magnolia shook out from its great
- white chalices an incense more penetrating than any wafted before the
- altar. Suddenly all this gentle derision seemed to voice itself in a burst
- of mocking laughter, faint and far away, like the airy merriment of elves.
- The sound approached and grew louder, running through the notes of a
- treble scale. And the trees in the monks’ garden seemed to bend and
- listen and to beckon while they shook all over with malicious glee.
- </p>
- <p>
- Scurrying over the ground beyond, with bare, dusty feet, appeared a group
- of creatures pulling each other by extended arms, or brown garments which
- seemed a part of the earth, or by their braids of strong, black hair. Writhing
- in this rough play they flung themselves against the wall. A palefaced
- girl in a scarlet blouse, like a cactus-flower bursting from its dull
- sheath, threw up her arms into the dense, dark foliage of an overhanging
- fig-tree and dragged down the bough.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are ripe!—what did I tell you?” she cried, as at a
- touch a purple, bloomy fig fell into her hand. She tore it open and
- fastened her teeth, sharp and white as those of a squirrel, in the pink
- flesh.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her companions hung back, looking at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If we are caught—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do we care? Cowards! There—now you can put all the blame
- on me. Eat, then, little pigs that you are!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her heavy-lidded eyes were cold and contemptuously smiling. Hanging to the
- bough with both hands, she shook it roughly, and the ripe figs fell in a
- shower, some flattening to pulp on the ground. The girls flung themselves
- down, and, chattering, gathered the unspoiled fruit into the skirts of
- their gowns.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is true; they are better than ours,” cried one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Trust the holy fathers to have the best,” added another,
- lowering her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They taste better,” said Fiora, the tall girl in the scarlet
- blouse, “because we are stealing them.” And she licked her red
- lips with satisfaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There must be better ones higher up,” said a fourth,
- greedily, standing with her hands on her broad hips and her head thrown
- back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us see,” responded Fiora.
- </p>
- <p>
- Again she caught hold of the drooping branch, drew herself up, and in an
- instant the thick foliage hid her from sight. Her companions,
- half-smothered with laughter, besought her to return.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, if you are seen!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Catch!” cried Fiora.
- </p>
- <p>
- A rain of soft bodies fell, thumping them about the shoulders. Through the
- parted leaves an impudent face looked down, framed like a young faun’s
- in living green.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going higher—I am going to look into the garden!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! Oh!” in frightened and delighted chorus. “You dare
- not!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Listen, my children,” said Fiora, condescendingly. “They
- say no woman has ever seen this garden. Well, I have a great mind to be
- the first!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Lying along the thick branch, she listened smilingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is forbidden!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will be punished!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The holy fathers—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What have they in their garden,” she cried at last, “that
- is so sacred that we may not see it? Would our feet soil the grass or the
- paths?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girls looked at one another slyly and hid their faces; and their
- malicious laughter, stifled with difficulty and uncontrollable, mingled
- again with the eager murmurs of the trees.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fiora, herself laughing, she scarcely knew why, disappeared, the leaves
- closing behind her like a green sea. She crept along the great branch
- until her feet found something firm—the top of the wall. Clinging to
- the trunk of the tree which leaned against this wall, she tried to pierce
- the thick layers of foliage below her, but in vain; nothing was to be seen
- in the garden. She swore softly. Then, in trying to extend herself upon a
- branch which projected into the garden, she slipped, catching vainly at
- the nearest twigs, and with a thrill of alarm came to her feet upon the
- forbidden soil. She clenched her hands, full of bruised leaves, against
- her breast, as she crouched in the shelter of the drooping boughs.
- Startled by the noise of her fall, her companions took flight like a covey
- of birds, with a rustle, a faint murmur—silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fiora sank to her knees and remained for some moments motionless, gazing
- out into the garden. In the dusk, deepened by the shadow of encircling
- trees, nothing was visible save narrow paths strewn with opal-colored
- sea-shells glimmering amid fresh turf, and roses blooming in masses along
- these walks and hiding the wall under their heavy leaves, thick with
- flowers like pale flames. Silence—except for the applauding whisper
- of the trees and the plash of water. There was no one in the garden.
- </p>
- <p>
- Taking courage, the intruder pushed her way out from under the boughs of
- the fig-tree. The freshly sprinkled grass caressed her feet. The perfume
- of the roses and the magnolia blossoms, becoming more intense as the dew
- began to gather, surrounded her like an invisible presence, seeming to
- draw her on. She stole softly forward, her eyes alert for the least
- warning and alive with curiosity. The path led her through an arbor
- drifted deep with the perfumed snow of wistaria, and between banks of
- golden pansies set in mosaic borders. At the intersection of this gleaming
- streak with another a fountain played in a white basin, tossing high in
- the air a crystal ball. The crest of the plume of water caught a gleam of
- golden light, and the transparent ball glittered as it rose every instant
- from shadow. Fiora paused to watch it and to follow the arrowy glidings of
- the gold-fish in the basin. The short southern twilight was already ended.
- It was now dark—the hour at which the fathers took their evening
- meal. Yielding, therefore, to her fancy, she followed the windings of the
- paths, stopping recklessly to pluck now a scarlet pomegranate, which she
- ate with puckered lips; now a rose, crimson or yellow, or a long spray of
- white roses with pink hearts, set close together on the stem. Huge cacti,
- their gray, distorted bodies spotted with blood-colored blossoms, stood
- here and there in clumps. Banana trees waved softly their long, graceful
- fronds. The wind stirred with a dry rustle among palms with broad trunks
- and large fans, and others, slender and lofty, with crests like stacked
- swords, and among masses of pampas-grass tufted with great white plumes.
- Along the wall, to which now and then Fiora’s wanderings in the
- confined space brought her, grew apricot and peach trees heavy with ripe
- fruit. These perfect sweets also she tasted capriciously and threw away
- half-eaten. The place exerted a strange influence over her. The hour, the
- delicious thrill of danger, the heavy perfumes, intoxicated her. It seemed
- that the trees bent toward her to murmur something, that the pale faces of
- the flowers held some mysterious message. They looked friendly; they
- appeared to smile knowingly at her, to encourage her, to urge her on.
- Vaguely she felt all this breathing, eager life a part of her, belonging
- to her. She threw back her head, turning it from side to side with an air
- of satisfied possession, drawing in the cool air through her nostrils and
- parted lips with sensuous delight—this pale creature whose eyes
- showed a savage response to the cajoling beauty about her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Convinced at last that the garden held no secret, save that of certain
- flowers and fruits cultivated to unknown perfection,—for she had
- explored it from the limiting wall to where the pallid outline of some
- building of the Mission gleamed through the trees,—she came back to
- the fountain and sat down on the wooden bench at the path’s edge,
- her flowers heaped in her lap. She gave herself a few moments more to
- watch the leaping ball, which now sparkled like silver in the midst of
- glittering spray. A shaft of moonlight, striking through the trees upon
- the jet of water, crept steadily downward. The girl, her eyes fixed on
- this trembling column of white fire and foam, fell in a vague, trance-like
- dream. The ripple of the fountain in her ears drowned the echo of slow
- footsteps advancing along the path.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Father Anselmo’s custom, while digesting his supper of meat
- pasty and chocolate, to pace the garden, whose beauty seldom failed to
- inspire him with poetical images, and to add each evening some dozen lines
- to his panegyric ode on Saint Francis. Anselmo was, in fact, a poet,—but
- a poet whose strictly regulated fancy never openly strayed beyond the
- confines of the cloister. His gentle muse sang consecrated themes alone.
- And if, surrounded by an indolent, veiled fervor of tropical nature, apt
- to long, arid trances, and to sudden outbursts of fierce luxuriance, his
- imagination was sometimes troubled, these secret vagaries were repressed
- or found no acknowledged utterance. In his black, shapeless robe, above
- which his placid face showed like a sickly moon, the father, whether
- meditating on the pasty or Saint Francis, seemed no prey to the poetic
- ardor; its afflatus left him undizzied and peaceful. Yet the mystery of
- the night, the garden’s magic, must have struck some responsive
- chord within him. For how else should his bodily eyes have beheld beneath
- the shadow of the acacia bushes a creature not human, surely not divine;
- no spiritual vision, but an apparition born of the earth and evil. It sat
- half-visible, buried to the chin in flowers, motionless, its face a mere
- pale shimmer, its great shadowy eyes fixed upon him. These eyes were
- terrifying.
- </p>
- <p>
- Anselmo retreated some steps upon their discovery; then, after much
- hesitation, advanced again, extending the cross of his rosary and
- muttering with trembling lips certain words of proved potency. But neither
- holy symbol nor exorcism availed against the evil spirit. It refused to
- flee; sat dumb—it seemed to Anselmo disdainful. Suddenly, wrathful,
- he took another step forward; the creature drew in its breath sharply,
- with an audible sound; its lips parted, showing a row of gleaming teeth.
- Anselmo paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was, he perceived, the spirit of the garden, and it was plainly
- hostile. Was he, then, the intruder? Vaguely a sense of helpless fright
- invaded his soul. Yes, the trees were in league with this being; they bent
- towards him threateningly! The air was full of veiled alarms. What of the
- rosebushes which even now reached out clutching hands to detain him? An
- overblown white rose broke and fell in a soft shower about his shoulders,
- and he started; a bat swooped down with swift, filmy wings, just grazing
- his head; he shrank back.
- </p>
- <p>
- Could it be that he was in danger, that his wandering thoughts were known,
- that his sinful fancies had thus taken shape to confound him? Anselmo
- crossed himself. It was true—moved by the garden’s spell he
- had sometime in reverie invoked the animating principle of this beauty of
- earth, which he knew well was soulless and evil—and behold it
- incarnate!
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet the apparition did not menace him overtly, perhaps it felt his
- spiritual armor proof. Nevertheless, it was his part to fly possible
- danger, to deliver over the unhallowed domain to its true possessor. What
- part had he in these caresses of the breeze, these wooings of flowers,
- these marriages of insects, this glamour of nocturnal magic?
- </p>
- <p>
- Knowing, as he did, the evil power of the moon at its full, how had he
- been persuaded to walk in debatable ground where that demoniac glory,
- rising warm and wanton above the trees, could mock and threaten him? Under
- the branches of the acacia the shadow sat still in deeper shadow; save
- that the rays of the moon fell upon two slim, naked feet, which the short
- grass could not cover. It had taken, then, the form of a woman, that the
- garden and its tradition might be doubly desecrated! Anselmo’s
- indignation was not fierce enough to nerve his soul, weakened by mystic
- terrors. He turned to fly, but, instead, uttered an exclamation, calling
- in a trembling voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Brother Emanuel!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am coming,” was the answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another black robe, another pale face, appeared beside him, and, like him,
- started back at perceiving the strange figure. After consultation in
- whispers the bolder monk approached the acacia.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is no spirit, Brother Anselmo—it is a woman!” he
- cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A woman! How could a woman get into the garden?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The first speaker cast a troubled glance in the direction of the high
- wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- “True,” he said uncertainly. “Still it must be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But involuntarily he moved a step nearer his companion.
- </p>
- <p>
- Both glanced down at the slender feet in the grass. These seemed to move,
- and the spirit, or woman, turned her head swiftly from side to side. Her
- breath came quicker, but the monks could not hear it, or they might have
- taken courage.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is astonishing,” murmured Brother Emanuel, uneasily.
- </p>
- <p>
- While they stood undecided between the attack and the retreat, suddenly
- from the chapel near by the organ gave voice in a deep, swelling chord,
- which climbed by subtle and suave modulations and soared aloft into a
- tender melody.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is Brother Angelo,” whispered Anselmo.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is holy music!” said Emanuel, devoutly, and he made the
- sign of the cross in the air before him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The tremulous notes, growing louder, drowned the rustle of the leaves, the
- plash of the fountain, the sigh of the wind. It seemed as though the
- garden hushed half-unwillingly to listen, when a voice, humanly deep and
- sweet, but spiritualized into something not less than divine, took up the
- melody and bore it higher and heavenward, pouring out into the night a
- flood of ecstasy and aspiration. The march of the music was solemn and
- splendid, and its soul was a joy unearthly and beyond utterance.
- </p>
- <p>
- The black-robed brothers stood and listened, rebuked and dumb, turning
- their faces toward the glimmering wall of the chapel, and forgetting for a
- moment the fears which had agitated them, with their cause. What were all
- the potencies of the passionate earth, so easily diverted from good,
- against this royal dominion?
- </p>
- <p>
- The evil-seeming spell was broken. A sudden movement, no sound but a
- stirring of the air, recalled their attention. The foliage of the acacia
- trembled as though a bird had taken wing. The bench was vacant, flowers
- strewed the ground before it, the presence had vanished. Her white feet or
- a breath of air had borne her away. The diapason of the organ drowned the
- sound her flight might have made; and the trees bent as though to bury in
- shadow her possible path. Emanuel made a long step forward.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Woman or spirit, she is gone!” he cried, and stooped to see
- what trace of her those scattered roses might show. Anselmo grasped his
- companion’s sleeve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do not touch them,” he entreated, glancing fearfully over his
- shoulder. “Who knows what spell is upon them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- True, when found next morning, withered and scentless, these flowers
- appeared commonplace enough. Nor did there exist other proof that on this
- spot two brothers of the order had beheld a strange and dangerous vision.
- None the less was their sober account accepted implicitly by the brethren,
- of whom the wiser ever thereafter avoided to walk in the garden at the
- moon’s full; though certain of the more youthful were known to
- adventure themselves at that place and season.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is not recorded that their daring and zeal met with any reward or
- recognition. Nor, perhaps, is this to be wondered at. For if any wandering
- spirit, coveting, yet not daring to enter the garden, had strayed near to
- the confining wall, it must have heard daily the solemn chant of the
- Church’s exorcism directed against all powers unholy; it must daily
- have beheld a slow procession of monks make the circuit of the
- shell-strewn paths, sprinkling the ground with holy-water to purify it
- from the contaminating touch of a woman’s foot. And if, spirit or
- woman, it were still undeterred, there was Angelo’s music at evening—like
- another flaming sword at the gate of this Eveless Eden!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- ORESTE’S PATRON
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Grace Ellery Channing
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Signore
- Americano, musing over his morning coffee on the Villa terrace, gazed
- intently into the distance where Florence lay invisible behind the hills.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Buon’ giorno, Signore!” called Oreste, reining in
- Elisabetta and lifting his cap with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Buon’ giorno!” returned the Signore, starting. “Ah,
- you are going to the city, and I wanted to go myself!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Oreste looked troubled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Signore,—how much I am sorry! It displeases me, but I am
- already promised to my patron. When one is poor, one must think of the
- francs for the family,” he added apologetically.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore, who knew no such necessity, frowned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is the fifth time this Carnivale—and you just married!
- If I had a <i>sposina</i>—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Signore’s <i>sposina</i> would lack for nothing,”
- smiled Oreste. “We others,—we must do as we can. As for Gioja,
- she goes to pass the day with her <i>nonna</i> at Vincigliata. I will
- bring the Signore’s mail as usual.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore waved his hand impatiently, and knocked the ashes from his
- cigarette, then, as the shabby cab, with Elisabetta pulling heroically
- back against the steepness, wound from sight, his glance softened. It was
- a piece of fortune surely for a Vignola cabman to have a city patron.
- Fortunes were not to be made up here where nobody but the <i>forestieri</i>,
- who came from time to time to make a <i>villegiatura</i> in one or another
- of the villas, would think of wasting francs for the sole purpose of
- getting somewhere. The inhabitants stayed where they found themselves
- placed by Providence. To all intents, Vignola might be a hundred miles
- from Florence instead of a bare six. Besides, a stranger Signore passes
- with the season, but a city patron remains. Nuisance as it was to have his
- own plans conflicted with, the Signore forgave Oreste.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fifteen minutes later this melting mood congealed again, as a slender
- figure stole quietly down the Way.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Gioja, walking with her usual listless grace.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her small head, its crisply waved Tuscan hair bound with a kerchief of
- dull blue, was carried far back as no kerchiefed head has a right to be;
- and her eyes, blue as the kerchief but not dull, looked straight ahead,
- dilated and musing. She did not see the Signore,—a thing that could
- have befallen no other girl in the village, unless it were blind Chiara,
- and the Signore watched her go with a frown,—for this was not the
- direction of Vincigliata. And why was she starting so early, unless to
- defeat the glances with which all these closed doors would soon be alive?
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet he continued to watch her. There were other girls in the village just
- as pretty. Many a strain of noble blood had gone to the making of these
- Vignolese peasants. This was not the first girl the Signore had seen who
- looked as if—change her gown and tie a bonnet over her hair—she
- might loll in her carriage of an afternoon at the Cascine with the best of
- the fine ladies in the city below. But there was no other whom the Signore
- ever leaned over the wall to look after. And as he leaned his frown
- deepened; he was sorry for Oreste; but—marry a girl like that and
- leave her alone, in Italy! Anybody might foresee the end. And he frowned
- again, not at Gioja this time, who had disappeared from view, but at a
- mental image, wearing, it is true, an air dangerously like that of Oreste’s
- <i>sposa</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, indeed, anybody might foretell the end. That was what the whole
- community, already buzzing with the scandal, said. And it was exactly what
- the Padre said when, five minutes later, he came up the path and sank upon
- the marble seat, mopping his brow beneath the beaver hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have been to Oreste’s,” he said apologetically,
- “and thought I would look in upon the Signore in passing. There was
- nobody there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore, engaged in pouring red wine for his guest, made no response,
- and the priest stole a troubled glance at him as he took the glass from
- his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps, Signore, you may have seen them pass, and can tell me if
- that child went with her husband?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said the Signore, after a minute’s deliberation,
- “I could not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His guest sighed as he sipped the wine. He had grown gray in the service
- of the village. He had known Gioja from her babyhood. His was the hand
- which had held and oiled and dipped her at the font, and had led her from
- then until her present estate; and he, if any one, had a right to borrow
- trouble, seeing that all troubles were brought to him in the end. His
- fine, thin lips shut above the wineglass in the sensitive line which marks
- the better of Rome’s two types. His soul was straight and simple.
- The one vanity it owned was to be on terms of companionship with the
- occupant of the big villa. The half hour on its terrace or in its salotto
- formed his social dissipation, and dearly did he prize the importance it
- gave him in the eyes of his flock. Nay, it gave importance to the whole
- community.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not every village has a priest like ours,” said the gossips,
- complacently, “that a so-educated stranger Signore would make so
- much of.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Moreover, if his people were poor, God alone knows how poor their priest
- was, and the Signore possessed a fine taste in wines,—true Chianti,
- a very different thing from <i>vino rosso</i> at eighty centesimi the
- flask,—while his lavishness was that of his country.
- </p>
- <p>
- As for the Signore, he would pour the oil from a fresh flask any time to
- unseal the lips pressed together as now over the case of Oreste’s <i>sposa</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The truth is,” sighed the priest, “the end is too easy
- to foresee. The child is not like others; and there is nothing worse than
- that. That’s what Luigi’s <i>sposa</i> said yesterday when I
- rebuked her for thinking evil, and recalled to her how Gioja helped nurse
- her three through the fever only last spring. ‘Oh, I’m not
- saying she has n’t a heart,’ said Luigi’s <i>sposa</i>;
- ‘but you can’t deny that all is not right when a girl is
- different from all the rest; it is better to have less heart and be more
- like one’s neighbors.’ And Luigi’s wife had reason.
- Nothing is worse than to be different from all the folk about you. When I
- had her safely married, I thought indeed there would be an end of trouble;—Heaven
- grant it do not prove a beginning!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does she not love her husband?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who can tell?” sighed the priest, impatiently. “Oreste
- is not one to set the Arno afire, but he is a good lad. But about her he
- is a mule,—a very mule. Would you believe, Signore, when I ventured
- a word,—I, whose duty it is,—he flared up like a Befana torch,—he
- whose manner to me ordinarily is a lesson to the community!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore smiled and reflected upon the strength of man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One would say I had spoken ill of the Saints,” continued the
- exasperated priest. “And the thing is becoming insufferable,—such
- a tale of scandal as some one whispers to me every day. One would think
- she has neither eyes nor ears, and cares not whether she has friends or
- foes for neighbors.” There is, in truth, no such broad and flowery
- path to unpopularity as this which Gioja undeviatingly pursued. Nobody who
- elects to be unlike his neighbors gets social good of it. Had not the
- Signore himself seen?
- </p>
- <p>
- Bad enough it was to have her sitting wide-eyed and absolutely indifferent
- at her machine, and so pretty that one could see the youths looking at her
- when they pretended not to; or mooning over her straw work with never a
- word of gossip or a little story about a friend, more than if they were
- all stones: but what did these absences all by herself mean, which looked
- the worse now that she was a decent man’s wife? It was an absolute
- scandal—which is only another name for a godsend sometimes—to
- a sober community.
- </p>
- <p>
- Oreste might pretend to shut his eyes,—he had always been a fool
- about her; but it could not be asked that all the village should do the
- same, especially those girls who would have made decent wives if any one
- had given <i>them</i> the chance, and those lads who would have known how
- to keep a wife in order if they had taken one.
- </p>
- <p>
- The priest, thinking of these things, sighed. He, too, might affect
- blindness; but he would need to be stone deaf as well to escape hearing
- what every tongue in the village felt it a duty and a privilege to confide
- to him daily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It must be admitted that the Signorina Americana has something to
- answer for,” the priest wound up, as he invariably did, and always
- with an indulgent accent which forgave while it accused.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signorina Americana!—how many times was she not levelled at the
- ears of the Signore Americano who had inherited her tradition with the
- villa of which he was the next lessee. If the contadini were to be
- believed, there was little for which she might not be held accountable.
- They spoke of her smilingly, Oreste tenderly, the priest indulgently (the
- Signorina also had possessed a generous taste in wines), and Gioja not at
- all. Yet apparently it was precisely Gioja who might have had most to say.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, yes; if I could have foreseen when I brought that child to her!
- But what harm could come to her from earning a few francs as the
- Signo-rina’s maid? I chose her for the very reason that she had more
- gentleness and was more educated than the others,—the Signorina,
- your countrywoman, was herself very educated and full of <i>gentilezza</i>.
- But she was too good to Gioja, and then she could never be made to see.
- She had a way with her,—when I began to remonstrate with her she
- would fill up my glass and ask about my poor, and, before I knew it—<i>altro!</i>
- she was very generous, your countrywoman. But if there are many like her
- in your country it must be a terrible place; a man would not possess his
- own soul.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She would sit here—precisely where I sit now—and smile
- a little smile she had, and twist this rose-vine about her fingers, and
- just so she twisted us all. Ah,” he concluded, lifting his glass,
- “she was truly terrible, that Signorina; but <i>simpatica, altro!</i>
- never have I seen so <i>simpatica</i> a signorina.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <i>Simpatica!</i> When you are that, there is nothing else you can be; and
- when you are not that, nothing that you can be is of any use. When
- everybody, down to the newsboys and cab-openers, loves you and doesn’t
- know why,—you are <i>simpatica</i>; when people would rather do
- things for you than not, and don’t care about the payment,—then
- you may be sure you are <i>simpatica</i>; when the expression of their
- eyes and the tones of their voices change insensibly when they look at and
- speak to you,—there is no room to doubt that you are <i>simpatica</i>.
- You may not be rich, nor beautiful, nor “educated” (such a
- very different thing from book-fed), but you do not need to be. <i>Simpatica</i>
- is the comprehending sky of praise in which separate stars of admiration
- are swallowed up.
- </p>
- <p>
- While the Signore figured rapidly the mischief possible of accomplishment
- by a dangerous Signorina possessing this attribute, the priest drank
- another glass of wine and returned to the trouble of his soul.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought, indeed, with a wife’s work to do, she would settle
- down like others; but Oreste encourages her wilfulness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why do you not speak to Gioja herself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the priest, crossing himself.
- “I have tried that once. She has a terrible nature,—that
- child! I have never told any one; but see if I have not reason to say so,
- Signore.” He sipped his wine agitatedly, and then began with
- feeling:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was the Signorina to begin with; she saw that the child was
- pretty, and she put ideas in her head. And in fact, though Heaven forbid I
- should compare Gioja, who is only a little <i>contadina</i>. with a real
- Signorina, yet she has always seemed to me to have a little something
- about her which recalls the Signorina herself,—a way of walking and
- carrying her head. And the Signorina had not an idea of keeping her in her
- place. She was always giving her gowns and ribbons and trinkets and
- vanities of all kinds,—that was her way, always giving. The end of
- it was that one day I surprised that child with a hat of the Signorina’s
- on her unhappy head; yes, actually, Signore, if you will credit me, a hat,—a
- <i>cappello di signora</i> on her head!” He spread his hands in
- deprecating despair.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore looked blankly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Signore, you are like your countrywoman; it is impossible to
- make you understand! But it must be a country,—yours! For a girl
- like Gioja to put a hat on is to declare herself without shame at once.
- Honest girls of her class let such <i>roba di signore</i> alone; yes, and
- rightly, for God has put people in their places. A girl who showed herself
- in a signora’s hat would find it impossible to live in Vignola; she
- would be hooted out of the village. And as for the wife of a lad like
- Oreste pretending to that,—half-a-dozen lovers would not be a worse
- scandal. Those at least the others could understand, but a <i>cappello di
- signora</i>—” He stopped to take several agitated sips,
- shaking his head all the time. “I do not say she would have been so
- mad as to cross the threshold in it (the Signorina had given it to her to
- sell for the feathers upon it); but who could tell what such a girl might
- do? I scolded her well for her wicked vanity, and such ideas above her
- place. Santa Maria!—lovers and such are enough, without a scandal
- like that among my people.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what was the end? Signore, she rushed off and hung that hat,
- with at least twenty francs’ worth of good feathers on it, in the
- Madonna’s chapel, beside ‘Maso’s crutch and the little
- hearts and legs and other offerings to Our Lady! There it hung, where all
- the world would see it, and every tongue in the place be set wagging, if I
- had not providentially gone in and found it before Mass next day. And even
- then what could I do? It was the Madonna’s, and I dared not remove
- it. But Heaven sends accidents, and as it chanced, <i>providentially</i>,
- Signore, my candle brushed the feathers in passing and, <i>presto</i>, I
- dropped it quickly into a bucket of water. It was not fit for Our Lady
- after that, so I took it away, and I myself made it up to her in candles,
- that no one might feel hurt. And after all nobody was the richer for all
- those francs’ worth of feathers; they were singed more than I hoped,
- and did not bring me in Florence the price of the candles. Oh, she has a
- terrible nature,—that Gioja! No, no, <i>grazie</i>,—if I must
- speak to Oreste, I must; but to her!—candles cost, Signore, and I am
- a poor man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Still shaking his head, he rose to depart.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore, left alone, paced the terrace a few times, smiling to
- himself; then he sat down again,—this time in the priest’s
- place,—and fell to musing, and as he mused his fingers stole almost
- furtively to the long rose-tendrils, and twisted them gently, while the
- smile died abruptly on his lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he rang, and Giuseppina came out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You may take away these things,” said the Signore, “and
- bring me pen and paper. Oh, and by the way, Giuseppina, in future put my
- seat here,—the valley sees itself better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Coming from the post that evening the Signore was aware of a slender shape
- slipping along through the deepening shadows ahead. Quickening his steps,
- he overtook it easily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Buon sera</i>; so it is you, Gioja?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Si, Signore!”—the voice was both startled and
- appealing.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Signore strode along looking keenly at the downcast face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oreste is not with you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, Signore; he went to the city.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you have doubtless been visiting your nonna?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, Signore,”—the voice was almost inaudible.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore turned on his heel, with a curt “<i>Buona sera!</i>”
- and was still muttering things under his breath when, fifteen minutes
- later, he beheld from the terrace Oreste and Elisabetta toiling wearily up
- the hill.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How well she times it,” he thought contemptuously, as the
- bell of the big gate sounded, and he heard Giuseppina’s challenge:
- “Who is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Amici</i>, friends,” answered Oreste’s voice, and
- Oreste swiftly followed, with his frank smile and a square envelope of
- dull blue, which the Signore’s hand involuntarily stretched to
- grasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Ecco</i>, Signore,—the only one!” said Oreste, with
- that polite gesture of regret with which he daily accompanied this small
- comedy. The Signore having possessed himself of the letter avidly, put it
- into his pocket with ostentatious carelessness and coolly lighted a
- cigarette. Oreste smiled comprehendingly but respectfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have had a long day of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, Signore,” Oreste smiled with the satisfied air of one
- who has done a good day’s work.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose you have made a handful of money,” continued the
- Signore, severely.
- </p>
- <p>
- Oreste shrugged his shoulders. “Not great things,—but, <i>altro</i>,
- I am content.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore shrugged in his turn. “Each to his own mind. Your <i>sposina</i>
- has also made a long day; I saw her just now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, yes; it is a long way to Vincigliata, when one must walk. The
- Signore’s commands?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “None.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Truly, the Signorina Americana, if this was her work, had small reason to
- be proud of it. The Signore’s frown enveloped even the blue
- envelope, at which he stood staring long after Oreste had left the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so it ran through the spring months,—the mournfully beautiful
- Tuscan spring. The nightingales in the villa gardens sang and sang, at
- dusk, in the moonlight, and at dawn, and the fireflies glittered all
- through the darkness up and down the olive slopes. An intenser life
- quickened in the little community as the summer stirred in the veins of
- her children. The youths went singing up and down the hills, and the girls
- and women lingered over their water jars at the fountain in the square.
- For what is it to be poor in the summer time?
- </p>
- <p>
- Sometimes the Signore, lying awake at night, heard Oreste’s mellow
- voice as he passed by to the little house. But through all this gayety of
- being Gioja stole silently and dreamily, and the whisper of turned heads
- and eyes askance followed her. For there were the ever-recurring <i>festas</i>,
- when Oreste went to the city, and where then did Oreste’s <i>sposa</i>
- go? That is what the community would like to know; for the tale of her
- grandmother was quite too large for the village throat. She kept her
- secret well,—yes; but there is only one kind of a secret possible to
- the Italian mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Birbone!” said the women, with contempt of Oreste, while the
- men laughed and shrugged their shoulders. Oreste had caught a pretty <i>sposa</i>
- who had thought herself much too good for them, but, <i>ma chè</i>,—he
- was paying for it.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was impossible that the public curiosity should content itself with
- being curious. Maria, one of those public-minded souls which never lack in
- any community, toiled all the way over to Vincigliata, and brought back
- personal assurance from the <i>nonna</i> herself that that pious
- granddaughter had not been seen in Vincigliata all these months.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eight good miles I trudged in all that sun, and a day’s work
- lost,” declared Maria, mopping her brow in the midst of an excited
- and sympathetic group. “<i>If</i> my legs ache! But for the good of
- the community I did it; and what I know to-night the priest shall know
- before morning. I made haste to go to-day, for to-morrow, being the <i>festa</i>
- of our Saint John, Oreste goes to the city, and that <i>civetta</i>—”
- </p>
- <p>
- And nobody could say but that Maria had done well, and the girl deserved
- whatever might come of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- But when the priest, sad-eyed and stern, knocked at the door of the little
- house in the early morning after Mass, no one was there. Having delivered
- a vain fusillade, to the accompaniment of many suggestions offered from
- the neighbors’ windows, the priest turned away and betook himself,
- with a clouded brow, to the Signore, who had invited him, by Oreste, to
- breakfast with him that morning. He was waiting for him now on the terrace
- with a morning countenance; and the breakfast-table, heaped with roses,
- wore a festal air which did not escape the priest, preoccupied though he
- was.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You also are keeping a feast, Signore, to appearances?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, indeed! a <i>festa</i> Americana?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, my own. And now what is it about these two? Oreste, I know,
- went to the city. I tried to engage him, but he was pre-engaged to that
- patron of his. And Gioja,—well, I saw her pass a little later.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “While we were in the church,—the guilty child!” said
- the priest, sternly. “But where can she have gone?” he added,
- sighing. “I have been much to blame; I have been too negligent; I
- should have dealt with her from the first. <i>Culpa mia!</i>” He
- crossed himself and looked so discouraged that the Signore was touched.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Listen, <i>amico mio</i>,” he said. “As you say, it is
- a bad business; and, arrange it how you will, it will never be well that
- those two shall live here. The last of it will never be heard,—if I
- know your people. I am going away to Livorno next week, and I have asked
- Oreste to go with me. I like the fellow, and away from here she may come
- to her senses. She is young, and, guilty though she may be, she does not
- seem case-hardened.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Going away!” exclaimed the startled priest, in dismay.
- “And going to take those two away from their own country,—to a
- foreign place! What an idea,—but what an idea!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Scarcely foreign; it is only the other side of Florence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, ah! to you, but to us villagers! It is not a little thing to
- leave one’s home, where one has been born and bred, and knows his
- neighbors, after all, whether they be good or bad. It is a great thing to
- know one’s neighbors. And to go so far!—but they will think
- twice before they say ‘Yes.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- “On the contrary, Oreste goes willingly. I do not think he is so
- blind; he knows well they are not friendly to his <i>sposa</i> here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Gioja,” said the startled priest, “will she go?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He says so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The priest drew a long breath, half relief, half regret, and wholly
- wonder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, well, it is perhaps the best that could happen. But to lose
- two of my flock—and to leave one’s country like that! You are
- a strange people, you Americans. And what becomes of us without either you
- or the Signorina Americana here in the villa?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There are more Americans,” replied the Signore, smiling;
- “and who knows but that your Signorina will return to make you more
- trouble yet?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The priest shook his head. “The next time she may bring her own
- maid. Not another girl from our village shall she turn the head of, that
- Signorina,” and the very tone of his voice as he said it was witness
- that he affirmed what he knew to be false. The Signore understood and
- laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Put it all away, <i>amico mio</i>, for to-day, and go with me to
- Florence. Gioja has gone; and you can do nothing but listen to your
- people, who will deafen you before night. Come and see your <i>bella
- Firenze</i> in her <i>festa</i> dress. We will take a tram below and find
- a cab at the gates.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The priest’s face brightened like a child’s.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, Signore, now it is I you are proposing to carry away! But why
- not? It is long since I was in Florence, and I have already said service
- here. But it is not necessary to say anything to my people. Discretion,
- Signore, discretion is a great thing!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And thus it happened that when the village folk saw the good father depart
- in company with the Signore <i>forestiere</i>, they sagely concluded, with
- that sense of the importance of our own affairs common to the race, that
- the two had gone to Fiesole, or who knew but even Florence, to consult the
- authorities in the matter of that unhappy Gioja. And, in point of fact,
- though the priest was fairly running away from the subject, he was
- destined to run straight into its arms instead.
- </p>
- <p>
- Florence was all in <i>festa</i>; and if there is anything lovelier than
- Florence in <i>festa</i>, who has seen it? The streets ran over with
- bright sunshine; and the Florentines, reinforced by <i>contadini</i> from
- all the neighboring towns, in holiday garb, made a bright, shifting mass
- for the sunbeams to play over. Arno rolled its now shallow stream like
- muddy gold, and pale golden palaces stood loftily up and looked down at
- her. Over her streaming Ways, Florence shook the bells in all her towers
- every fifteen minutes, and at intervals the deep, golden-throated voice in
- Giotto’s Tower answered with a rich hum, hum-m, hum-m-m, like a
- melodious summer bee. The strident notes of the <i>grilli</i>, in their
- little wicker cages, brought from the Cascine at dawn, completed the
- joyous pandemonium.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore’s spirits ran at higher tide than even the bright tide
- of humanity about him. He laughed at all; he bought flowers of the boys
- and girls who ran after the carriage holding up glowing armfuls, until the
- carriage-seat was heaped, and the priest held up his hands at the
- extravagance. He climaxed his folly by buying all the remaining <i>grilli</i>
- in their cages, and letting them loose upon the grass of the Cascine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do not scold, <i>amico mio</i>,” he said to the priest gayly;
- “I told you it is a <i>festa</i>. I have come into a fortune, and it
- is written that nobody must be shut up to-day or hungry.” He tossed
- a handful of soldi to a group of children.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid your fortune will not last long,” replied the
- priest, shaking his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he forgot his own prudence when, a little later, they went to a
- restaurant,—not Doney’s, where the foolish tourists go,
- fancying themselves in Italy, and where the priest would have been
- miserable,—but Gilli’s on the Piazza Signoria. There, it being
- a feast day, and his host newly come into a fortune, the good father ate,
- for the honor of religion and his own temporal good, such a meal as had
- never before found its way to his stomach, and washed it down with glasses
- of Chianti, not merely old (vecchio), but extravagantly old (stravecchio).
- Golden moments were these, and he put down his glass at last with a sigh
- of regret that it was impossible to prolong them further. His limit of
- possibility was reached.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now,” said the Signore, casting an extravagant fee upon the
- table, “where next?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To the Baptistery and the Duomo, my son,” answered the
- priest, with sudden gravity, crossing himself, “to say our <i>grazie</i>,
- and put up a little prayer to our good Saint John.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was precisely upon emerging from the door of Gilli’s in this
- comfortable and untroubled frame of mind, arising from the perfect balance
- of the carnal and the spiritual, that he came face to face with the worst
- trouble of all. For, straightening his shabby hat and smoothing his shabby
- cassock, what should his eyes fall upon but Oreste,—Oreste, who,
- having that moment emerged from a café below, was assisting a very elegant
- signora into his cab. Just as he got her safely tucked in, his eye caught
- the two pairs staring at him. His sturdy face blanched; then, before
- either could make step forward, he had shut the door, sprung quickly to
- the seat, and, touching up Elisabetta, with a glance of defiance whirled
- away. The two left, staring, drew a long breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Ebbene</i>,” remarked the Signore, at last, “so the
- patron was a <i>padrona</i>; perhaps Gioja has not been so much to blame
- after all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will know,” answered the priest, sharply.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Signore said a word to the nearest cabman, slipping something into his
- hand, and in a moment they were bowling up the Via Calzaioli. It cost a
- city cabman nothing to keep Elisabetta in sight; and they drew up in the
- Piazza del Duomo just in time to see Oreste deferentially assisting his
- Signora to alight at the Cathedral steps. He saw them and his eyes shot
- such a glance of stern warning that both men sat stupidly, and the next
- moment nearly fell over each other as the Signora, in her silks and
- nodding plumes, swept by,—for, lo, it was Gioja!
- </p>
- <p>
- In another instant she had swept up the steps and the great doors had
- swallowed her. Then Oreste’s manner changed. He leaned against the
- cab-door, and turned upon the two men a regard which said: “And now
- what have you to say about it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a decidedly awkward silence while they drew near; then the
- Signore burst out laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have found a fine patron, <i>amico mio!</i>” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What folly!” ejaculated the priest, holding up his hands and
- recovering breath at last. “Gran’ Dioy what folly!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Reverendo,” replied Oreste, quietly, “perhaps not so
- much folly as some of you have thought. Perhaps I know what the tongues up
- there wag like, and if I choose not to mind, whose affair is that? If it
- pleases us to please ourselves, who is the worse for that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the scandal!” exclaimed the priest. “And the waste,
- and the ideas you are putting in Gioja’s head,—the wicked
- vanity and pride—Oh, I told the Signorina how it would end!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As for that, Reverendo, you will pardon me; but tongues must wag
- when they are hung in the middle, and if they wag about Gioja,—why
- it does n’t hurt her, and some one else goes safe. And as for the
- waste,—the price of a fare now and then,—why if it suits us to
- live on polenta six days, and take our pleasure on the seventh, whose
- misery is that? I have never yet lacked my soldo for the Church or for a
- neighbor poorer than I.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the ideas you are encouraging in her unhappy head!—but I
- will have something to say to that child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Reverendo,” interposed Oreste, sternly, “by your leave,—you
- are a good man, half a saint, and I am only an ignorant peasant, but there
- are some things priests and nuns do not understand, and what one does not
- understand, that one should not meddle with. The Signorina understood; she
- knew well it was neither pride nor vanity in Gioja, but just a kind of <i>poesia</i>
- which made her like to play the signora. The Signorina understood because
- she herself was full of <i>poesia</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, the Signorina,—the Signorina!” interjected the
- priest, in despair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She <i>knew</i>,” Oreste went on. “You remember the
- time of the hat, Reverendo?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>If</i> I remember!” groaned the priest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Ebbene!</i>” said Oreste, emphatically, “when I
- found it out, I went straight to the Signorina and told her. She was on
- the terrace, and she sat down and laughed a little. You remember our
- Signorina’s way of laughing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was to the priest that he addressed this; but it was the Signore,
- looking straight before him and smiling, who looked as if he remembered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing would do,” continued Oreste, “but that she must
- jump into my cab then and there, with only a lace on her head, and she a
- Signorina! [here the Signore laughed aloud]—and drive straight to
- Florence, not to one of the small shops, but to the great milliner’s
- on Tornabuoni, where she bought a hat,—who knows what it cost?—and
- she bade me take it to Gioja and tell her to wear it when she liked, for
- there was nothing wicked about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The priest groaned again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only,” added Oreste, with the suspicion of a twinkle, “she
- bade us say nothing about it, lest you, Reverendo, might think it your
- duty to lecture the child again; and it was a pity, she said, to make so
- good a man uncomfortable. So, as she could not wear it openly, we had to
- find a way under the plate; and as the whole village would have been
- talking if we went away together, I had to make that little story of a
- patron. Once outside of Vignola, I wait for Gioja, and there in the olive
- grove she makes herself into a signora; and on the way home we stop again,
- and—the signora’s hat and gown stowed away under my seat—my
- little <i>sposa</i> climbs up beside me and we talk it all over. And then
- the next day I count my francs, and the folk call me ‘<i>Birbone</i>;’
- and the lads think evil of my Gioja because she would never look at them;
- and we laugh in our sleeves. What does all that matter when one is happy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And so,” said the priest, sternly, “you let all Vignola
- think your wife has a lover, and say nothing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have to think something; and isn’t it better they should
- think she has a lover, Reverendo, than a <i>cappello di signora?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Surely,” assented the priest, quickly; “a lover, at
- least, they can all understand; and only too many of them—Madonna
- pardon them!—have had; but a signora’s hat nobody in the
- village has ever had, and they would never pardon Gioja for having. And
- they have right; Gioja has no business with a signora’s hat, nor you
- to waste your time and money, as if you would be <i>bambini</i> all your
- lives. And for you, a man, to make yourself the servant of your wife,—oh,
- it is shameful, <i>vergognoso!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon again, Reverendo, but that, too, you can’t understand.
- If it is Gioja’s <i>poesia</i> to play the signora,—why, Gioja
- is <i>my poesia</i>. As for its lasting, <i>altro!</i> the future is long;
- and if we had others to feed all that might be different. She is only a
- child herself now; but when the good God sends a child to a child, that
- makes a woman of her; He himself sees to that. When that comes, she will
- care nothing to play the signora with her stupid Oreste. All this our
- Signorina knew; for that night, when the child came to me weeping, and
- saying how wicked she had been, and begging me to forgive her and marry
- her at once, <i>at once</i>—I, Signori, who would have married her
- any moment for years!—it put me in trouble. I had fear to take her
- like that, and perhaps have her sorry for it later. But I went to our
- Signorina with her, and told her all; and she looked at us both and said:
- ‘Marry her, Oreste; you safely may;’ for the Signorina
- understood. And so—I married her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The eyes of the two young men met suddenly, and exchanged across the gulf
- of position and race one rapid thrill of comprehension. The priest looked
- half-timidly at both; but perhaps he, too, comprehended something, for he
- said meekly,—
- </p>
- <p>
- “After all, I did no harm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps not,” replied Oreste, with his frank smile; “but
- that was not your fault, Reverendo. And now, if the Signore and you will
- excuse me, that was the bell of the Elevation. If Gioja saw you, she would
- have no more pleasure; and that would be all the more a pity, because it
- is our last <i>festa</i> here. We are going to live with the Signore and
- his Signora. Is n’t it so, Signore?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, ah!” exclaimed the priest, with vivacity, “so that
- was your <i>festa</i> and your fortune, Signore? And that is why you have
- so much sympathy for even the <i>grills</i> and these foolish children!
- Well, well, it is perhaps the best that could happen; for it would be
- impossible to go on giving scandal like this, and if I said a word you
- would all be for taking my life. It may do for Gioja, who is not like the
- others; but Heaven forbid the other <i>ragazze</i> should get such ideas
- in their heads; I have enough to do to keep track of them and their
- affairs as it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Signori!” said Oreste, warningly. The two slunk behind the
- next cab, and from there beheld the stream of life suddenly burst from the
- big doors of the Duomo,—men and women and children, prince and
- citizen and peasant, and among them a slender, graceful shape, her
- cappello di signora sitting well upon the ruffled gold of her hair, and
- her long skirt raised in one gloved hand with a gesture at which the
- Signore’s heart beat suddenly faster against the blue envelope above
- it. So very excellent an imitation of the Signora that even an expert need
- not blush to be deceived by it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Oreste stepped forward and flung open the cab-door with ostentation. The
- Signora mounted languidly, and sank back against the cushions, making a
- great rustling of silk. The loungers on the Duomo steps stole covert
- glances at the pretty woman. Then Oreste slammed the door, took off his
- hat, and approached deferentially.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Commanda, Signora?” he said, loud enough for everybody to
- hear.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Alla casa</i>,—home,” responded the Signora, with
- superb languor.
- </p>
- <p>
- And, mounting upon the seat, with a parting glance of mingled triumph and
- humor in the direction of the two watchers, Oreste, Elisabetta, and the
- Signora whirled triumphantly away.
- </p>
- <p>
- The two left upon the sidewalk remained speechless for a few minutes; then
- the priest’s eye caught his companion’s, deprecatingly, but
- with an echo of Oreste’s twinkle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That Signorina,” he said, with an indulgent sigh, “she
- has much to answer for!”
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Signore, looking into the distance and laughing softly to himself,
- said not a word.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE APPEAL TO ANNE
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Edward Cummings
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- I—FROM ROGER
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OU are my friend.
- Therefore I am sure of your patience. My dearest, yield it to me now, of
- all times! This is a confession and prayer.
- </p>
- <p>
- True, I might dissemble still. Chance lends the ready garment.
- </p>
- <p>
- But I am resolved I will have no more lies. I will speak the truth, though
- I lose you. I never knew much good to come of lies.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear, if you love me much, this will pain you bitterly. I should be glad
- to die now, if so I rightly might, that you might think of me always as
- you do now, and <i>she</i> might never know, or be wounded in her faith
- and pride.
- </p>
- <p>
- For me has been destined the doing of that wrong I look upon as the
- deadliest of all. Treachery is the crime, and the crime is mine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Let me tell you again, you tender woman, you dearest and noblest in the
- world, how I love you. I think of you constantly, I yearn for your sweet
- companionship. You are my dear ideal,—you are to me all peacefulness
- and worth and wisdom and womanly greatness and incomparable grace. You are
- the pure air to me.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear, it is because my love for you is the best that is in me that I am at
- such pains to make my confession absolute. My heart grows imperious at
- thought of you, and leaps for the highest course, though that bids for the
- supernal sacrifice of losing you—you, so sweetly gained! For you I
- should be happy to die now, heart in hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be sweet, I think, to die now, to leave this black dilemma, to
- vanish utterly. And yet, while you live, all splendor and all graces are
- here!
- </p>
- <p>
- ... Dear Anne, there is another woman I have been making love to—how
- I loathe to write the name—Doris Ewing, who loves me as I love you,
- and to whom I grew tender just in hopelessness of you.
- </p>
- <p>
- So far away in the North you were, so like the figment of a fond
- impossible ideal, and she was here beside me, dark-eyed and sweet. I loved
- her. So often I said it—so sweetly she believed, and the habit grew.
- “I love you,” I said, even when I knew that love was just
- like. For often she was but as a small craft on the heaving sea of my
- passion, the sea that ran to its flood-tide for you!
- </p>
- <p>
- I told her repeatedly I loved her—and lied. Was it any the less a
- lie that the spirit of romance was strong within me, and my heart-hunger
- made me mad? I loved her in this fashion, say, because she was loving, and
- my heart was full of love.
- </p>
- <p>
- It did not come to me forcibly at the time that I was lying. I had come
- into the habit of her, and the words did not stick in my throat, as lies
- usually do. I did not despise myself. My duplicity I learned to
- contemplate with equanimity and to forget, and so I lied ardently and
- successfully. What a bad success it was!
- </p>
- <p>
- For Doris loved me dearly, and cried over me a bit, now and then, I
- suspect, and was beautiful and happy. I wondered, sometimes (forgetting
- the reason that lay in my larger desire—you!), why I did not really
- love her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Such is my story, as well as I understand it.
- </p>
- <p>
- She is very sweet, and I am very fond of her. I seek to extenuate nothing;
- I write the crude facts as I know them. She has black hair and eyes; she
- is very white and slender, with nestling ways. She is not very learned or
- rich, but patrician and proud; all agree that she is beautiful. She is
- debonair and sweet, and when I think of you she is nothing to me—nothing!
- </p>
- <p>
- But I tried to love her just in love’s despite; and she was happy in
- the main, and I was half-resigned. I stifle when I think of that.
- </p>
- <p>
- How pitiful it all was!
- </p>
- <p>
- Often she leaned, touched my shoulder, and spoke with downcast eyes:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you really love me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very tenderly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Passionately?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Passionately.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With all your heart?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With all my heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forever?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She mistrusted me no more than the day mistrusts the sun.
- </p>
- <p>
- And one night I sat late in my room, thinking. It was cold; the wild wind
- arose, hissing in the stark trees. Out in the cold sky the stars shone
- white and multitudinous. There came to me a wanton mood; I floated with
- it, pensive and relaxed. I had no wish to change it, but desired only to
- sit peacefully through the midnight until sleep should come, to lightly
- conjecture and mildly reflect, to clasp my knees by the fire and await the
- fortunes of the hour. Life had grown trivial.
- </p>
- <p>
- And by degrees the thoughts of you came intensely and possessed me. That
- was the night I wrote you that mad long letter of adoration and despair.
- </p>
- <p>
- Ah, you were to me impossible! I had been half-resigned. But that night
- passion reigned. It was my dearest tribute just to tell you of the love I
- had for you. If it was madness, it was a sweet madness.
- </p>
- <p>
- I thought when your letter would come I would sit for a while with it in
- my hand, and dream the sweet, the terrible, the improbable,—before I
- opened it to read your kind wording (I knew it would be kind) of what my
- despair taught me to expect.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then the wires shot stupefying joy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Everything! Why did you wait so long? Come to me now—at
- once! I give you all!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- I had the message there at the street. I gazed blankly. Then with
- realization came tumultuous sweetness that was pain. Doris, across the
- way, stopped singing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good news, Roger?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The best, and the worst!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! Tell me about it, when I come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- ...Do your eyebrows slope, and your lips upcurl?
- </p>
- <p>
- I have written it all out. When she comes (she is coming soon) I shall
- tell her all, as I have told you. This is to be the blackest hour of my
- life. I have made up my mind to tell her the truth. It is her right. But
- my heart has so often failed me. If this is tenderness, why what a false
- tenderness it is!
- </p>
- <p>
- I have no more hopes of you now than I had when I wrote you. But I belong
- to you, and will always belong to you, just for your once loving, even
- though you despise me, now and forever.
- </p>
- <p>
- I shall tell her frankly, extenuating nothing. <i>For I will have no more
- lies</i>. On that I am resolved.
- </p>
- <p>
- Anne, I do not truly live without you, and I crave the intensest living. I
- think of you always as I saw you first—tall and fair, with the gold
- across your temples, and the museful, wistful mouth with its serious
- thinking silences and then its soft rapid speech, and the eyes, the blue
- eyes, that had for me such exquisite language. You are repose—Heaven!
- And I am in a hell of my own making, and, dearest, I could not help it!
- Ah, I am pleading! I did not mean to plead.
- </p>
- <p>
- Did you have a dream of me, as noble, say? Here am I, who love life
- because of you, who love you more than that life or my hope of heaven. But
- what to you is such a love?
- </p>
- <p>
- She is coming soon, and I shall tell her. I say I shall have no more
- deception. I am yours—yours! I dare not write the prayer that is in
- my heart. I cannot say farewell. Remember, when you despise me worst, I am
- yours!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- II—FROM DORIS
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he letter sent
- with this was found sealed and bearing your name and address in the room
- where Roger died yesterday. He had spoken of you so often that I came
- almost to know you. That is why I am writing this note; you were his
- friend, and one so noble as he must have noble friends. I thought for a
- moment I would ask you to let me read the letter; but I could not bear to
- see it and know that it was his last, and written to another.—The
- trouble was his heart. Will you be present? I cannot write any more for
- crying.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- III—THE TWO WOMEN
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>aid Doris: “You
- are just as I pictured you. May I call you just Anne? How long they
- prayed! I did not know you would come. I could not think who you were,
- standing beside his grave so beautiful and tearless. I could not see well
- for weeping, and the wind was cold, and my head ached. Oh, the wan face!
- The black clothes—I did not like the black. I wanted to lie down
- there with him and be covered up. The clay was so cold and wet. Oh, how
- cold my heart grew! Did you think they prayed long? I was so cold!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never been told how he died,” said Anne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I entered the library, where he was waiting for me,” Doris
- replied. “It was near twilight. He sat by the window, looking out.
- When I came in he turned and his face was pale. The room was cold. The
- fire had gone out. I never saw him pale before; I was frightened and cried
- out. He came to re-assure me, and his face was so pale! He looked at me
- long and anxiously—so anxiously. I did not understand this look, it
- was so strange. It hurt me because I did not understand it. Now I know it
- was physical suffering. He went back to the window and sank into his
- chair. ‘Are you not ill?’ I asked. He answered, ‘A
- little,’ and added, ‘It will pass.’ But he did not speak
- at all or touch me, and when I stroked his forehead he leaned suddenly
- forward, his face in his arms, on the window-sill, and would not answer
- me. I ran out to tell them he was ill. When the doctor came I was told he
- was dead. They gave me his letter to send you, and tell you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You do not wish,” said Anne, “to read the letter?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Doris did not reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would make you less able to realize that he is—gone,”
- said Anne, gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Doris, “and then it was to you,—not
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other’s face was suffused with tender pity. She spoke
- impulsively, and yet with a timorous boldness, as one who ventures upon
- hazardous and novel ways:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doris, he loved you with all his heart!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He told you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He spoke of you so often, Anne. We shall always be friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, always.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are sure he loved me so?” The girl’s mouth tremored
- at the corners. “He did not tell me often enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He loved you dearly,” said Anne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, if you knew what sweet comfort you give! You are sure?—quite
- sure?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He loved you with all his heart,” repeated Anne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will go, Anne. I thank you so much! I think I can weep again,
- now. For a while, goodbye. Give me both your hands, and kiss me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE DEAD OAK
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Anna Vernon Dorsey
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE November day
- was drawing to a close. The shadows were deepening in the pine forest that
- lay on one side of the sandy road. On the other side, the corn-stalks
- stood in level rows against the yellow of the sunset. My horse limped
- painfully, for he had cast a shoe several hours since, and my hurried ride
- through a thinly inhabited part of lower Maryland, with which I was
- unfamiliar, had so far brought me near no blacksmith’s shop. Great,
- then, was my relief, on passing the wood, to find a three-cross-roads, and
- a small house with a shed from which rang the measured stroke of the
- anvil, while the square of the door was ruddy with the forge fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- After calling loudly and waiting in vain for a reply, I dismounted. Just
- then the blacksmith came to the door,—a big, low-browed, long-haired
- fellow, of few words. After examining my horse’s feet, he announced
- that it would be necessary to replace not only the missing shoe, but also
- three others.
- </p>
- <p>
- As he proceeded slowly to work, I saw that there was before me the
- prospect of a long wait which did not promise to be agreeable, for the man
- was either surly or stupid, and gave out monosyllabic replies in answer to
- my questions about the country. A dreary country it was, that through
- which I was passing,—flat, sandy, impoverished, the virtue having
- been tilled out of the soil for two hundred years. Now that the old landed
- proprietors had departed to the cities, the majority of the inhabitants
- were miserable poor whites and negroes, principally fishermen and
- oystermen. Here and there one came across a relic of the past,—an
- old manor-house, ruined or deserted, the property generally of one man, a
- former overseer, who seemed to own most of the country.
- </p>
- <p>
- And yet there was a charm of the past over this low-lying land,—a
- blaze of glory in the west, reflected in the broad river that almost
- lapped the roots of the huge pine forests that grew along its banks.
- </p>
- <p>
- As I stood at the door of the smithy, looking eastward, I could see only
- one exception to this sombre monotony of pines. On the roadside, in the
- middle of a dense sweep of meadows, entirely isolated, stood a huge
- oak-tree, the only one of its kind to be seen for miles around.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That must be a pretty old tree,” I remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Dead Oak? Many a hundred years old, I reckon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It doesn’t look dead to me,” I answered; “it has
- a dense foliage.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s what they call it,—the Dead Oak. A man hung
- himself to it three years ago,” said the smith, with some show of
- animation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One of the neighborhood?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; a stranger round here. Nobody ever could find out where he come
- from,—Washington likely. The niggers say it’s ha’nted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How is that?” I asked, much interested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t know; just ha’nted,” said the man gruffly,
- relapsing into silence amid a fire of sparks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Leaving my taciturn companion, I sauntered down to the road, my steps
- turning intuitively in the direction of the old tree.
- </p>
- <p>
- A chill wind came from the river, and a flight of crows with harsh cries
- arose from its branches, as it stood, the central landmark in the stretch
- of meadows. On one side of the road was a zigzag rail fence, and on the
- topmost rail of this, under the tree, I seated myself. The lowest branches
- almost touched my head, and the dry and dense foliage rustled with every
- breeze.
- </p>
- <p>
- Just beyond were two wooden posts, the entrance of a carriage-way leading
- through a corn-field to what I had not noticed before, a large house far
- back from the road. As I sat there, facing the afterglow of the sunset, I
- became aware of the figure of an old negro coming slowly through the
- corn-rows, through the gate,—a bent negro with bushy white hair.
- Taking off his rabbit-skin cap, with a courtly bow he seated himself on
- the roots of the tree.
- </p>
- <p>
- For some moments we sat there in silence, the old man, with his hands
- folded, gazing into the west.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good evening, uncle,” I ventured to remark. “Do you
- live near here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not far away,—up dat a-way,” waving his hand
- indefinitely in the direction of the shadowy mansion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you lived here long?” I asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Many an’ many a year,” he responded wearily. “Ebber
- sence I cum inter de world. I belonged to Mars’ Brooke up yonder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you must know about the man who hung himself here three years
- ago?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He war n’t no man,” said the old darky sternly. “He
- wuz first quality, my young gen’leman. I ought ter know, kase I
- buried him bofe times.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At these words, suddenly a thrill ran over me, a sense of mystery,
- something accursed brooding over this desolate spot.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Who was he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Befo’ de Lord, boss, I don’ know, an’ nobody else
- does. It came about dis ‘er’ way: De first time wuz years an’
- years ago. Dar wuz good times in de country den. De quality had n’t
- all gone away an’ sol’ de ole places to oberseers an’ po’
- white trash. Mars’ Harry Brooke wuz keepin’ bachelor’s
- hall up dar, an’ many’s de high ol’ times and junketings
- dey had. Well, one night dey had a gran’ time, a-drinkin’ an’
- a-carryin’ on, he an’ de udder young gemlemens.‘Bout day
- de party bruk up, kase de wuz sober enuff den ter ride home. I wuz a young
- chap den, an’ I wuz runnin’ on in front ter open de gate, bar’footed,
- from de door, kase it war hot weather den, like Injum summer. When I open’
- de gate I scrich out ‘O Gord!’ an’ I like ter fall ter
- de groun’, kase dar, wid his face all white an’ orful ‘gainst
- de red leabes, a-lookin’ me right in de eyes, wuz a man tied to der
- branch, wid a white han’chif aroun’ his neck. It didn’t
- take me long ter jump fo’ward an’ take him down, an’
- when de gemlemen rid up dar he wuz a-lyin’ on de groun’ an’
- me a-settin’ right hyar on dis same stump wid his curly head on my
- knees. He war n’t quite dead an’ his han’ kotch mine, an’
- his beautiful brown eyes closed a minute, an’ he gasped like an’
- died. All de gemlemen dat came up an’ stan’ ‘roun’,
- dey say dey nebber see any one so handsom’ ez my young man wuz, jes
- like one er de marble statues in de parlor, wid a eagle nose, an’ a
- mouth many a young lady must ‘a’ kissed. But dose days wuz
- ober fur him far ebber,—yes, mon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “De quarest thing wuz, he didn’t hab nuthin’ on but a
- shirt, an’ dat wuz de fines’ quality, real linin, embroidered,
- but no mark or sign on it ter tell whar he cum from. Nobody ain’t
- nebber seed him befo’ in dis part ob de kentry. Mars’ Harry
- sont all ober the kentry, clar up ter Washin’ton an’ Baltimor’,
- but nobody cum fo’ward ter claim him, so he wuz buried. De parson
- say he can’t be buried in de cons’crated groun’, kus he
- mus’ ‘a’ kill hisself, so me an’ anudder man
- buried him in de medder, under dis tree, right nigh whar you is a-settin’.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man’s narrative ran on monotonously. It seemed as natural,
- as much a part of the scene, as the croaking of the frogs in the deepening
- twilight, in which it seemed that I could almost see that white face with
- its aquiline nose and large brown eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dat wuz long ago, long ago,” the old man resumed, “long
- ago. De War come an’ went, an’ Mars’ Harry wuz killed,
- an’ de firs’ people lef’ de kentry and de kentry wuz
- like new-made sod, dirt up’ards; but I nebber fo’got my young
- gemleman, real quality, hangin’ hyar in dis tree, away from all his
- people. Well, boss, many years parse, an’ Mars’ Harry’s
- oberseer done bought de ole place up dar. One night ‘bout three
- years ago dey gib one er dese hyar big abricultural suppers, an’ dey
- set dare all night eatin’ an’ drinkin’ like dere betters
- used ter do. It wuz de same time er year, but misty an’ damp an’
- in de early mornin’ I wuz comin’ long de road an’ I see
- a crowd gaddered aroun’ de tree, jus’ like it wuz dat udder
- mornin’ long time ago. When I come up, boss, for Gord! dar wuz my
- young, beautiful gemleman a-lyin’ on de groun’, stiff an’
- stark, in his shirt, wid dat hankerchief ‘roun’ his neck. I
- wuz glad ter see him ag’in, but he war n’t nearly alive, like
- he wuz befo’. De doctor wuz dere, an’ he felt him an’ he
- say, ‘Dis man bin dead fo’ days. Who has hang dis corpse to
- dis tree? Who is de man?’ Jes’ like dey say befo’,
- ‘Who is de man?’ Nobody remember’ him ‘cept’n’
- me. De ole crowd dat wuz dere befor’, de quality, dey all parsed
- ‘way, what wid de War an’ one thing ur nudder, all gone but
- me. But I nebber said nuthin’ ter be called ole crazy nigger,—no,
- mon. Dare he wuz, shore ‘nuff, de same eagle nose an’ brown
- eyes an’ curls, de same leetle scratch, like de razor done scratch
- him on de chin. I knowed him, an’ I cyarried him; none er dem common
- folks ain’t fetched him. Dey abertised eberywhar, but nobody ain’t
- answer.‘’Case dey can’t. Dey war n’t nobody lef’
- ter answer ‘cept me,” and the old man gave an eerie chuckle.
- “De doctors an’ de lawyers talk it all ober, but dey cay n’t
- agree, an’ de parson, one er dese hyar new kind, he say he kin be
- buried in de churchyard, but de people make a fuss, kase he mought er bin
- a su’cide. So I helped bury him ag’in. Seems like I wuz
- specially ‘pinted ter be his body-sarvant; dis time it’s right
- outside de churchyard, an’ nobody don’t know it’s him
- but me, kase dey all passed away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A pale, watery moon had emerged, the wind soughed among the pine-trees,
- and away off an owl hooted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “De nex’ time I’s gwine to bury him right in de
- churchyard. He gwine ter come once mo’, an’ I ain’t
- gwine ter die till den, an’ dat time he’s gwine ter be buried
- in de churchyard, and he won’t come no mo’, an’ den I’ll
- pass away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A shout came through the dusk from the smithy:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Say, mister, come; here’s your horse.” The other words
- were indistinguishable. I arose and started up the road reluctantly,
- longing to know more of the mystery. The old man again removed his cap,
- and so I left him, motionless, seated in the shadows, facing the faint
- glow in the west. My horse was ready when I reached the forge, the
- blacksmith standing dark and massive in the doorway. “An old negro
- has just been telling me a remarkable story,” I said after mounting;
- “that there have been two suicides found hanging to the old oak, one
- long ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t say,” answered the blacksmith, impassively and
- stolidly. “Ain’t lived here very long myself. Always been
- called the ‘Dead Oak’ ever since I knowed it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, do you know an old negro with a bushy white head and beard,
- who lives near the Brooke House? Who is he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Might be old Sam, or Lige, or Cash. Lots of ‘em round here,”
- answered the man, and that was all he would say.
- </p>
- <p>
- I mounted and rode off rapidly, for there were still six hours of travel
- before reaching my destination.
- </p>
- <p>
- The moonlight was faint and chill, silvering the dry foliage of the old
- tree. I drew rein under it, and peered vainly into the shadows for the
- darker outlines of the old negro; he had disappeared, but it seemed to me
- he was still present, sitting on the gnarled root, with the pallid face of
- that young old corpse against his knee, waiting.
- </p>
- <p>
- The owl hooted. A faint light shone from the dim mansion in the fields,
- and I pressed on through a belt of low pines. When some distance on my way
- I turned and looked back. The glow of the smithy was hidden. All the low
- stretch of land was folded in twilight, and against the pale sky the Dead
- Oak stood spectral and alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT’S BALLAD
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By William Holloway, Jr.
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span> was a stormy
- evening of March, 1611. All day snow had fallen in a white whirlwind on
- Port Royal, winning one by one its points of vantage, and submerging each
- in turn relentlessly, till now the tiny colony had almost vanished in the
- drifts.
- </p>
- <p>
- Signs of outline there were none. The great stone gateway at the
- southeast, carven above with the fleur-de-lis, was dim and shapeless even
- to the sentry in the guard-room beside it; the bastion to the southwest,
- its four cannon quite buried, melted vaguely into the darkness. Snow lay
- everywhere. The gabled houses were turned into white misshapen monsters,
- and strange fantastic mounds stretched across the Square. Even the flag of
- France in the centre, beneath which the Seigneur of Port Royal stood each
- year to greet his vassals, had suffered with the rest, the wind having
- wrapped it tightly about its staff, and the interminable flakes blotted
- out its lilies.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was ten by the clock, and the colonists long since abed, so that, save
- for the blink of the sentry’s candle, a stranger passing by the
- guard-room would have seen no sign of life. But that was only because a
- giant drift hid the great hall of the seigneurie from sight, for there a
- few of them were still awake and drinking deep, in honor of the coming to
- Acadie of the Duc de Montpelier, cousin of the king.
- </p>
- <p>
- Within the long wainscoted room, Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port Royal, sat
- musing before a huge log fire, with his thin white hands spread out to the
- mellow heat. His face, delicately contoured and crossed by many lines,
- gleamed with a ruddy hue while the flames roared up the high-arched
- chimney; when they sank low again, it had the likeness of an ashen mask
- against the blackness of his silken doublet. He was clad entirely in
- black, even to his ruffles. His head was sunken on his breast. And thus he
- sat gazing at the fire, his shadow on the wall behind keeping time
- grotesquely to the leaping flames.
- </p>
- <p>
- To his left Marc Lescarbot, the poet of the colony, listened across a bowl
- of muscat to one of Imbert’s endless stories. He was tall and thin,
- with dreamy gray eyes; there were girlish dimples on his cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Just now, however, his face was flushed and his fingers played nervously
- about his girdle, for Imbert, after a fashion of his own, was emphasizing
- the narrative with reckless flourishings of his naked sword. But even
- then, with the point almost upon his breast, Monsieur Lescarbot by no
- means lost his urbanity, for his smile, albeit a trifle anxious, was still
- most wondrous sweet. As for Imbert, the story he was telling had excited
- him beyond control. It was as if his wild sea-roving days had returned.
- His black eyes flashed fiercely from out his red, scarred face; his
- rubicund lips were protruded; his massive left hand was twined in the
- coarse black hair that overhung his forehead. As the firelight danced
- athwart him he seemed to Lescarbot, always fanciful, much like the gods on
- the bowls of the Indian lobster-claw pipes, so broad was his short, squat
- body and so flaming red his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the right at a small table the Seigneur’s son, Biencourt, and the
- Duc de Montpelier played at dice; the one eagerly, as if mindful of his
- growing pile of pistoles, the other in listless unconcern. And this
- difference the appearance of the two enhanced, for while Biencourt was
- tall, blue-eyed, and smooth and fresh of face, the duc was short and dark,
- with glittering black eyes and a pale, wearied countenance. And whereas
- Biencourt was bravely dressed in doublet and hose of soft blue satin, the
- duc wore a black velvet that harmonized sombrely with his paleness and his
- listlessness. He had but that day reached Acadie from France, yet the
- sight of the forest life about him, the fur-clad lackeys and strange
- Indian relics, seemed scarcely to stir his pulses. Instead he sat in
- silence by the table, carelessly toying with his white, ringed hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- The round ended and Biencourt swept in his gains. “Doubles?”
- he cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc nodded and pushed forward his stake.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was then the English came aboard us, Monsieur Lescarbot,”
- roared Imbert, waving his sword, “and I leave you to judge how
- fierce the fighting was with half our men already dead. The deck was a red
- shambles, and in the midst stood Pierre Euston, blood from head to heel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is worthy of a ballad,” murmured his hearer.
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc shivered and drew nearer the fire. “Do ballads flourish in
- this frozen land?” he asked, with a languid lift of his black
- eyebrows.
- </p>
- <p>
- Poutrincourt started from his reverie. “Lescarbot is a famous poet,
- monsieur le duc. For a ballad or love-song I know few to equal him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A blush reddened the poet’s dimpled cheeks. “The wilderness is
- full of subjects,” said he, modestly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind was rising higher and the stout oaken door rattled clamorously to
- the white gusts. His highness the Duc de Montpelier shivered again and
- looked about him somewhat curiously at the quaintly carven doors and the
- bearskins and heads of deer that hung upon the dark wainscoted walls.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was then I came up from the lower deck,” went on Imbert,
- “and side by side Pierre Euston and I charged together. Ah! Pierre
- was a brave fighter in those days, I warrant you, and together we swept
- the decks before us. And droll enough work it was, with the wounded dogs
- of English laying their swords about our heels as we passed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was scoundrelly work,” broke in Biencourt, balancing his
- dice-box on his fingers. “Nothing would please me better than a
- meeting with this droll gentleman, this Pierre Euston.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Half seriously, half amusedly, the quondam pirate shrugged his great
- shoulders. “Tush! I was but a lad,” he said in a tone of
- apology, “and I took no share beyond the fighting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The dicing went on. The duc threw and lost again and impassively as ever
- filled his silver flagon from the pitcher on the long oaken table behind
- him. “To your next ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot,” he said,
- politely. But the wine was scarce half way to his lips ere there came a
- strange interruption. The door opened slowly from without, and a woman
- entered, an infant in her arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- In after years, when alone with Imbert in the ruined fort, that scene came
- back to Biencourt with startling vividness. Once again he beheld the long
- room dyed red in the glow of the fire; once more he saw them as they
- started to their feet and stood staring blankly at the stranger. And much
- cause was there to stare, for women in Port Royal this winter there were
- none,—least of all grand ladies, such as each movement showed this
- to be,—while beyond the fort lay naught but a savage, unbroken
- wilderness. And Biencourt remembered standing thus while one might slowly
- count ten.
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc was the first to speak. “You are cold, madame,” he
- said softly. “You must drink some wine.” And, flagon in hand,
- he approached her.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the newcomer, who was blue-eyed and most marvellously fair of face,
- waved him curtly back. “I have come to ask shelter for myself and
- babe, from the lord of the seigneurie, monsieur, not to drink wine.”
- Then, pausing as if for breath, she stood erect beside the door, slender
- and lissome, a multitude of snow-flakes slowly melting in the red-gold of
- her hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a moment Poutrincourt was silent. Idly his thoughts travelled the
- endless forest wastes of Acadie, snow-clad and inhospitable, where, this
- winter of 1611, was no white settlement beside his own. He had even passed
- up the great river to Quebec, where his friend Captain Samuel Champlain
- had three years before planted the banner of the fleur-de-lis, when with a
- start he became aware the woman’s eyes were fixed haughtily upon
- him. Then, mindful of his duty, he stepped forward, bowing low, and bade
- her welcome to his seigneurie of Port Royal, brushing the snow from her
- long fur mantle with his own white hands. And in an instant more the
- stranger was ensconced in a chair before the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt and the duc resumed their gaming, Monsieur Lescarbot took out
- his tablets preparatory to verse-making, and Imbert busied himself mulling
- wine for the conclusion of the evening’s potations, which in Port
- Royal were wont to be of the deepest. But no one ventured to mar the
- hospitality of Port Royal with a question, and the newcomer proved more
- taciturn than would have been expected from the laughing curves of her
- lips, sitting moment after moment silent in the glow of the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind still battered at the door and muttered angrily in the chimney,
- but to Biencourt the room was filled with a new light—a strange
- radiance that seemed to emanate from the stranger’s golden head or
- the crimson kirtle which she wore. He forgot his game. He watched only her
- drooping lashes, with a vague hope that soon she might raise them. And as
- he watched, the pile of money before him lessened rapidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fear you bring me ill-luck, madame,” he cried at last,
- ruefully smiling toward her. “These pistoles have a sorry trick of
- vanishing since you came.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The stranger raised her lashes, as he had hoped.
- </p>
- <p>
- She smiled back responsively, and her eyes caught an amber light from the
- leaping flames. “Would you turn me into the night again?” she
- asked, jestingly, yet with a strange inflection in her voice as though
- speaking to some one far away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt shook his head. “This may bring me fortune,” he
- said, in eager tones. And rising and striding to her side, he stooped down
- and made the sign of the cross above the baby’s forehead—a
- simple superstition, but evidently not to the newcomer’s liking, for
- she said with some hauteur, “I, monsieur, am of the reformed faith,”
- and leaned back coldly in her chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Methinks, madame, you cannot have journeyed far,” broke in
- Poutrincourt, who had been staring into the fire. “Your cloak had
- little snow for much travel, and, besides, there was the babe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame’s face lost its haughtiness, and she smiled once more.
- </p>
- <p>
- Poutrincourt rubbed his slender hands softly together. “All about us
- is the endless forest, and lo! as if by magic you appear! Are you sure
- there be no witchcraft in it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The stranger’s laugh rang through the hall, dying faintly amid the
- armor in the far corner. “Mayhap I sailed hither in some sea-rover
- from the Spanish lands, or perhaps”—and here she smiled
- demurely—“I hid myself in yonder vessel that this day came
- from France. Perchance I dared the drifts alone, or I may have bribed some
- of the red savages to carry me. But where’er I came from, the sentry
- at the gate is not to blame. The night is dark, and the snow has heaped an
- easy road from outside over the bastion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am waiting, Monsieur Biencourt,” broke in the duc, with an
- impatient glance at his opponent, who was still standing by the stranger
- lady’s side. There was such anger in his tone that the other men,
- remembering his former listlessness, glanced curiously at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- His pale face was even paler than before; tiny drops of moisture glittered
- on his forehead; one hand was clenched above his winnings, in the other
- his dice-box trembled. “Does he love his pistoles after all?”
- thought the poet, pausing in his poem. The wine was mulled at last and the
- goblets filled. The Seigneur of Port Royal drank slowly and reflectively,
- in small sips, glancing alternately from the fair-haired mother to her
- dark-eyed, cooing child. “I have thought about your lodging, madame,”
- he said at last, tilting his goblet to and fro.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here you would have no rest, else I would give you my own
- apartments. This evening we are something quieter than usual, but oftener
- the noise of revelling disturbs the forest far into the night. The hall is
- full of men in leathern hunting suits, the red savages sit smoking by the
- fire, there is gaming and wine-drinking, and in the intervals we sing the
- songs of France. But without the fort, a half-mile beyond the gate, are
- two disused huts. One of these I give you to inhabit. And that you suffer
- insult from none, a protector shall go with you, who shall answer for your
- honor with his own. There be two huts, and each shall have one. But this
- night you will lodge here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The stranger leaned forward. Her slender fingers touched his arm. “You
- have forgotten to name the one who is to guard me,” she said
- hastily, a curious thrill vibrating through her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Seigneur pointed at Biencourt, and her face, which had seemed strained
- and eager, relaxed again. “We shall be brave allies, shall we not?”
- she cried, turning her blue eyes toward him. Biencourt laughed. “None
- better,” he responded in great good-humor.
- </p>
- <p>
- The storm was growing fiercer as the night went on. The door rattled more
- noisily, and the flames in the great chimney waved to and fro in the
- sudden gusts. The space on the other side of the table, feebly lit by two
- candles in brazen candlesticks, became a battleground of shadows from the
- group before the fire. The stranger lady, seeming not to mind the storm,
- looked dreamily about her at the strange antlers on the walls, and at the
- motto of the lords of Port Royal, carved above the oaken mantel, shielding
- her baby’s face the while from the glare of the flames. Presently
- her eyes met Biencourt’s.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are brave; is it not so?” she asked, with a laugh and a
- toss of her head that spread her golden hair in sunshine over her
- shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- Imbert answered in his place. “Very brave, and a fine swordsman!”
- cried the old pirate, while his black eyes flashed. “All Port Royal
- knows the young admiral and his famous wrist-play.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Admiral!” Again the blue eyes looked into his, and again
- Biencourt had the same strange feeling, as if the speaker’s thoughts
- were far away, and she were merely toying with the words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aye!” went on Imbert, coming nearer, and laying his monstrous
- hands upon the mantel, “the late King Henry made him an admiral for
- these waters months ere his martyrdom, and since then he has swept the
- freebooters from the coast.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His highness the Duc de Montpelier leaned lazily backward in his chair,
- raising his black eyebrows. “So my good cousin, Henry of Navarre,
- chose for his admirals beardless boys!” he said very softly and very
- languidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an instant hush throughout the room, in which the clatter of the
- door rose almost to a scream. Imbert drew in his breath with a sharp,
- hissing sound; the poet looked up from his tablets, and Poutrincourt from
- the fire. These latter were just in time to see Biencourt leap to his feet
- and draw his sword, and almost before they understood the cause the fight
- had begun.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first of the encounter was much in the duc’s favor. He fenced so
- strongly behind a certain affectation of disdain, and his thrusts came so
- subtly home, that, ere five minutes had passed, Biencourt was bleeding
- from a wound in his left shoulder. The duc lowered his sword and surveyed
- his opponent. “Are you satisfied, monsieur?” he asked
- placidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not yet!” cried Biencourt, angrily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Imbert drew near and examined the wound. “A scratch!” he
- called, contemptuously. Then, with a warning look, he lounged back to his
- position by the mantel. The room was very still as the two faced each
- other again,—the duc, dark and pale; Biencourt, with a crimson flush
- upon his cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was the same writhing of swords, the same chilly music of steel, and
- once again the duellists swayed to and fro. Then for the second time the
- duc’s sword found its mark; this time not far below the heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt leaned back, ashen white, upon Lescarbot’s shoulder. His
- blood flowed fast and his eyes were closed as if in pain. The duc himself
- approached and surveyed him, leaning the while a trifle wearily upon his
- sword, for the last bout had been a fierce one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a brave fight,” he said slowly.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the sound of his voice Biencourt’s blue eyes opened. “Can
- you stay the bleeding?” he asked huskily of Imbert, who with the
- deftness of an old campaigner was binding a mass of soft cloths about the
- wound.
- </p>
- <p>
- Imbert nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then a moment more and I am ready.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, monsieur,” the duc courteously interposed, “your
- wound is deep and you have already done enough for honor. Believe me you
- have this night shown a swordsmanship I never saw before—I who have
- met and conquered every <i>maître d’armes</i> in France. It was but
- by using all my skill I touched you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But with the duc’s insult still rankling at his heart Biencourt was
- in no mood for fine speeches. “I can try once more,” he
- answered rather grimly, “and I warn you to be on your guard. Let no
- gleam of the stranger’s golden hair tempt you from your
- watchfulness, or ill may well betide you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At this the duc’s pale face flushed and he shook his head in
- fiercest anger. But he spoke no word. Then the two faced each other again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Poutrincourt’s oval face was gray and haggard; Lescarbot looked on
- half eagerly, half sullenly; Imbert, his hands twined in his shaggy black
- hair, alone was imperturbable. And at one side, with head averted, the
- stranger leaned idly in her chair, smoothing her baby’s forehead
- with her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- This time there was no respite. The two pressed each other fiercely, their
- swords flashing in the candlelight like twin twining snakes. To and fro
- they swayed; a dozen times each saved his life as by a miracle; their
- breath came in quick and quicker gasps, and still they fought on. The duc’s
- face was now fiery red with passion, and it was evident no thought of
- mercy lingered in his mind. And for the first time he became uncertain of
- the result, for Biencourt was fighting with a dogged persistence that
- boded ill. Try as he would, his thrusts were parried so that presently he
- began half doubtfully to wonder if at last he had met his equal. And while
- these thoughts lingered in his mind, giving to his wounded adversary’s
- face a look of pale foreboding, the infant in the stranger’s arms
- began crying shrilly. For an instant the duc glanced hastily toward the
- chair in which she sat, his guard failed, and Biencourt, fainting from
- loss of blood, ran him through the chest.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was months ere Biencourt and the Duc de Montpelier met again. Then one
- June afternoon, when Acadie lay in a yellow swoon, the duc appeared before
- the two solitary huts, leaning heavily on a stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall not quarrel again, I hope,” he said gayly, bowing to
- Biencourt, who was lounging in the shadow of the forest. “Of a truth
- I have no mind to stay longer in bed. And I have come, monsieur, both to
- make amends for my discourtesy on the evening of our meeting, and to beg
- the honor of your friendship.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And having thus spoken, he bowed low again and waited, a short yet stately
- figure set against a background of deep green spruce. But his face, as
- Biencourt sprang forward to grasp his hand, showed haggard and drawn as if
- through pain.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was the beginning of a strange friendship. Lescarbot had turned the
- duel into a ballad of Homeric proportions, variegated here and there with
- choice allusions to the “listless lady by the fire.” This the
- two read together, seated side by side on a rustic seat Imbert had
- arranged in the shadow—all except the ending, which the poet,
- despite his skill, had not yet been able to fashion to his mind. Beneath
- them the bay sparkled in the sunshine; to the right lay the fort, with its
- gleaming cannon; in the distance a purple mountain ridge reared itself
- softly against the sky. Of this scene the duc seemed never to weary.
- Morning after morning he lounged for hours on the rustic seat, idly
- drinking in its beauty. It was at the second of these meetings he asked
- Bien-court about his charge.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have no trouble with these Port Royal gallants?” he
- queried.
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And how does madame—Manette, the Seigneur told me was her
- name—how does madame relish her forest life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is thinner and her cheeks are pale. Since her child died, I
- fear she grieves.”
- </p>
- <p>
- For a time the duc sat silent, carelessly digging with his scabbard in the
- moist, black earth. “One may not see her?” he said at last,
- doubtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not? Without doubt you will respect her honor, and she seems
- lonely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- On the duc’s lips a faint smile trembled. For a moment he seemed
- about to laugh. But he only repeated, “So she seems lonely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt rose and knocked at the door of the adjoining hut. “Does
- madame please to walk?” he called.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a reply from within, inaudible to the duc’s ears, and in
- another moment the stranger lady, whose plain name of Madame Manette ill
- consorted with her stately air, appeared equipped for walking. The duc
- sauntered near.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Madame Manette,” said Biencourt, “I have the honor to
- present to your notice his highness Monsieur le Duc de Montpelier.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc’s plumed hat swept the earth in greeting. “Methinks
- the climate suits us strangers ill,” he said, gayly. “From
- your face it steals the roses; me it hinders too long of recovery.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Manette shrugged her fine shoulders. “Are you in danger?”
- she asked politely. The subject was evidently uninteresting.
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc shook his head and smiled. His black eyes were full of a strange
- light, and his lips quivered so that Biencourt, watching him, feared he
- might be in danger of overtaxing his new-found strength. Then the three
- set out through the forest, loitering along quaint footpaths brown with
- fallen pine needles, or stooping to gather wild flowers in the shelter of
- anciently bearded trees, where was naught but primeval stillness.
- </p>
- <p>
- The walk that day, however, was a short one, for Madame Manette was weary,
- so that presently they found themselves again before the log hut, with its
- thatched roof and mossy walls. Vines of Imbert’s planting were
- beginning to twine about the doorway, and in the air floated the dreamy
- scent of bursting pine buds. A half mile in the distance the four cannon
- on the bastion of Port Royal flashed brightly in the sunshine, and the
- flag of France flaunted civilization and progress in the face of the hoary
- forest; in a neighboring glade the conical wigwams of an Indian camp stood
- brown and lonely in the shadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the doorway Madame Manette paused a moment before saying adieu; and as
- she leaned listlessly against the door, with her eyes fixed on the distant
- fort, the duc asked a question.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your baby!” he cried, abruptly; “where may its grave
- be?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Manette’s blue eyes were scanning the great stone gateway,
- and for a moment it seemed she had not heard. Then, without turning her
- head, she said slowly: “It is buried where you stand. Your feet,
- monsieur, are above its heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her questioner moved hastily aside, a deep pallor on his cheeks, and
- Madame Manette went on calmly: “It was my own choice it should lie
- there; and my feet, passing over it each day, do but make it rest the
- sweeter.” Then, bowing slightly, she retired within.
- </p>
- <p>
- Next day the duc joined in the walk again, and on many succeeding days,
- which was very natural, since he and Biencourt were constantly together.
- Indeed, now that he had shaken off his listlessness, he had become a most
- fascinating companion. To Biencourt he talked for hours of the court and
- its affairs; Imbert he held under a respectful spell with stories of his
- campaigns in the frozen north, where men perished by squadrons in the
- snowstorms. But his fascinations could hardly be said to extend to Madame
- Manette, who treated him throughout with a certain chilling disdain. His
- remarks she answered in monosyllables; the flowers he gave her she
- languidly let fall ere five minutes had passed. But, without a sign of
- discomfiture, he next day gathered more and talked on, unconcerned. Very
- frequently, too, he made excuses to speak to her alone, when the morning
- stroll was ended, and before she had entered the hut. On these occasions,
- which generally ended in her abrupt withdrawal, he betrayed a curious
- dread of stepping upon the unmarked grave, standing always much to one
- side.
- </p>
- <p>
- The summer waxed and waned upon the hillside, dying day by day in
- blood-red spots among the hardwood trees, and still Madame Manette
- lingered in Acadie. Her seclusion was more rigid than before; it might be
- that she was thinner, but that was all. At intervals, as vessels left for
- France, the Seigneur called to offer her passage home, which each time she
- smilingly refused, accompanying her refusal, however, with such liberal
- gifts to the colony’s poor as sent Poutrincourt away in a maze of
- wonder. She took pleasure in her seclusion, she told Biencourt one day,
- when they were for an instant alone, and in their daily ramblings through
- the forest. It had been a strange experience, this summer on the very
- skirt of savagery, and her baby’s grave had bound her to the place.
- But with the first snow she would return to France. And so time went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- But after many mornings, there at length chanced one when Madame Manette
- was indisposed, and there was no walking. Next day the same thing
- happened, to the evident annoyance of the duc, who paced for hours up and
- down before her door. On the succeeding morning, however, she appeared
- again, looking very white and frail. She declined to walk, on account of
- weariness, and spent an hour idly in the rustic chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are weak, madame,” cried Biencourt, eagerly, as they
- walked back to her hut. “You need aid. Indeed, you seem to grow ever
- frailer and more weary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Manette turned on the threshold of her domains and surveyed her two
- escorts with deliberation. There was a faint shadowy smile upon her lips,
- and her marvellous hair lay in a golden blaze against the white hollow of
- her cheeks. “He dreams—does he not?” she asked,
- addressing the duc.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fear his dreams are true.” And Biencourt, glancing at him,
- thought he had never looked so ghastly since his wound. His lips were
- aquiver and his words came from them with a strange tremor.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Madame Manette shook her head. “You are both over anxious,”
- she said lightly, though even as she spoke her voice faltered wearily.
- Then, with a bow and a glance at some wild-fowl flying near, she closed
- the door behind her, leaving the two gazing at each other with a mute,
- fearful questioning.
- </p>
- <p>
- That night Biencourt chanced to be favored by a visit from Lescarbot. The
- poet had been wandering about the forest, vainly striving to fashion an
- ending to his famous ballad, and was consequently in a state of great
- depression. His figure drooped; his gray eyes stared moodily before him.
- And thus for hours he sat, while the moon rose above the trees and paled
- the solitary candle with her rays.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There will never be an end,” he cried at last, rising
- pettishly and flinging the door open wide. “For months have I
- thought upon it—the wild storm, the dicing, the newcomer, and the
- duel—and each time I reel back, baffled like a child at the entrance
- of a gloomy forest. For who can paint the motive that daily forms itself
- beneath his gaze? And here is that which came perhaps from far.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Monsieur Lescarbot’s troubled face relaxed. His analysis evidently
- pleased him well, for he stepped briskly into the moonlight flung across
- the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- Biencourt made no answer. He was busy with a long epistle, which a vessel
- on the morrow would carry to a certain black-eyed maid of honor at the
- court of France, and scarcely heeded what the poet said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “From far! Who knows how far?” Lescar-bot went on dreamily.
- “Perchance from the royal”—here he paused and crossed
- himself hastily, as heavy footsteps sounded near by. They came nearer
- still, and the poet drew in from the doorway, falling upon his knees in
- prayer. Biencourt sprang in wonder to his feet, and there, in the
- brilliant moonlight, a few feet from the hut, saw what had so transfigured
- his companion, a man bending laboriously beneath a heavy load—a load
- with lifeless limbs, and loose hair waving in the night wind. Then he
- knew, as the poet had known, it was the Duc de Montpelier with the dead
- form of Madame Manette upon his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment only the duc paused before he staggered across the threshold,
- and, shivering violently, laid the body on the floor. Yet in that moment
- the thought of his broken trust stung Biencourt like a lash, and half
- unconsciously his sword flashed in the moonlight. But ere he could frame
- the question surging to his lips, it was answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- The duc sank down beside the body, his left hand resting on the ashen
- face. “You will seek to know the meaning of the riddle,” he
- said mechanically, without lifting his eyes from off her rigid form.
- “It is very simple. She was my wife. Nay, do not start, monsieur”—as
- Biencourt made a gesture of amazement. “It is as I say, and this is
- the body of Madame la Duchesse de Montpelier, wife of a prince of the
- blood, and—a Huguenot. And know you not”—and here the
- duc spoke lower and his words came slowly, while he made the sign of the
- cross—“know you not the Holy Father can disannul such
- marriages if it be the interest of the Truth? And among all the Huguenots
- of France—fierce and bitter as they have been and are—is there
- none more relentless than the comte, her father.”
- </p>
- <p>
- For an hour the duc spoke no word more. With his arms tightly clasped
- about his wife’s stiffening form, he crouched beside her on the
- floor. And at the table near by the two unwilling spectators sat watching.
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally the duc spoke again, still with the same mechanical tone and with
- his eyes still fastened on her face. “She came to Acadie without my
- knowledge, by the connivance of some of her own faith at Rochelle, as she
- herself told me, hiring a swift trading bark that dogged our course all
- the way, and landed her in the darkness below the fort. And ever since our
- meeting here has she been most bitter to me. She gave me no reproaches.
- She was too proud, if you understand, but each morning her eyes rested
- scornfully on me, as we left her at the door. Often, too, in the evenings,
- would I wander about her hut, watching her shadow pass to and fro across
- the window. Once I tapped lightly at the door, giving a secret signal we
- had often idly used in France, and she bade me depart so sternly I never
- ventured signal more. To-night it chanced I was standing not far from the
- window, when suddenly I heard her fall. In an instant I was within, but
- Manette was already dead. And now she is dead, monsieur,” went on
- the duc, his eyes glittering feverishly as he tossed the golden hair
- caressingly to and fro, “now she is dead, she is mine again. And I
- will bury her this night in a secret place I last week learned of, so that
- alien faces shall look on her no more, and where she shall slumber by the
- dust of dead Indian chiefs, and near the noise of a rushing stream. For it
- was by a brawling brook on her father’s estate that we first met,
- and ever she loved its noises well.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The rest of the night to Biencourt was always like a half-forgotten dream.
- Together he remembered they had borne the icy body the distance of a
- hundred yards, when, wearied from their recent wounds, he and the duc had
- come perforce to a sudden stop. It was then he had left the duc and
- Lescarbot with their burden, and, running to the fort, brought Imbert,
- yawning, to their aid. After that the journey was easy, for Imbert poised
- Madame Manette’s body on his giant shoulders, easily as a mother
- might raise her child, and mile after mile bore it on through the waving
- forest. Port Royal, its bastion and palisades swimming in yellow
- moonlight, was left behind; the forest closed over them, dark and sullen,
- and still they pressed on. The duc went first, leading the way without
- hesitation, for the path was well marked, though in shadow, and even to a
- stranger impossible to miss. And by this the others knew they were going
- to the ancient sepulchre of the Indian chiefs—a place of mysteries,
- where strange influences had their hiding-places.
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray light of dawn was filtering coldly into the rocky well of
- sepulchre when they arrived. On all sides were niches in the walls, each
- niche a grave; and, drowning all voices in a hoarse clamor, a tiny stream
- fell thirty feet adown the rock into a murky pool below, whence a chasm in
- the cliff led it downward to the sea.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was here they buried Madame Manette, erstwhile Duchesse de Montpelier,
- the duc praying long and fervently. And that none might look upon her face
- again, Imbert, going higher up the stream, changed its course by means of
- massive rocks, so that now and forever that brawling stream flows down
- across her grave. And here, with the vagrant spray falling thickly upon
- their faces, did the duc bind them by a fearful oath to guard his secret
- well from all save Poutrincourt.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, while the sun rose, they went slowly back to Port Royal through the
- lightening forest. The duc staggered weakly; his eyes were sunken; there
- was a grayness upon his face much like the grayness of the dead face he
- had looked at so long. Nor did he speak until the great gate of the fort
- loomed in sight, when, rousing himself as if from slumber, he said
- musingly, “It is the ending of—a ballad, Monsieur Lescarbot.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- ON THE BRINK
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Edwin Lefevre
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- I
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UDDENLY it dawned
- upon them that they loved one another. They had been talking about
- mind-reading, and he had looked long and steadily into her eyes when she
- had challenged him to read her thoughts. They realized simultaneously what
- had happened. She had known that she loved him, and he, that he loved her.
- But each had sought to keep that knowledge from the other. Now they could
- hide it no longer.
- </p>
- <p>
- They remained silent for a long time, avoiding each other’s gaze. At
- last their eyes met.
- </p>
- <p>
- He said, “Well?” His voice expressed nothing; in his eyes
- there was sorrow and—hope!
- </p>
- <p>
- She shook her head, and he turned away his eyes; there was disappointment
- in them that he would not show. Then she said, very quietly, “You
- have read my thoughts?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said, still without looking at her; “and you—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have read yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Tears were in her eyes. If his, too, were wet, she could not see, for he
- was looking fixedly at a little pebble at her feet. At last he said,
- passionately, “Oh, why did I meet you! Why should I suffer so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I?” she said. “Is it not worse for me? Is not my
- sin greater, and therefore my punishment heavier, than yours? Oh,”—in
- answer to an impatient gesture of denial,—“you will meet some
- woman whom it will not be a sin to love, and you will—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know I will not,” he interrupted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you will,” she said, very gently; “and then—”
- </p>
- <p>
- He raised his head and gazed steadily at her. Then he said, challengingly,
- “You wish me to love another?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked away from him and was silent. Gradually there crept into his
- eyes a look of hope; and hope was slowly turning into exultation when she
- spoke, so softly that he barely could hear her, “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he said, altogether too calmly, in too commonplace a manner, “Oh,
- very well, since you wish it—”
- </p>
- <p>
- And she said, very firmly, “I wish it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly they returned to the house. The sun was setting, and there was gold
- and nacre and glowing blood in the sky. In the garden the wind stirred the
- leaves gently, and there was sorrow in their song.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her husband awaited them. “Is n’t it a beautiful sunset?”
- he said to them from the piazza. “I suppose you’ve been
- looking at it. You might write a sonnet about it, my boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She went up to the gray-haired man and kissed him on the lips, and leaned
- against him, until he wound his arm about her waist, and she rested her
- head on his shoulder caressingly; and then she looked defiantly at the
- young man, who had drawn near.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man’s hands closed tightly, and in his eyes there was
- disappointment and anger and some contempt. “Yes, John, I believe I
- <i>could</i> write a few elegies on the death of this Sun, who has shed
- his blood in his fight with Night, and has spattered it all over the sky,
- so that the angels will have to wash it off with their tears. Sunsets are
- my forte, anyway—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never seen any of your verses,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you may congratulate yourself upon your lucky escape.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray-haired man smiled good-naturedly and patted her cheek; and she
- held it up to be kissed, and nestled closer to him. Then she looked at the
- young man, and in her eyes there was still defiance, and, though she would
- not have shown it, some interest. She said, “I have heard so much
- about them that I should like to read them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are reckless.” And the bantering tone did not hide from
- her the significance that lay behind his words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must show some of them to her,” said the gray-haired man
- to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right. I’ll hunt them up, some time, and send them to
- you,” said the young man to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have n’t you any here?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he replied; “but they are all love songs, and
- therefore not worth the reading.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed!” she said. The gray-haired man patted her cheek
- indulgently. This time she did not upturn her face for a kiss. And in her
- voice there was an unnecessary indifference as she said to the young man,
- “Will you let me read them to-night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no,” he replied, laughingly, though his eyes were
- serious.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?” she persisted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the first place, because they are not worth anything; and then
- you might get an impression that I really meant what I wrote, and that I
- am deeply in love with some one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you are not in love?” There was a challenge in her voice.
- The gray-haired man smiled at her girlish, artless curiosity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly not!” the young man said decidedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But were you in love when you wrote them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I really don’t know,” he answered. “Perhaps I
- was.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, <i>I</i> am,” she said, looking at him steadily. And
- when his eyes had shown astonishment and had begun to shine with
- irrepressible hope, she continued: “Indeed I am,—with my own
- dearest husband, who is so good to me. Am I not, darling?” And she
- entwined her arms about the gray-haired man’s neck and kissed him on
- the lips twice. And the gray-haired man laughed and looked pleased.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man’s face was rigid and very pale. In the dusk they could
- not see that his lips were twitching. But she had grown strangely quiet.
- </p>
- <p>
- A great stillness had fallen upon the world. The evening star was shining
- very brightly now, and in the east a little lone star was blinking
- tremulously.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently she said, “I am afraid,” and shivered.
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray-haired man drew her closer to him, kissed her, and said: “Afraid
- of what, little coward? But come, it is time to go in, my child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man’s thoughts had been many during the brief spell of
- silence that had preceded her words, and now he said: “Yes, <i>little
- sister</i>, you ought to go in now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray-haired man laughed good-naturedly at this jest of his young
- brother’s. But she drew a quick breath and went into the house
- hurriedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- II
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he gray-haired man
- was nodding over his newspaper in the library. She had just ceased to hold
- the latest novel upside down in her hands. She hesitated for a moment;
- then she arose, saying: “It is so warm here; I am going on the
- piazza.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The gray-haired man started. “What ‘s that, my dear?” he
- asked, shamefacedly. He feared that she might think he had been asleep.
- They had been married but four months.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to sit on the piazza; it’s cooler,” she
- said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is Dick there?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right, then. But don’t stay too long; the night air is
- not good for you.” It certainly was not good for him, so he remained
- in the library nodding over his newspaper.
- </p>
- <p>
- She went to the piazza. Sitting on the veranda-rail, the young man was
- smoking. At the sound of her steps he started up eagerly; but when she was
- near him, his eyes showed nothing, his face was calm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A beautiful night, is n’t it?” said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he acquiesced. He stifled a yawn ostentatiously. Then,
- as though the thought had just struck him, “Shall I fetch you a
- chair?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, thanks; I am going upstairs shortly,” she said, with
- indifference.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shall I fetch you a chair?” This in another tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did so, and then resumed his seat on the veranda and smoked in silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Overhead, the sky was as molten sapphire and the stars seemed more
- numerous than ever before, and brighter and nearer to the earth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lovely, is n’t it?” she said at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The sky, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After a silence she said: “I’ve never seen so many stars
- before; have you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said, slowly, “there was one more last night,—mine!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yours?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was another pause,—a long one. She was looking at a little
- star that was shining very faintly low in the sky. Finally she said,
- softly, “Show me your verses.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I cannot,” he said, almost in a whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?” She avoided his gaze.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know very well,” he answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if I ask you as a great favor—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should still refuse,” he said, wearily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are very rude.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you are very cruel,” he returned, monotonously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But not so cruel as you,—to arouse a woman’s curiosity,
- and then to refuse, absolutely, to gratify it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, so it is merely curiosity?” His voice trembled slightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She hesitated; her foot was tapping on the ground nervously. Then, as if
- she had weighed the consequences, she said: “Of course, merely
- curiosity.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you lied this afternoon, and you are only a coquette? I might
- have known it!” He spoke with difficulty for his teeth were clinched
- tightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How dare you speak to me so?” she said, angrily.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then he answered in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard:
- “And how dare you forget that you are my brother’s wife?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave a half-smothered cry of pain, as though he had struck her. Then
- she buried her head in her hands and sobbed softly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t!—Please don’t—Oh, don’t—Gladys—”
- he said. It was the first time he had called her thus, by name, and she
- said, between her sobs: “Oh, I am so unhappy, so unhappy!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. He
- went toward her hesitatingly. By her side he paused; his hands were
- clinched and held close to his face. He said hoarsely: “Don’t.
- Don’t make—me—forget—” He drew nearer; she
- held up her arms as if to ward off a blow, and then the gray-haired man’s
- voice called out sleepily from a window on the other side of the cottage:
- “Gladys! Dick!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes?” said the young man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You had better come in now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Coming.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- III
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t breakfast the
- next morning the young man said: “I am going back to the city this
- morning, John.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you? When will you return?” said the gray-haired man. He
- did not think his honeymoon had waned yet; but it never shines very
- brightly on three people at once, and—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know,” answered the young man. “I shall
- go to Jack Livingston’s first; I promised to spend a week or two
- with him. And then I think I’ll go to Maine. I am told the fishing
- is exceptionally good this season.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She said nothing. The gray-haired man began to talk about the anxious
- cares of a floriculturist.
- </p>
- <p>
- After breakfast she disappeared. The gray-haired man said good-bye to his
- younger brother, to whom he had been as a father, and went out to consult
- with his head gardener about a new variety of orchids which he had just
- received from the Isthmus of Panama.
- </p>
- <p>
- All that morning the young man wondered if she would not bid him farewell.
- At last the groom came to tell him that the cart awaited him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was in the hallway, deliberating whether he should seek her, when she
- came down the stairs slowly. Her face wore a look it had never known
- before. Occasionally it is seen on some women when they wear the widow’s
- garb for the first time,—a blending of sorrow and yearning, and,
- withal, resignation. She halted at the foot of the stairs, her hand
- resting upon the carved post. “So you are going?” she said,
- monotonously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.” His voice was low.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For a long time?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.” He dared not look at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is for the best,” she said. He answered nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The groom came to the door and said: “I beg your pardon, sir, but
- the train is due now, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well, I’m coming.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave two sharp little indrawn gasps. Then, speaking very quickly, she
- said: “Wear this. My mother gave it to me when I was confirmed. When
- she died I took it off because it reminded me of her and it made me cry.
- It is sacred to me. It is all I can give you. I am sure she would not
- blame me—” She paused and looked at him questioningly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he answered, reverently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take it!” She held a little ring, a plain gold band, toward
- him, and he took it and with some difficulty placed it on his little
- finger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye!” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her imploringly. His lips dared not utter what his eyes told
- so plainly. It was a request, nothing more, but she shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye,” she repeated, extending her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took it and held it tightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye,” he said. Her hand remained in his. She could not
- withdraw it and there were tears in her eyes as she said, gently, for the
- last time: “Good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye,” he said again. He bent over to kiss her hand, but
- she drew it back quickly. Then she went up the stairs slowly.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had resolved not to look back, but before the little cart had gone two
- hundred yards he turned his head. There was no one on the piazza, and her
- windows being curtained he could not tell whether she was looking at him
- from her room. He gazed long towards the little cottage. Then, as he heard
- the whistle of the approaching train, he turned his eyes to the front, and
- his face took on a calm, resolute look.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- A WOMAN’S LIFE
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Anthony Leland
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>E is dead!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! Miss ‘Lizbeth! and you alone with him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I was alone with him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She said this in a manner which seemed to imply that there was nothing
- strange in the fact that she was alone with him. She was always alone with
- him, was she not? Was it necessary that she open the doors and call them
- all in because he was dying?
- </p>
- <p>
- They passed from the narrow hall into the front room with its green-paper
- window-shades, its worn carpet and meagre furniture. His bed had been
- moved down from the floor above when his last illness had seized him, and
- here it had remained, a black walnut bedstead, with towering head-board,
- which shut out the light from one of the two windows in the room. This
- bedstead had been one of his few, his very few, extravagances in years
- gone by, and in its dark shadow he lay now rigid. He had been a stern,
- grizzled man in life, but the sternness then had been as very softness
- compared with the hard, cold outline of the lace now upon the pillow in
- the green light of the lowered window-shade.
- </p>
- <p>
- They moved about the room on tip-toe, speaking in the hissing whispers
- considered appropriate by them in the presence of death.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When did it happen?” some one asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Half-hour ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Had n’t I better call the doctor or the minister?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t see what good they’d be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Another woman crept in silently, a shawl huddled about her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I jest heard,” she whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- They waited in silence for her to go on. She was the woman of the village
- who always officiated at the “laying out” of their dead. The
- reason for this no one had ever sought. Possibly the right was hers
- because she so enjoyed the grewsome privilege. At least she clung to it
- tenaciously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, Miss ‘Lizbeth, you jest go upstairs and I’ll tend
- to things,” she said, while the other women awaited her commands,
- half resenting her cool assumption of control, but with a full
- consciousness of her capability in “tending” to such “things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The bare little church, with its white walls and staring windows, its
- stiff pine pulpit painted a dingy yellow, with the minister’s green
- upholstered chair behind it, was well-filled the day of the funeral. A
- “burying” was not a thing to miss without grave cause. There
- were old men and old women in the congregation who had not missed a
- funeral within ten miles of them for fifty years. They sat solemnly
- waiting for the minister to begin the services, taking close notice of the
- coffin and calculating its cost. Not a difficult problem for them with
- their long experience. They also noted closely the appearance of the one
- mourner who sat directly in front of the pulpit, alone save for the
- presence in her pew of the woman who had come to her huddled under a
- shawl. This strange woman always sat with the mourners as though she felt
- a claim upon the bodies of the dead until their final surrender to mother
- earth. But the dead man’s daughter sat away from her companion quite
- at the farthest end of the seat, as if she would be as much apart from
- them all in her present loneliness as she had been before. It was fifteen
- years since she had sat with them in the church, and they looked at her
- now with curiosity. A slight little woman, with tired eyes and dull brown
- hair streaked with gray!
- </p>
- <p>
- The minister arose and folded upon the open Bible his lean hands with
- their great veins and yellow joints. He prayed long and laboriously, his
- voice rising from a doleful sing-song drawl into a shout and then sinking
- into a whisper. They wagged their heads knowingly in the pews and
- whispered to one another that it was a “pow’ful effort.”
- Toward the close of his prayer many eyes were turned expectantly toward
- the woman who sat alone. The minister was calling loudly for “the
- lost sheep who is not with us safe in the shelta’ of Zion’s
- walls. O Lord!” he wailed, “make yoh wahnin’ plain to
- her onseein’ eyes that she may seek safety from the wrath to come.”
- If the woman heard or understood his words no acknowledgment of that fact
- touched her thin face. She sat with folded hands, her eyes upon the narrow
- front of the box like pulpit. Then the minister began his sermon. From the
- earliest dawn of the dead man’s life, through his childhood, youth,
- and manhood unto the last moment of his old age the speaker journeyed,
- going unctuously over the dreary details of the meagre, common history.
- They all knew it well enough, but they listened greedily, jealously
- fearful that the speaker might overlook a single incident in the man’s
- dull story. When he had exhausted every period of his subject’s
- life, the minister began the apotheosis of the man. His goodness, his
- charity, his uprightness, and, above all, his “tireless labors in
- the vineyard of the Lord” were dwelt upon. He had in truth been
- cruel and hard and mean. They all knew this, but he had lived and died
- “a member in good standing,” and any other treatment of his
- character by the preacher would have been a scandalous thing, unheard of
- and not to be forgiven. At the close of his discourse the minister turned
- his colorless eyes upon the woman who sat apart. “There was,”
- he said, his voice falling into a slow and solemn drawl, “there was
- one cross which our Lord and Master seen fit to bind upon the shoulders of
- the brother who has jest gone befoh us into the glory of the Heavenly
- Kingdum. A cross hard to bear, a cross whose liftin’ he had wrestled
- for with the Lord Jesus often and mightily in prayer. But which Divine
- Providence seen fit to allow to remain upon the shoulders of his faithful
- son. It was, my brothers and sisters, the refusal of the only one of his
- kin to accept the Lord, to wash herself in the blood of the Lamb, to join
- with those who journey onward safe in the arms of Jesus into the glory of
- everlastin, life.” His voice had risen into a shout. “The
- night is comin’, the day is almost done. Oh! let us pray for them
- who falters and will not turn from the wrath of God befoh it is too late.”
- His voice sank suddenly into a whisper, and the words “too late”
- went hissing out over the heads of the people who sat with craning necks
- and knowing faces cruelly turned toward the woman, whose eyes for a single
- instant had not left the front of the dingy yellow pulpit.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hearse, with the one closed carriage of which the village boasted,
- moved slowly away from the church along the muddy road, followed by a
- straggling line of wagons. The majority of the people lingered about the
- church door watching the woman who sat stiffly erect in the carriage, the
- minister facing her, at her side the woman who seemed to have so strange a
- love for the dead. This woman sat with her handkerchief pressed to her
- eyes as if she must needs make amends for the other’s stony
- composure.
- </p>
- <p>
- The road, after leaving the village in the bottom lands along the river,
- wound up the side of the bluff upon which the burying ground was situated.
- It was an autumn day, and the golden haze of that most glorious of seasons
- in the Missouri valley bathed the wide stretch of country upon which the
- cemetery looked down. A sky of marvellous blue spread its canopy above
- them, while the bright glow of the western sun brought out in pitiless
- detail the dreary little home of the dead with its crude tiptilted
- monuments and scattered, sunken graves, its rays enfolding with no
- mellowing touch the group of sallow-faced men and women in rusty and
- shapeless garb who clustered about the newly made grave. They lifted their
- voices and sang quaveringly amid the strangely death-like stillness of the
- declining day. It was a dismal tune in plaintive minors, and as they
- dragged it out in unmusical and uncertain tones it seemed a fitting symbol
- of their narrow, unlovely lives. When the last clod of reddish clay had
- fallen upon the oblong mound, they turned and walked away to leave their
- dead unnoticed until another of the living should pass from the grimness
- of life into the—to them—greater grimness of death.
- </p>
- <p>
- As the procession crawled along the heavy road toward the cluster of
- houses upon the river’s bank, the minister, his great hands resting
- upon his knees, his pale eyes blinking solemnly, began:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “E-eliz’beth, you are left alone now.” She nodded her
- head in affirmation. “You haven’t much of this world’s
- goods.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ve kept two of us from starvin’ for five years. I
- reckon I can keep myself,” she replied stiffly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yoh father was well-fixed once, but the Lord seen fit to deprive
- him of his earthly treasures that he might lay more store by them gifts
- which is above earthly price.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He was a graspin’ man and over-reached himself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman beside her sniffed reproachfully and glanced at the minister
- with sorrowful air. The man stirred uneasily and lifted a hand in
- expostulation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A daughter shouldn’t jedge. If you was enlightened by the
- spirit you would n’t be so lackin’ in Christian charity.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had endured much that long afternoon, and she raised her eyes now
- defiantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ve done my duty by him—I’ve done my duty for
- twenty years without complainin’.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The pride of the onregenerate must be humbled,” returned the
- minister.
- </p>
- <p>
- She vouchsafed no reply, and they went on in silence, the setting sun
- touching with softened light her worn face and tired eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun was low in the western sky when the two women reached the small
- house, once white but now a dirty gray, with great yellow streaks
- following the lines of the overlapping clapboards. The black waters of the
- swiftly flowing river were flecked with red and gold under the level rays
- of the sun, the rounded hills on the other side of the stream were softly
- blue, toward the east a white fog was rising. A flock of wild geese high
- in the gray-blue sky was flying swiftly southward, spread out in a great
- straggling V. The mournful cry of their leader reached the two women
- faintly, the flight of the wild geese was an unfailing sign of approaching
- winter, and they watched the black lines of the flying fowls until they
- vanished in the southern sky, their weird cry growing fainter and sadder
- and finally dying away, leaving the swish of the river against its muddy
- bank the only sound which troubled the quiet of the autumn twilight. Two
- women with hushed voices and funereal faces waited inside the dingy front
- room of the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a right smart gathering,” said one of them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never see a finer,” said the other.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the minister was mighty pow’ful,” ventured the
- third in mournful tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- They looked at the dead man’s daughter expectantly. Common decency
- surely required some expression of gratified approval of the congregation
- and the sermon. But she was folding her shawl carefully, laying it upon
- the bed alongside her rusty bonnet. She seemed not to have heard their
- voices. Then she sat stiffly by the window looking out at the mud-clogged
- road.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you feel reconciled, Miss ‘Lizbeth,” one of the
- women began.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I reckon I am. He’s been awful hard to take care of,”
- she replied with her hard honesty. She turned her eyes away from the
- window and looked wearily at her visitors.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s supper time. There ain’t any use of your stayin’
- with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The three women arose, angry at their dismissal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ‘lowed you’d want some one to stay with you the first
- night,” said one of them with a lugubrious sniff.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ‘ve got all the nights of my life to stay alone in. I
- ‘bout as well begin now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She watched them as they went away through the deepening gloom, their
- heads together nodding wisely. They were talking about her, of course. She
- knew well enough what they said. She knew how hard and strange and
- unfeeling they were calling her. And as she sat alone by the window she
- wondered whether she was all these. The bed in its dark corner brought to
- her mind the picture of the man who had first quit it for his narrow bed
- upon the hillside. She fancied that she saw his hard, thin, yellow face
- upon the pillow now; that she heard his querulous voice demanding her
- attention, upbraiding her for some fancied forgetfulness, fiercely
- denouncing her for her lack of “religion.” How hard he had
- been! As the woman’s thoughts travelled back along the years she
- could not recall one kind word, one touch of thankfulness for her
- unremitting care, for her absolute immolation of life, hope, love upon the
- altar of “duty.” Twenty years! what a long time it seemed!
- </p>
- <p>
- She passed into the back room and pressed close to the little square
- looking-glass which hung against its wall. The daylight was well-nigh
- gone, but she could yet discern the reflection of her face against the
- background of gray twilight. How old she looked! How sallow she had grown!
- There were great lines about her mouth and deep furrows between her eyes.
- And her hair,—how dingy it was with its streaks of yellowish gray!
- Twenty years ago she had been proud of her hair. It had been bright and
- soft. She was twenty years old then, and there were roses in her cheeks,
- and her eyes, so pale and tired now, had been blue and fresh then. She
- wondered if she had wept their color and their brightness away. Perhaps
- that was the reason no tears were left for her father. She had shed them
- all long ago for the man whom she had loved and given up.
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not return to the front room where the great bed loomed so weirdly
- in the gloom, but sat by the one window in the little back room, half
- kitchen, half dining-room, looking out upon the river growing blacker and
- colder in the falling night as it flowed from out of the west where a
- rapidly diminishing, dull red streak marked the track of the vanished sun.
- </p>
- <p>
- Twenty years since her mother died and her sister, selfish in her new life
- as a wife, had said that ‘Lizbeth’s duty lay in their father’s
- house. He might marry again or die in a few years. Surely it was not so
- hard for a young girl to wait. So she had waited, her lover fretting as
- lovers will, until one day she had awakened to the fact that a man’s
- patience is not like a woman’s. There had been one awful night which
- she remembered after all these years with a shudder. A night when, for the
- first and only time in her hard life, she had turned hotly upon the stern
- old man and told him of her love and of her wrecked girlhood, praying
- wildly for some help, for some sympathy. She caught her breath sharply now
- as she recalled her father’s bitter words. That same night her lover
- left. Fifteen years had come and gone since then. The great world had
- taken him, and whether he lived or had been claimed again by mother earth
- the woman who sat and dreamed of the past alone in the dusk knew naught of
- him. She had practised a woman’s faithfulness; she had reaped a
- woman’s hard reward. Afterwards her sister died and left to her care
- a blue-eyed babe. How she had poured out upon that baby boy the pent up
- mother-love within her. But the gods in their wisdom had taken him too. In
- this still night as she lived over again the years which were gone, she
- seemed to feel the clasp of those baby arms about her neck and to hear the
- crooning of that soft baby voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then came the long years of her father’s illness when she knew
- no moment of rest or peace. It had been a long struggle between a loveless
- woman on one side and gaunt starvation upon the other without one word of
- gratitude to strengthen her. And they called her hard because she could
- not weep! She looked at her hands, holding them up close to her face. How
- misshapen and ugly from toil they were!
- </p>
- <p>
- It was quite dark now and the river murmured strangely under the wind
- which was creeping down from the north. Her hands fell back into her lap
- and two great tears coursed slowly down her worn face—not for the
- man who lay under the stars in the little cemetery on the hill, but for
- her own vanished youth and love and hope.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- “WHEN THE KING COMES IN”
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Anthony Leland
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>HE slunk along in
- the shadows listlessly, staring with unheeding eyes at the shuffling
- crowds upon the sidewalks, at the fly-blown, tawdry splendors of the shop
- windows, and at the yellow gloom of the pawn-shop. The autumn wind swept
- sharply up from the river, and she drew her old plaid shawl about her
- tightly with one hand, while with the other she covered her swollen and
- discolored cheek. The sidewalks and roadway were covered with a thin,
- slippery coating of mingled filth and mud. An autumn mist, heavy with
- smoke, pressed itself tightly down upon the street, deadening the light of
- the electric lamps at the corners into mere splotches of a dully-luminous
- gray. Frowsy, palefaced girls hung about dark doorways where they bandied
- mirthless jests with lounging men and boys. In front of a bar-room, whence
- came the fangling notes of a piano and the scream of a high-pitched
- soprano voice, a man stood and urged the passers-by to go in and witness
- “the dizziest ‘vawdyville’ in the city.” The woman
- in the old plaid shawl passed him without heeding his blatant voice. She
- had heard his sing-song shout many times; the “dizzy vawdyville”
- was nothing new. There never was anything new in Myrtle Street; it was
- ever the same ugly, sordid, joyless place day and night, week in and week
- out. It was always crowded with people, but it was always strangely sullen
- and mirthless. You never heard any one laugh there. At times when some one
- slipped and fell upon the slime of the pavement, or when one of the
- white-faced girls hurled shrill defiance at a man or at her companions, a
- hoarse human bark rent the air, but it was not a laugh. Even the children,
- who scrambled in the gutters and crept in and out of the dark alleys,
- forgot to laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman with swollen and discolored cheek, who was crawling along in the
- shadows, halted in front of a dram-shop on a corner, and gazed doubtfully,
- longingly, at its swinging door. She was wondering if perchance Red Mike
- would trust her for a drink. She felt keenly the chill air from the river.
- She was strangely weary and down-hearted, too.
- </p>
- <p>
- Earlier in the evening she and her man had quarrelled. He was drunk, as
- usual, and had struck her, but for some unaccountable reason she had not
- screeched and struck back and tried to claw his face. She had simply
- grabbed her old shawl and escaped into the street, where she had wandered
- about for an hour. It was very odd that she had acted thus, and now she
- was shamefaced about asking Red Mike for a drink of whiskey! He got all
- their meagre earnings, anyway, did Red Mike, and he was usually easy
- enough about donating a dram or two when they were down in their luck, and
- heretofore she had n’t minded asking him. And if he chanced to
- refuse, she eased her mind by a good mouthful of curses, which she spat at
- him like a cat. But tonight she was foolishly squeamish about asking him;
- she feared the loafers about the bar would jeer at her if he refused; her
- face pained her where Con’s blow had fallen, and she was cold and
- shivering, and—well, she was losing her nerve. So she turned away
- from the hot glow of the bar-room door and passed on into the mists of the
- street.
- </p>
- <p>
- As she crawled along there came to her ears a quick thud of a drum-beat
- and the sound of men and women’s voices singing. Marching through
- the gloom they came, a flapping banner above their heads, the red shirts
- of the men and the blue, scarlet-banded bonnets of the women lending for a
- moment a patch of color to the dim dinginess of the street. Suddenly they
- paused and fell upon their knees in the road, while a man’s voice
- wailed out a prayer. Time was when Myrtle Street gibed at the
- Salvationists and threw rocks at them and hustled them about. But that was
- when the red shirts and the flapping banner were something new. The
- newness was gone now, and Myrtle Street merely shuffled indifferently
- past, and the beat of the big drum, the strident voices of the exhorters
- were quite as much a part of the night sounds of the place as the bawling
- of the showman or the chatter of the frowsy girls. The woman, shivering
- under her shawl and fondling her bruised cheek, glanced apathetically at
- the kneeling men and women, when quickly her eyes became fixed upon the
- face of one of them whom she knew. It was Maggie, the girl who once
- occupied a dark little hole of a room next her own in the big tenement
- house where she yet lived. Maggie! a forlorn, starving thing of whom she
- had lost track entirely—in truth, she had not thought of her since
- the day when the poor, sniveling, pale-faced creature had been turned into
- the street for not paying her rent. Myrtle Street does not waste much time
- in tracing the whereabouts of unfortunate acquaintances, nor in thinking
- of them after they drift out of sight under the ever-mounting wave of
- disaster which laps hungrily thereabout. But Maggie in a big bonnet, with
- her eyes closed and kneeling in the mud, was enough to arouse Myrtle
- Street’s benumbed curiosity. So the bedraggled woman on the sidewalk
- pressed quite close to the curb and stared at her, wondering vaguely at
- the transformation. The man ended his prayer, and his companions, rising
- to their feet, began to sing again. The woman on the curb took no heed of
- the words which they sang. She was not for some moments vividly conscious
- of the song at all; she was conscious only of being tired and cold. Her
- curiosity regarding Maggie was dying, and she loitered with the little
- group which huddled upon the curb, simply because she had nowhere else to
- go. But as she stood there in the mist with her sunken eyes staring
- vacantly into the night, the music which touched her ears began to affect
- her oddly. It was a curious, wailing melody, with a barbaric accompaniment
- of jingling tambourines, and as its monotonous, insistent swing beat the
- air a strange feeling of awakening began to stir her dull veins. She
- weaved to and fro a little in unison with the measure of the song. She
- closed her eyes and felt a tightening in her throat. She clutched her
- shawl. She felt a wild desire to cry out or sob. Suddenly they ceased to
- sing, and she opened her eyes with a start. Maggie stepped into the little
- semi-circle of men and women, and in high, hard tones began to speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! Those is great, great words, my friends, which we have just
- sung,” she said; “awful words! Terrifyin’ words! Did you
- hear ‘em? Did you understand ‘em? Did they come home to you?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “‘When the King comes in,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Like lightning’s flash will that instant show
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Things hidden long from friend and foe.
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Just what he is will each one know,
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- When the King comes in.’
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “Think of it! Think of it! Like a flash will it be, and you will
- know and I will know—everybody will know just what we are. Oh! It is
- awful! Like lightning’s flash will that coming be—remember
- that! Don’t try to believe it is far off. It isn’t. It may be
- to-night. It may be within an hour—a minute—a second, for you
- and me. But be it near or far, it’s coming, coming, coming!”
- Her voice shrilled piercingly, and the woman, listening so intently upon
- the curb, felt a thrill of excitement at the sound. It was not clear to
- her what it all meant, but she had a queer feeling of awe as she looked at
- Maggie’s drawn face and listened to her strained, sharp voice.
- “My God!” the girl continued, “think of it! Think if He
- comes to-night and finds you in all your sin and wickedness and filth.
- Think, think and be afraid. Think, and before it’s too late, get
- saved! I am saved, and I thank God to-night for it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- A low chorus of “Glory to God!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe!” came from her companions.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am glad to-night to stand here to tell you that I am saved and
- happy—oh! so happy! Why do you wait? Some of you know me—I was
- sinful and tired and afraid once, but not now, thank God! not now. I’m
- saved, saved, saved!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Louder and wilder grew the girl’s cry. She waved her arms violently,
- and paced rapidly to and fro. The listening woman shifted her position
- from the sidewalk to the gutter. Her hands loosened their clutch upon her
- shawl; she wrung them constantly as she looked with wondering eyes at
- Maggie—Maggie who was n’t tired nor afraid any more, and was
- happy, and all because she was “saved”! What did it all mean?
- How had it happened?
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl stopped abruptly in her walk, and, as though answering her
- thought, cried, “It is so easy to get saved, too. All you have to do
- is to throw yourself on your knees and call on Jesus, and give yourself up
- to Him, and all your sins and fears and troubles and burdens are gone, and
- you’ll be happy and glad and free and saved forever!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Without a pause her voice shot into the song which they had sung before;
- but now its measure was changed to a clear, quick chant, with which she
- kept time by a soft patting with her hands. Clearer and higher grew her
- tones, and her companions, sinking to their knees, moaned in hushed voices
- a weird accompaniment, while the gently shaken tambourines lent again
- their strange barbaric rhythm, marked from time to time by the great drum’s
- muffled beat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nearer and nearer to the semi-circle of kneeling figures stole the
- listening woman. Tears were streaming from her eyes, her blue lips
- quivered, a great sob tore itself from her tight throat. At length she
- stood quite within the lines of the singers, and then, with a strange,
- wild cry, she, too, fell upon her knees in the slime of the street. Her
- old shawl fell from her head, her arms rested upon the drum, her swollen
- face was buried in them. A great shout of “Glory to God!” went
- up about her, and some one on the curb cried amazedly, “Why, it’s
- old Kit!” But she heard only that monotonous wailing voice chanting
- stridently “When the King Comes In.” Afterwards there came a
- knowledge of some one’s arm across her shoulders, of whispered words
- and urgent voices, a sensation of being lifted to her feet and helped
- along the street, and then a confusing blur of yellow light from oil lamps
- in a dingy hall. And at length full consciousness, dull fatigue, and an
- overwhelming desire for sleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- Maggie and one of the brothers in red jersey and jaunty cap walked home
- with her, pouring into her ears encouraging advice in strange, cant words,
- which she but half understood. At the doorway of the human hive where she
- and Con slept and fought and starved the man looked sharply at Maggie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are sure!” he whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—they’re married,” replied the girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will come to the barracks early to-morrow morning?” he
- asked, turning to Kit.
- </p>
- <p>
- She promised to do so, and, passing into the dark hall, climbed upward to
- where Con lay in drunken stupor.
- </p>
- <p>
- The following morning Kit stepped into a new world—a world of
- friendly words and close companionship. The squalidly poor know nothing of
- that luxury called friendship. They are huddled together in vast crowds,
- squeezed and packed by scores within narrow limits, jostled and elbowed by
- their kind at every turn. They are suffocated by close association. But of
- fellowship, of interest in one another’s aims, of sympathy with one
- another’s hardships, they know nothing. Like starving dogs over a
- bone, they growl and snarl and fly straight at throats. So, when Kit crept
- half sullenly into the barracks and was greeted by a loud chorus of
- interested questions and by unstinted praise, the unfamiliar warmth of
- friendly words thawed into life her sluggish sensibilities. And, too, an
- entirely new view of herself and the world was suddenly opened to her
- bewildered gaze,—for the first time in her hard life she was looked
- upon as a human being of some importance. They told her that she was
- suddenly become different from her kind, she was better than they, she was
- “saved.” Not only that, but she must “save”
- others. She must quit the old life, and work for the common good. Her new
- friends were as uncouth and as poor and as hard pressed as herself. In
- their attitude there was none of that maddening condescension, none of
- that supercilious casting of surplus comforts at her feet, as one would
- toss a half-eaten orange toward a hungry-eyed beggar brat, which was the
- only sort of charity Kit had known of hitherto. The friendship of the
- Salvationists was the frank comradeship of plain men and women; their
- charity was the outcome of a crude, but living, religious idea. And their
- wild enthusiasm caught her dull soul in its sweep and lifted it a little
- above the fetid mists of her world. Some latent spark of womanly ambition
- was stirred into life, and with halting, dogged feet she tried to climb
- out of the dank valley of her past.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a wearisome task, but the exhilarating sense of friendly interest
- in her success sustained her. The old appetite for strong drink stung her,
- but the excitement of the new life helped to dull the craving. She tramped
- the streets with her companions, her cracked voice shouting quaveringly
- with them as they sang. She stepped sometimes into the little semicircle
- at the street corners to tell excitedly “how glad she was that she
- was saved.” She knelt with the others and prayed aloud for those who
- were not as she. She was one of a great, enthusiastic army, held up and
- aided by the superficial strength which comes of close fellowship and
- common aims. But with that growth of strength in one quarter there came a
- strange weakness in another. She was growing childishly afraid of Con, and
- with the growth of that fear there started into life and waxed strong a
- new loathing and hatred for his rum-soaked person. She would have fled
- from him, only that her new masters told her she must stick to him. It was
- her duty to cling to him and to “save” him. Their first
- injunction she obeyed meekly; but to their second command she turned a
- deaf ear. She knew what Con was; they did not. Every human creature in the
- wide world might be saved—except her husband. He was beyond the pale
- of humanity. So long as she did not bother him, he paid little attention
- to her goings and comings. Only once she ventured to protest when he had
- spent a week’s earnings for drink (Con had a “pull” with
- the ward “boss,” and when there were no other means of getting
- money for drink he found employment with the street-cleaners), and he had
- knocked her down for her temerity, and after that she held her peace and
- wished dumbly that he might die.
- </p>
- <p>
- At length there came a proud day when Kit, after unwonted labor over her
- wash-tub, was the possessor of a decent black gown and of the long-coveted
- poke bonnet. It was the eve of a great rally at the barracks, when some
- officer of high degree from “headquarters” was to review the
- ranks of his army. At the close of day, when the long shadows were
- beginning to steal across the bare little room, with its musty bed, its
- one chair, and its rickety table pushed into a corner, Kit crouched upon
- the floor close up under the gray light of her window, intent upon her
- work. There were but a few stitches needed to complete her gown, and her
- stiff fingers fumbled eagerly with the unfamiliar needle. Her thoughts
- were busy with the glories of the morrow, and she crooned one of the
- Salvationist hymns as she sewed. And to her singing in the twilight there
- came the sound of shuffling footsteps outside her door. She looked up
- apprehensively as the door flew open to admit her husband. He was drunk,
- sullenly, brutally drunk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where’s my supper?” he demanded, falling heavily into
- the chair. “Where’s my supper, I say?” he repeated,
- fixing an evil eye upon her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ll get it now, Con. I was busy workin’ on my dress,
- an’ I clean forgot your supper,” she explained, humbly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer dress?” he asked. “What right’s a measly fool
- like you with dresses? Le’s see it.” He stretched forth his
- hand. She caught the black garment sharply away from him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, you’ll spoil it!” she cried, tossing the dress into
- a corner behind the bed. “You just set still there, an’ I’ll
- get you somethin’ to eat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eatin’ be damned!” he replied, surlily. “I want
- somethin’ to drink. Here! you take the can an’ get somethin’
- from Mike’s. ‘F you can buy clothes, you can buy drinks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, no, Con, not now. Wait till I get supper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t want no supper! You rush de can, I tell you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won’t!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The hell you won’t!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He started from his chair and went towards her, but something in her eyes
- made even his sodden senses recoil. He looked at her dubiously a moment,
- and then stumbled out of the room, muttering thickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- As the door closed behind him, the woman sprang for her gown, and,
- dragging it from the corner, slipped it on. A few more stitches were
- needed in it, but she dared not wait to take them. A great terror filled
- her soul. She felt that her husband would return quickly, uglier and
- wilder by a few drams. With shaking fingers she pinned her gown together
- as best she might. She smoothed her scanty, dry, dead hair with her hands,
- and then she lifted her bonnet from the bed. She held it a moment
- admiringly, drawing her fingers softly over its trimmings of dark-blue
- silk, and along its narrow band of scarlet ribbon, where the bright gilt
- letters shone. She put it on her head and tied the soft strings carefully
- under her chin. She glanced hesitatingly at the old plaid shawl, wishing
- that she had a better one, but the night was cold, and she drew it about
- her shoulders. With a little sigh of relief she turned to leave the room.
- As her hand touched the door-latch she heard Con’s heavy tread upon
- the stairs. She noted that he staggered a little, and with a quick
- indrawing of her breath she drew herself flat against the wall in the
- shadows. The man threw the door open fiercely, steadying himself against
- the jamb as he peered into the dim room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where are you, you she-devil?” he called.
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman made no sound, and he stepped inside the room, with his broad
- back towards her. Inch by inch she crept along against the wall towards
- the door, as he stood turning from side to side in his maudlin search for
- her, and as her feet touched the threshold he turned and saw her. He
- rushed forward and grabbed her arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Givin’ me the dirty sneak, are you?” he growled,
- shoving her inside the room and closing the door. “What d’ yer
- mean? Eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kit made no answer. She backed off, her face gleaming white inside her big
- bonnet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer a nice one, ain’t you?” he continued. “Won’t
- get me nothin’ to eat or drink, an’ spendin’ yer money
- fur clothes, an’ then tryin’ to make a sneak! Oh! I was onto
- you all the time! You white-faced fool! What d’ yer mean? Eh? Damn
- you, what d’ yer mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop, Con! Don’t hit me!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stumbled forward deliberately and struck her upturned face. She
- staggered into the corner by the table, and faced him again. A tiny stream
- of something red trickled down her cheek. Her eyes were suddenly ablaze.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me go!” she shrieked. “Let me go!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer’ll go an’ get de can filled, that’s where yer’ll
- go!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won’t—<i>never!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- A spasm of hate and rage and terror writhed in her face. With the
- quickness of desperation she caught a knife from the table and waited for
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lunged towards her with uplifted arm. Before his blow fell she gave one
- swift thrust, and his arm came down simply upon her shoulder. For a moment
- he stood strangely still. He clenched his fist; his teeth were tight; he
- breathed hard through his nose.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn you——” Then he reeled and fell.
- </p>
- <p>
- And as the woman stood there in the gathering gloom, with his blood
- crawling towards her on the floor, she heard the beat of a drum, and the
- sound of voices singing shrilly, far down the street. On they came, nearer
- and louder, until her listening ears heard the thrum of the tambourines.
- Under her window they passed, and away into the night, until at last their
- sound was lost in the ceaseless, sullen tumult of Myrtle Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- MANDANY’S FOOL
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Maria Louise Pool
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>E ain’t got
- hungry for termarters, be ye?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Some one had knocked at the screen door, and as there was no response, a
- man’s strident, good-humored voice put the above question concerning
- tomatoes.
- </p>
- <p>
- But somebody had heard.
- </p>
- <p>
- A woman had been sitting in the kitchen with a pan of seek-no-further
- apples in her lap. She was paring and quartering these and then stabbing
- the quarters through and stringing them on yards of white twine,
- preparatory to festooning them on the clothes-horse which stood in the
- yard. This horse was already decorated profusely in this way. A cloud of
- wasps had flown from the drying fruit as the man walked up the path. He
- swung off his hat and waved the insects away.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I say, have ye got hungry agin for termarters?” he repeated.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he rattled the screen; but it was hooked on the inside.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned and surveyed the three windows that were visible in the bit of a
- house.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They wouldn’t both be gone, ‘n’ left them apples
- out,” he said to himself. “I’m ‘bout sure Ann’s
- to home; ‘n’ she’s the one I want to see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A woman in the bed-room which opened from the kitchen was hurriedly
- smoothing her hair and peering into the glass. She was speaking aloud with
- the air of one who constantly talks to herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Jest as sure’s I don’t comb my hair the first thing,
- somebody comes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave a last pat and went to the door. There was a faint smirk on her
- lips and a flush on her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her tall figure was swayed by a slight, eager tremor as she saw who was
- standing there. She exclaimed:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Goodness me! ‘T ain’t you, Mr. Baker, is it? Won’t
- ye walk right in? But I don’t want no termarters; they always go
- aginst me. Aunt Mandany ain’t to home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, ain’t she?” was the brisk response. “Then I
- guess I will come in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The speaker pushed open the now unfastened door and entered. He set his
- basket of tomatoes with a thump on the rug, and wiped his broad, red face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fact is,” he said with a grin, “I knew she was gone. I
- seen her goin’ crosst the pastur’. That’s why I come
- now. I ain’t got no longin’ to see Aunt Mandany—no,
- sir-ee, not a grain of longin’ to see her. But I thought ‘t
- would be agreeable to me to clap my eyes on to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman simpered, made an inarticulate sound, and hurriedly resumed her
- seat and her apple-cutting.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Won’t you se’ down, Mr. Baker?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her fingers trembled as she took the darning-needle and jabbed it through
- an apple quarter. The needle went into her flesh also. She gave a little
- cry and thrust her finger into her mouth. Her large, pale eyes turned
- wistfully towards her companion. The faded, already elderly mouth
- quivered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m jest as scar’t ‘s I c’n be if I see
- blood,” she whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker’s heavy under lip twitched; his face softened. But he
- spoke roughly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You needn’t mind that bit er blood,” he said, “that
- won’t hurt nothin’. I don’t care if I do se’ down.
- I ain’t drove any this mornin’. I c’n jest as well as
- not take hold ‘n’ help ye. I s’pose Mandany left a
- thunderin’ lot for ye to do while she’s gone?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Two bushels,” was the answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The old cat! That’s too much. But ‘t won’t be for
- both of us, will it, Ann?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The woman said, “No.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked for an instant intently at the man who had drawn his chair
- directly opposite her. He was already paring an apple.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I d’ know what to make of it,” she said, still in a
- whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “To make of what?” briskly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, when folks are so good to me ‘s you be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, sho’, now! Everybody ain’t like your Aunt Mandany.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Sh! Don’t speak so loud! Mebby she’ll be comin’
- back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, she won’t. ‘N’ no matter if she is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The loud, confident tone rang cheerily in the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the silence that followed Mr. Baker watched Ann’s deft
- fingers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everybody says you’re real capable,” he remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- A joyous red covered Ann’s face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I jest about do all the work here,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at the man again.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was something curiously sweet in the simple face. The patient line
- at each side of the close, pale mouth had a strange effect upon Mr. Baker.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had been known to say violently in conversation at the store that he
- “never seen Ann Tracy ‘thout wantin’ to thrash her Aunt
- Mandany.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What in time be you dryin’ seek-no-further for?” he now
- exclaimed with some fierceness. “They’re the flattest kind of
- apples I know of.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s what Aunt says,” was the reply; “she says
- they’re most as flat’s as I be, ‘n’ that’s
- flat ‘nough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- These words were pronounced as if the speaker were merely stating a
- well-known fact.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then what does she do um for?” persisted Mr. Baker.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She says they’re good ‘nough to swop for groceries in
- the spring.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker made a deep gash in an apple, and held his tongue.
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann continued her work, but she took a good deal of seek-no-further with
- the skin in a way that would have shocked Aunt Mandany.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly she raised her eyes to the sturdy face opposite her and said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guess your wife had a real good time, didn’t she, Mr.
- Baker, when she was livin’?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker dropped his knife. He glanced up and met the wistful gaze upon
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Something that he had thought long dead stirred in his consciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope so,” he said gently. “I do declare I tried to
- make her have a good time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How long’s she be’n dead?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Most ten year. We was livin’ down to Norris Corners
- then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The man picked up his knife and absently tried the edge of it on the ball
- of his thumb.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I s’pose,” said Ann, “that folks are sorry when
- their wives die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker gave a short laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wall, that depends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, does it? I thought folks had to love their wives, ‘n’
- be sorry when they died.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here Mr. Baker laughed again. He made no other answer for several minutes.
- At last he said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was sorry enough when my wife died.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A great pile of quartered apples was heaped up in the wooden bowl before
- either spoke again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Ann exclaimed with a piteous intensity:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I’m awful tired of bein’ Aunt Mandany’s fool!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker stamped his foot involuntarily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How jew know they call you that?” he cried in a great voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I heard Jane Littlefield tell Mis’ Monk she hoped nobody’d
- ask Mandany’s fool to the sociable. And Mr. Fletcher’s boy
- told me that’s what folks called me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn Jane Littlefield! Damn that little devil of a boy!”
- </p>
- <p>
- These dreadful words burst out furiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- Perhaps Ann did not look as shocked as she ought.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a moment she smiled her immature, simple smile that had a touching
- appeal in it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘T ain’t no use denyin’ it,” she said;
- “I ain’t jes’ like other folks, ‘n’ that’s
- a fact. I can’t think stiddy more ‘n a minute. Things all run
- together, somehow. ‘N’ the back er my head’s odd’s
- it can be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pooh! What of it? There can’t any of us think stiddy; ‘n’
- if we could what would it amount to, I should like to know? It would n’t
- amount to a row of pins.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann dropped her work and clasped her hands. Mr. Baker saw that her hands
- were hard, and stained almost black on fingers and thumbs by much cutting
- of apples.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ye see,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “sometimes I
- think if mother had lived she’d er treated me so ‘t I could
- think stiddier. I s’pose mother’d er loved me. They say
- mothers do. But Aunt Mandany told me mother died the year I got my fall
- from the cherry-tree. I was eight then. I don’t remember nothin’
- ‘bout it, nor ‘bout anything much. Mr. Baker, do you remember
- your mother?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker said “Yes,” abruptly. Something made it impossible
- for him to say more.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I d’ know how ‘tis,” went on the thin, minor
- voice, “but it always did seem to me ‘s though if I could
- remember my mother I could think stiddier, somehow. Do you think I could?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker started to his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ll be dumbed ‘f I c’n stan’ it,” he
- shouted. “No, nor I won’t stan’ it, nuther!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked noisily across the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He came back and stood in front of Ann, who had patiently resumed work.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come,” he said, “I think a lot of ye. Le’s git
- married.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann looked up. She dropped her knife.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I should live with you?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was so much of confident happiness in that laugh that the man’s
- heart glowed youthfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be real glad to marry you, Mr. Baker,” she said.
- Then, with pride, “‘N’ I c’n cook, ‘n’
- I know first rate how to do housework.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose to her feet; her eyes shone.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker put his arm about her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Le’s go right along now,” he said, more quickly than he
- had yet spoken. “We’ll call to the minister’s ‘n’
- engage him. You c’n stop there. We’ll be married to-day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t ye wait till I c’n put on my bunnit ‘n’
- shawl?” Ann asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- She left the room. In a few moments she returned dressed for going. She
- had a sheet of note-paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen in her hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I c’n write,” she said confidently, “‘n’
- I call it fairer to leave word for Aunt Mandany.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right,” was the response; “go ahead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker said afterward that he never got much more nervous in his life
- than while Ann was writing that note. What if Mandany should appear! He
- wasn’t going to back out, but he didn’t want to see that
- woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- The ink was thick, the pen was like a pin, and Ann was a good while making
- each letter, but the task was at last accomplished. She held out the sheet
- to her companion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ain’t that right?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Baker drew his face down solemnly as he read:—
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- Dere Aunt Mandane:—
-
- I’m so dretfull Tired of beeing youre fool that ime going
- too be Mr. Baker’s. He askt me.
-
- Ann.
-</pre>
- <p>
- “That’s jest the thing,” he said explosively. “Now,
- come on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- As they walked along in the hot fall sunshine Mr. Baker said earnestly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m certain sure we sh’ll be ever so much happier.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So ‘m I,” Ann replied, with cheerful confidence.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were on a lonely road, and they walked hand in hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m goin’ to be good to ye,” said the man, with
- still more earnestness. Then, in a challenging tone, as if addressing the
- world at large, “I guess ‘t ain’t nobody’s
- business but our’n.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ann looked at him and smiled trustfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a while he began to laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m thinkin’ of your Aunt Mandany when she reads that
- letter,” he explained.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE WAY TO CONSTANTINOPLE
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Clinton Ross
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>RS. DENBY poured
- the tea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, speaking of Constantinople.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Denby blushed. I envied Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, yes,” said I, “I have read Gautier, and that is a
- very good monograph of Marion Crawford’s. I was there once myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Were you?” said Mrs. Denby, demurely. “Do you take
- sugar?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, tell me!” I began, for I saw I was expected to show some
- interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t, Dick,” began Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it’s only Tom,” said Denby, fondly; but not half so
- fondly as he had before he had found her, and persuaded her, and—I
- always have had such bad luck with the woman whom it’s worth while
- trying to marry!
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see,—it’s a silly story. Dick’s usually are,”
- began Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Denby. “Now, you know—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, if you must,” said Mrs. Denby, despairfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Paris was a glare of splendor that February,—after the North
- Atlantic,” Denby went on. “Did you ever leave New York of a
- dismal day of winter fog and a week after find yourself in Havre? The
- boulevards are gay, the shops resplendent. Paris is a different place from
- Paris in July,—when hordes of our countrymen swoop down on it like
- the Huns. It’s like the rural visitor doing Fifth Avenue in August,
- and wondering why New York is so much talked about. But Paris in February
- is the Paris one dreams of when the word is pronounced, with all its
- suggestiveness of the world’s gayety. Yet, it was cold that
- February,—as bitter as in New York; and after coming back one night
- to my lodging on the Avenue Carnot, where the cab was unable to make its
- way because of the frozen sleet on the smooth paving of the hill the
- Avenue des Champs Elysées climbs,—that night I concluded I had not
- intended exchanging New York for wintry unpleasantness, and decided to go
- to Constantinople. Constantinople, where I had never been, seemed so far
- away, and I did not know that it, too, could be bleakly dismal in the
- spring. The next morning I booked on the Orient Express. That evening I
- was snugly put away in my compartment, and the morning after was looking
- on a Bavarian landscape.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You always were impulsive,” Mrs. Denby interrupted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; nothing proves that more than my conduct the next morning at
- breakfast in the dining-car. I appeared late. The place was crowded. A
- very pretty girl—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you really think so then?” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I did, or else I shouldn’t have taken the seat opposite
- beside a little chap who was ogling and embarrassing her dreadfully.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Such a man’s horrid,” commented Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw at once he was one of those little Parisians, whose kind I
- know well, who in some way lose their appropriateness when transplanted.
- For I knew at once they were not acquaintances. The girl appeared alone,
- English or American—I could not be certain. Now, I was sure the man
- was objectionable,—not quite a gentleman,—or, if he had been,
- he had distorted the quality.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now you need n’t explain,” said Mrs. Denby. “My
- honest opinion is that you took the seat for exactly the same reason as
- he, because——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because the girl was pretty?” said Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn’t say she was,” Mrs. Denby hastened to add.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I beg pardon, Monsieur,’ said I to the man, when he
- glared. Presently the Swiss brought the young lady’s bill, when a
- strange agitation appeared in my vis-à-vis. I saw and felt for her. She
- had no money. She probably had her ticket, but had lost her purse. She did
- not attempt to go back to the Wagon Lit.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I am going to Constantinople,’ she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I beg pardon, Madame,’ began the Swiss.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Cannot the bill—
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle,’ said the Swiss, and he
- looked desolated, with a contrary gleam in his eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here the man by my side dropped from the category of the gentleman
- to that of the cad.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘If Mademoiselle will allow me,’ he began eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I leaned under the table, pretending to pick up a purse, which I
- really took from my pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I think this is your purse,’ I said in English.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For an instant she scanned me. The Frenchman looked daggers. She
- was blushing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Thank you,’ said she, and I knew she was an American;
- ‘how stupid of me to have dropped it.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “And from my purse she paid the bill, nodded to me, ignoring the
- Frenchman, and without further word left the buffet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The particular French cad evidently wanted to pick a quarrel with
- me, and for a moment I was debating with myself whether I might not have
- been an ass. A fool’s money goes the way of his scanty wit. The girl
- might appear pretty, innocent, attractive—and yet—I swallowed
- my coffee, and returned to my compartment, which I had to myself. The door
- was open. Presently I saw the young woman of the breakfast-table walking
- up and down the aisle. I was determined I should not notice her. Suddenly
- I heard her voice at the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Sir, what can you think of me? But I couldn’t help it,
- really,—I have lost my purse. Here is yours; I will return the six
- francs at Constantinople.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw a tear; and I was sure my knowledge of femininity——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Conceited,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Could not be at fault,” Denby continued. “I bowed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I’m glad to be able to make the loan—’ I
- began.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘It’s good of you,’ said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘But if you have lost all your money, I don’t see—’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘What?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘How can you avoid borrowing more?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘That man at the table made me feel so detestably,’ she
- began.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, you must n’t mind!’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘And you really are so nice—What do you know about me?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, I can tell.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I think you generally can,’ said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Isn’t that interesting?’ said I, pointing out of
- the window at some peasants in the field.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Ah, yes!’ said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘May I sit down?’ said I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We had reached her seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Why, certainly, I shall be glad to have you.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘How does it happen—’ I began after a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, here’s your purse,’ she interrupted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Now, really, please. It won’t inconvenience me in the
- least. There are only five louis there, and I have my portemonnaie
- besides, and—’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘And?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I believe I said I should be delighted.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “’ Oh, you did, but you began a—’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘What?’ said I, feeling uncomfortable.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘A question. I know what it was.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Well, if you do—’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I’m from Illinois. We don’t regard chaperones as
- so necessary; besides—’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Besides?’ I could n’t resist saying.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I believe women should take care of themselves.’
- “‘But they can’t—always.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘You mean—’ she began rather indignantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Well—well—they sometimes have to borrow, you
- know.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘That’s—that’s mean of you.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, I—I beg pardon.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘You needn’t. I wish I could return your six francs. I
- am going to Constantinople to meet my father, who is up from the east. I
- went all alone—because—there was nobody.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I’m sorry,’ said I. ‘Now don’t mind
- me, please.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “She looked at me then.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I suppose I shall have to tolerate you. You are the only
- American on this train.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I consider myself your guardian,—with letters
- testamentary.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘I am forced to it,’ said she, but smiling.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, she did n’t smile,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh,’ said I, ‘this is deliciously lucky. I
- thought I should have this ride alone.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “At this moment—for some time had passed—the Swiss
- announced luncheon, which she—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How horridly forward it all sounds,” interrupted Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Which she took with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear, I wonder at it,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She had to,” said Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, of course, you had the money,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, she tolerated—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s the word, I think,” assented Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We walked the station at Vienna. We took an ice at Buda-Pesth. We
- wondered about Queen Nathalie at Belgrade. We bought beads at Sofia. We
- shivered over the Bulgarian soldiers squatting on the platform against
- Turkish banditti. I told her how an Orient Express had been held up the
- autumn before, a Frankfort banker abstracted, and his ears sent to his
- counting-house with a request for a gold payment or else his tongue would
- follow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was horrid of you,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, at Constantinople, her father was not there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was terrible,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I knew the American Consul’s wife, who took in the
- situation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was very nice of her,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We roamed about the Pera; sentimentalized in San Sofia; bargained—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With your money,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the bazaars. We rode in a palanquin, and drove to the Sweet
- Waters of Europe, danced at the Russian Legation,—where she was
- irresistible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your eyes!” said Mrs. Denby, with severe sarcasm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One day her father appeared. She counted out three louis—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And five francs sixty centimes,” said Mrs. Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘That isn’t all,’ said I.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Why, let me see,’ she began.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘It isn’t all,’ said I. ‘There’s my
- heart.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a very silly speech—not at all original,” said
- Mrs. Denby. “I should think you would be ashamed to repeat it—before
- visitors. But, Mr. Pemberton, you haven’t told me whether you take
- sugar?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sugar, thanks,” said I. “That’s a good story. It
- reminds me of an episode in Hunter’s novel—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is a better story,” said Denby.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dick!” said Mrs. Denby, looking at him with sudden
- earnestness. “Do you mean that—now!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I felt, as is often the case lately, the superfluous bachelor. I went to
- call on Sally Waters.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- THE OLD PARTISAN
- </h2>
- <h3>
- By Octave Thanet
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SAT so far back
- in the gallery that my opinion of my delegate friend dwindled with every
- session. Nevertheless my unimportant seat had its advantages. I could see
- the vast assembly and watch the throbbing of the Republican pulse if I
- could not hear its heartbeats. Therefore, perhaps, I studied my neighbors
- more than I might study them under different circumstances. The great
- wooden hall had its transient and unsubstantial character stamped on every
- bare wooden joist and unclinched nail. It was gaudy with flags and bunting
- and cheap portraits. There were tin bannerets crookedly marshalled on the
- floor, to indicate the homes of the different States. A few delegates,
- doubtless new to the business and overzealous, were already on the floor,
- but none of the principals were visible. They were perspiring and arguing
- in those committee rooms, those hotel lobbies and crowded hotel rooms
- where the real business of the convention was already done and neatly
- prepared for presentation to the nation. I had nothing to keep me from
- studying my neighbors. In front of me sat two people who had occupied the
- same seats at every session that I was present, a young girl and an old
- man. The girl wore the omnipresent shirtwaist (of pretty blue and white
- tints, with snowy cuffs and collar), and her green straw hat was decked
- with blue corn-flowers, from which I inferred that she had an eye on the
- fashions. Her black hair was thick and glossy under the green straw. I
- thought that she had a graceful neck. It was very white. Whiter than her
- face, which had a touch of sunburn, as if she were often out in the open
- air. Somehow I concluded that she was a shop-girl and rode a wheel. If I
- were wrong it is not likely that I shall ever know.
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man I fancied was not so old as he looked; his delicate, haggard
- profile may have owed its sunken lines and the dim eye to sickness rather
- than to years. He wore the heavy black broadcloth of the rural politician,
- and his coat sagged over his narrow chest as if he had left his waistcoat
- at home. On his coat lapel were four old-fashioned Blaine badges.
- Incessantly he fanned himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It can’t be they ain’t going to nominate him to-day?”
- he asked rather than asserted, his voice breaking on the higher notes, the
- mere wreck of a voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, maybe later,” the girl reassured him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I wanted to attend a Republican convention once more before I
- died. Your ma would have it I wasn’t strong enough; but I knew
- better; you and I knew better; did n’t we, Jenny?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She made no answer except to pat his thin, ribbed brown hand with her
- soft, white, slim one; but there was a world of sympathy in the gesture
- and her silent smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder what your ma said when she came downstairs and found the
- letter, and us gone,” he cackled with the garrulous glee of a child
- recounting successful mischief; “made me think of the times when you
- was little and I stole you away for the circus. Once, your pa thought you
- was lost—‘member? And once, you had on your school-dress and
- you’d tore it—she did scold you that time. But we had fun when
- they used to let me have money, did n’t we, Jenny?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, now I earn money, we have good times, too, grandpa,”
- said Jenny, smiling the same tender, comprehending smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We do that; I don’t know what I would do ‘cept for you,
- lambie, and this is—this is a grand time, Jenny, you look and
- listen; it’s a great thing to see a nation making its principles and
- its president—and such a president!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He half turned his head as he spoke, with a mounting enthusiasm, thus
- bringing his flushing face and eager eyes—no longer dim—into
- the focus of his next neighbor’s bright gray eyes. The neighbor was
- a young man, not very young but hardly to be called elderly, of an alert
- bearing and kindly smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think him a pretty fair man myself,” said the other with a
- jocose understatement; “I come from his town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What was there in such a simple statement to bring a distinctly anxious
- look into the young girl’s soft eyes? There it was; one could not
- mistake it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well!” said the old man; there was a flattering deference in
- his voice. “Well, well. And—and maybe you’ve seen him
- lately?” The quavering tones sharpened with a keener feeling; it was
- almost as if the man were inquiring for some one on whom he had a great
- stake of affection. “How did he look? Was he better, stronger?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, he looked elegant,” said the Ohio man, easily, but with a
- disconcerted side glance at the girl whose eyes were imploring him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ve been a Blaine man ever since he was run, the time Bob
- Ingersoll nominated him,” said the old man, who sighed as if
- relieved. “I was at that convention and heard the speech——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, that was a speech to hear,” said a man behind, and two or
- three men edged their heads nearer.
- </p>
- <p>
- The old Republican straightened his bent shoulders, his winter-stung
- features softened and warmed at the manifestation of interest, his voice
- sank to the confidential undertone of the narrator.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’re right, sir, right; it was a magnificent speech. I can
- see him jest as he stood there, a stoutish, good-looking man,
- smooth-faced, his eye straight ahead, and an alternate that sat next me—I
- was an alternate; I’ve been an alternate four times; I could have
- been a delegate, but I says, ‘No, abler men than me are wanting it;
- I’m willing to fight in the ranks.’ But I wished I had a vote,
- a free vote that day, I tell you. The alternate near me, he says, ‘You
- ‘ll hear something fine now; I’ve heard him speak.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did, too, I guess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We could hear from the first minute. That kinder fixed our
- attention. He had a mellow, rich kind of voice that melted into our ears.
- We found ourselves listening and liking him from the first sentence. At
- first he was as quiet as a summer breeze, but presently he began to warm
- up, and the words flowed out like a stream of jewels. It was electrifying:
- it was thrilling, sir; it took us off our feet before we knew it, and when
- he came to the climax, those of us that weren’t yelling in the
- aisles were jumping up and down on our chairs! I know I found myself
- prancing up and down in my own hat on a chair, swinging somebody else’s
- hat and screaming at the top of my voice, with the tears running down my
- cheeks. God! sir, there were men there on their feet cheering their
- throats out that had to vote against him afterwards—had to because
- they were there instructed—no more free will than a checked trunk!”
- The light died out of his face. “Yes, sir, a great speech; never a
- greater ever made at a convention anywhere, never so great a speech,
- whoever made it: but it did no good, he wasn’t nominated, and when
- we did nominate him we were cheated out of our victory. Well, we ‘ll
- do better this day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We will that,” said the other man, heartily; “McKinley—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’ll excuse me—” the old man struck in with a
- deprecating air, yet under the apology something fiercely eager and
- anxious that glued the hearer’s eyes to his quivering old face—“you’ll
- excuse me. I—I am a considerable of an invalid and I don’t
- keep the run of things as I used to. You see I live with my daughter, and
- you know how women folks are, fretting lest things should make you sick,
- and my girl she worries so, me reading the papers. Fact is I got a shock
- once, an awful shock,” he shivered involuntarily and his dim eyes
- clouded, “and it worried her seeing me read. Hadn’t ought to;
- it don’t worry Jenny here, who often gets me a paper, quiet like;
- but you know how it is with women—it’s easier giving them
- their head a little—and so I don’t see many papers, and I
- kinder dropped off. It seems queer, but I don’t exactly sense it
- about this McKinley. Is he running against Blaine or jest for vice?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl, under some feminine pretext of dropping and reaching for her
- handkerchief, threw upward a glance of appeal at the interlocutor.
- Hurriedly she stepped into the conversation. “My grandfather read a
- false report about—about Mr. Blaine’s sickness, and he was not
- well at the time and it brought on a bad attack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I understand,” said the listener, with a grave nod of his
- head and movement of his eyes in the girl’s direction.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But about McKinley?” the old man persisted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He’s for vice-president,” the girl announced, her eyes
- fixed on the hesitating man from Canton. I have often admired the intrepid
- fashion in which a woman will put her conscience at a moral hedge, while a
- man of no finer spiritual fibre will be straining his eyes to find a hole
- through which he can crawl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “McKinley is not opposed to Blaine, is he?” she asked the man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Republican party has no name that is more loved than that of
- James G. Blaine,” said the man, gravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s so, that’s so!” the old partisan assented
- eagerly; “to my mind he’s the logical candidate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canton man nodded, and asked if he had ever seen Blaine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Once, only once. I was on a delegation sent to wait on him and ask
- him to our town to speak—he was in Cincinnati. I held out my hand
- when my turn came, and the chairman nearly knocked the breath out of me by
- saying, ‘Here’s the man gave more to our campaign fund and
- worked harder than any man in the county, and we all worked hard for you,
- too.’ Well, Mr. Blaine looked at me. You know the intent way he
- looks. He has the most wonderful eyes; look right at you and seem to bore
- into you like a gimlet. I felt as if he was looking right down into my
- soul, and I tell you I was glad, for I choked up so I couldn’t find
- a word, not a word, and I was ready and fluent enough in those days, too,
- I can tell you; but I stood there filling up, and squeezed his hand and
- gulped and got red, like a fool. But he understood. ‘I have heard of
- your loyalty to Republican principles, Mr. Painter,’ says he, in
- that beautiful voice of his that was like a violin; and I burst in—I
- could n’t help it—‘It ain’t loyalty to Republican
- principles, it’s to you.’ I said that right out. And he
- smiled, and said he, ‘Well, that’s wrong, but it isn’t
- for me to quarrel with you there, Mr. Painter,’ and then they pushed
- me along: but twice while the talk was going on I saw him look my way and
- caught his eye, and he smiled, and when we were all shaking hands for
- good-bye he shook hands with a good firm grip, and said he, ‘Good-bye,
- Mr. Painter; I hope we shall meet again.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man drew a long sigh. “Those few moments paid for
- everything,” he said. “I’ve never seen him since. I’ve
- been sick and lost money. I ain’t the man I was. I never shall be
- put on any delegation again, or be sent to any convention; but I thought
- if I could only go once more to a Republican convention and hear them
- holler for Blaine, and holler once more myself, I’d be willinger to
- die. And I told Tom Hale that, and he and Jenny raised the money. Yes,
- Jenny, I’m going to tell—he and Jenny put off being married a
- bit so ‘s I could go, and go on plenty of money. Jenny, she worked a
- month longer to have plenty, and Tom, he slipped ten dollars into my hand
- unbeknown to her, jest as we were going, so I’d always have a dime
- to give the waiter or the porter. I was never one of these hayseed farmers
- too stingy to give a colored boy a dime when he’d done his best. I
- didn’t need no money for badges; I got my old badges—see!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He pushed out the lapel of his coat, covered with those old-fashioned
- frayed bits of tinsel and ribbon, smiling confidently. The girl had
- flushed crimson to the rim of her white collar; but there was not a trace
- of petulance in her air; and, all at once looking at him, her eyes filled
- with tears.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tom’s an awful good fellow,” he said, “an awful
- good fellow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m sure of that,” said the Canton man, with the frank
- American friendliness, making a little bow in Miss Jenny’s
- direction; “but see here, Mr. Painter, do you come from Izard? Are
- you the man that saved the county for the Republicans, by mortgaging his
- farm and then going on a house to house canvass?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s me,” the old man acquiesced, blushing with
- pleasure; “I didn’t think, though, that it was known outside——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Things go further than you guess. I’m a newspaper man, and I
- can tell you that I shall speak of it again in my paper. Well, I guess
- they’ve got through with their mail, and the platform’s coming
- in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus he brushed aside the old man’s agitated thanks.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One moment,” said the old man, “who—who’s
- going to nominate him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- For the space of an eyeblink the kindly Canton man looked embarrassed,
- then he said, briskly: “Foraker, Foraker of Ohio—he’s
- the principal one. That’s he now, chairman of the committee on
- resolutions. He’s there, the tall man with the mustache—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn’t that elderly man, with the stoop shoulders and the chin
- beard and caved-in face, Teller?” It was a man near me, on the seat
- behind, who spoke, tapping the Canton man with his fan, to attract
- attention; already the pitiful concerns of the old man who was “a
- little off” (as I had heard some one on the seat whisper) were
- sucked out of notice in the whirlpool of the approaching political storm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, that’s Teller,” answered the Canton man, his mouth
- straightening and growing thin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is it to be a bolt?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canton man nodded, at which the other whistled and communicated the
- information to his neighbors, one of whom remarked, “Let ‘em
- bolt and be d———!” A subtle excitement seemed to
- communicate its vibrations to all the gallery. Perhaps I should except the
- old partisan; he questioned the girl in a whisper, and then, seeming to be
- satisfied, watched the strange scene that ensued with an expression of
- patient weariness. The girl explained parts of the platform to him and he
- assented; it was good Republican doctrine, he said, but what did they mean
- with all this talk against the money; were they having trouble with the
- mining States again? The Canton man stopped to explain—he certainly
- was good-humored.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the next twenty minutes, filled as they were with savage emotion,
- while the galleries, like the floor, were on their chairs yelling,
- cheering, brandishing flags and fists and fans and pampas plumes of red,
- white, and blue at the little band of silver men who marched through the
- ranks of their former comrades, he stood, he waved his fan in his feeble
- old hand, but he did not shout. “You must excuse me,” said he,
- “I’m all right on the money question, but I’m saving my
- voice to shout for <i>him!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s right,” said the Canton man; but he took
- occasion to cast a backward glance which I met, and it said as plainly as
- a glance can speak, “I wish I were out of this!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile, with an absent but happy smile, the old Blaine man was beating
- time to the vast waves of sound that rose and swelled above the band,
- above the cheering, above the cries of anger and scorn, the tremendous
- chorus that had stiffened men’s hearts as they marched to death and
- rung through streets filled with armies and thrilled the waiting hearts at
- home:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- “Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- The army and navy forever, three cheers for the
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- red, white, and blue!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- But when the chairman had stilled the tumult and made his grim comment,
- “There appear to be enough delegates left to transact business,”
- the old partisan cast his eyes down to the floor with a chuckle. “I
- can’t see the hole they made, it’s so small. Say, ain’t
- he a magnificent chairman; you can hear every word he says!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bully chairman,” said a cheerful “rooter” in the
- rear, who had enjoyed the episode more than words can say, and had cheered
- the passing of Silver with such choice quotations from popular songs as
- “Good-bye, my lover, good-bye,” and “Just tell them that
- you saw me,” and plainly felt that he, too, had adorned the moment.
- “I nearly missed coming this morning, and I would n’t have
- missed it for a tenner; they’re going to nominate now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man caught his breath; then he smiled. “I’ll help you
- shout pretty soon,” said he, while he sat down very carefully.
- </p>
- <p>
- The “rooter,” a good-looking young fellow with a Reed button
- and three or four gaudy badges decking his crash coat, nodded and tapped
- his temple furtively, still retaining his expression of radiant
- good-nature. The Canton man nodded and frowned.
- </p>
- <p>
- I felt that the Canton man need not be afraid. Somehow we were all tacitly
- taking care that this poor, bewildered soul should not have its little
- dream of loyal, unselfish satisfaction dispelled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, my countrymen,” I thought, “you do a hundred crazy
- things, you crush <i>les convenances</i> under foot, you can be fooled by
- frantic visionaries—but how I love you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Baldwin of Iowa that made the first speech. He was one of the very
- few men—I had almost said of the two men—that we in the
- galleries had the pleasure of hearing; and we could hear every word.
- </p>
- <p>
- He began with a glowing tribute to Blaine. At the first sentence, our old
- man flung his gray head in the air with the gesture of the war horse when
- he catches the first, far-off scream of the trumpet. He leaned forward,
- his features twitching, his eyes burning; the fan dropped out of his limp
- hand; his fingers, rapping his palm, clenched and loosened themselves
- unconsciously in an overpowering agitation. His face was white as marble,
- with ominous blue shadows; but every muscle was astrain; his chest
- expanded; his shoulders drew back; his mouth was as strong and firm as a
- young man. For a second we could see what he had been at his prime.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then the orator’s climax came, and the name—the magic name
- that was its own campaign cry in itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- The old partisan leaped to his feet; he waved his hands above his head;
- wild, strange, in his white flame of excitement. He shouted; and we all
- shouted with him, the McKinley man and the Reed man vying with each other
- (I here offer my testimony to the scope and quality of that young Reed man’s
- voice), and the air rang about us: “Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!”
- He shrieked the name again and again, goading into life the waning
- applause. Then in an instant his will snapped under the strain; his gray
- beard tilted in the air; his gray head went back on his neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canton man and I caught him in time to ease the fall. We were helped
- to pull him into the aisle. There were four of us by this time, his
- granddaughter and the Reed “rooter,” besides the Canton man
- and myself.
- </p>
- <p>
- We carried him into the wide passageway that led to the seats. The Reed
- young man ran for water, and, finding none, quickly returned with a glass
- of lemonade (he was a young fellow ready in shifts), and with it we bathed
- the old man’s face.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he came back, by degrees, to the world; he was not conscious,
- but we could see that he was not going to die.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He’ll be all right in no time,” declared the Reed man.
- “You had better go back and get your seats, and keep mine!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I assured both men that I could not return for more than a short time,
- having an engagement for luncheon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s all right,” said the Reed man, turning to the
- Canton man, “I ain’t shouting when Foraker comes; you are. You
- go back and keep my seat; I’ll come in later on Hobart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So the kindly Canton man returned to the convention for which he was
- longing, and we remained in our little corner by the window, the young
- girl fanning the old man, and the young man on the watch for a boy with
- water. He darted after one; and then the girl turned to me.
- </p>
- <p>
- No one disturbed us. Below, the traffic of a great city roared up to us
- and a brass band clanged merrily. The crowd hurried past, drawn by the
- tidings that “the light was on,” it choked the outlets and
- suffocated the galleries.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He’s been that way ever since he read, suddenly, that Blaine
- was dead,” she said, lowering her voice to keep it safe from his
- failing ears; “he had a kind of a stroke, and ever since he ‘s
- had the notion that Blaine was alive and was going to be nominated, and
- his heart was set on going here. Mother was afraid; but when—when he
- cried to go, I could not help taking him—I did n’t know but
- maybe it might help him; he was such a smart man and such a good man; and
- he has had trouble about mortgaging the farm; and he worked so hard to get
- the money back, so mother would feel right. All through the hot weather he
- worked, and I guess that’s how it happened. You don’t think it’s
- hurt him? The doctor said he might go. He told T——, a
- gentleman friend of mine who asked him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear, no,” said I; “it has been good for him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I asked for her address, which fortunately was near, and I offered her the
- cab that was waiting for me. I had some ado to persuade her to accept it;
- but when I pointed to her grandfather’s pale face she did accept it,
- thanking me in a simple but touching way, and, of course, begging me to
- visit her at Izard, Ohio.
- </p>
- <p>
- All this while we had been sedulously fanning the old man, who would
- occasionally open his eyes for a second, but gave no other sign of
- returning consciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young Reed man came back with the water. He was bathing the old man’s
- forehead in a very skilful and careful way, using my handkerchief, when an
- uproar of cheering shook the very floor under us and the rafters overhead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who is it?” the old man inquired, feebly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Foraker! Foraker!” bellowed the crowd.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He’s nominated him!” muttered the old man; but this
- time he did not attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned
- against his granddaughter’s strong young frame and listened, while
- the cheers swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound,
- out of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus of the Battle Cry of
- Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through
- the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young Reed “boomer,” carried away by the moment, flung his
- free hand above his head and yelled defiantly: “Three cheers for the
- man from Maine!” Instantly he caught at his wits, his color turned,
- and he lifted an abashed face to the young girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, really, you know, that ain’t giving nothing away,”
- he apologized, plucking up heart. “May I do it again?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old partisan’s eye lighted. “Now they’re shouting!
- That’s like old times! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James
- G. Blaine!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile still on his lips.
- The “rooter” and I wormed our way through the crowd back to
- the seats which the kind Canton man had kept for us.
- </p>
- <p>
- We were quite like old acquaintances now; and he turned to me at once,
- “Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved
- so well as James G. Blaine?”
- </p>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
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