WIDENER
HN ZLZE G


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Harvard College
Library
VE RI
I
ND
TAS
FROM THE BOOKS
IN THE HOMESTEAD OF
Sarah Orne Jewett
AT SOUTH BERWICK, MAINE
BEQUEATHED BY
Theodore Jewett Eastman
A.B. 1901 - M.D. 1905
1931
Sonra





AND OTHE


The
The
sa
WOXIDO
Witching
Time
EDITED BY
Henry Norman
Tales
for the
AND WRITTEN BY
F. Marion Crawford
U rar's
W. E. Norris.
Austin Dobson-
Edmund Gosse
Vernon Lee
end
A. Mary F. Robinson
William Archer.
AND OTHERS.
New York: D. Appleton & Co., Publishers


THE BROKEN SHAFT.
TALES IN MID-OCEAN.
Told by F. MARION CRAWFORD, R. LOUIS STEVENSON, F.
ANSTEY, W. H. POLLOCK, WILLIAM ARCHER, and others.
12mo, paper cover. Price, 25 cents.
These stories are told aboard a Cunarder which has fortunately hail
its shaft broken in mid-ocean. Mr. F. Marion Crawford tells a ghost-
story; Mr. Louis Stevenson's contribution has a ghost and a murder;
Mr. Anstey has a ghost and a case of manslaughter; W. H. Pollock, the
editor of the Saturday Review, contributes a dramatic tragedy; and
Mr. William Archer a thrilling story of a secret society.
A NEW ENGLISH NOVEL OF GREAT MERIT.
THE SILENCE OF DEAN
MAITLAND.
A NOVEL
BY MAXWELL GREY.
The Silence of Dean Maitland” is by a new English author who
gives promise in this striking story of a brilliant future. It is a novel
of a high intellectual order, strong in plot and character.
12mo, paper cover. Price, 50 cents.
“DON’T” IN A NEW STYLE.
DON’T:
DIRECTIONS FOR AVOIDING IMPROPRIETIES IN CONDUCT
AND COMMON ERRORS OF SPEECH.
By CENSOR.
A new edition of this noted book in what is commonly known as
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*** Ninety thousand copies of “Don't,” in its two styles, have now
(November, 1886) been printed.
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York.


THE
WITCHING TIME
TALES FOR THE YEAR'S END
EDITED BY
HENRY NORMAN
“ T is now the very witching time."-SHAKESPEARE.
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1887


// //
3.67.3
OLLEGE
HARVAR
PYARD COLLEG
( 143
LIBRARY
Bergrund og
ماه به مدت ، مابین جاری کر دیا کہ ان
COPYRIGHT, 1886,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
مهر


CONTENTS.
PAGE
AUTHOR.
Austin Dobson
·
.
.
.
ARTICLE.
IN WITCHING TIME
CHING TIME . . .
BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE .
THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE . . .
THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN .
A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
THE WITCHES . . . .
Tae HIDDEN DOOR . .
POTROOKS AND HANGERS .
VINCENT HADDING
TWO OF A KIND . . . ..
JULIET . . . . .
·
F. Marion Crawford .
Laurence Alma Tadema .
W. E. Norris . ...
Von Degen . . .
Edmund Gosse . .
Vernon Lee . . .
William Archer . .
A. Mary F. Robinson .
Henry Norman . .
Louis F. Austin . .
.
·
·
·
.





IN WITCHING TIME.
BY AUSTIN DOBSON.
In witching time when, sparkling higher,
The last log crumbles in the fire,
And through the midnight's creeping cold,
The shadows lengthen, fold by fold,
And in the settle nods the sire,
And the dame droops, and maids draw higher,
Each to the man of her desire,
(So do the bashful seek the bold
In witching time !)
E’en as this hour, when revels tire,
And the spent mirth and mood require
Something to stir the sense, or hold
The soul in awe, these tales were told-
Told, while the flickering flames expire,
In witching time!





BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.*
By F. MARION CRAWFORD.
· I REMEMBER my childhood very distinctly. I do
not think that the fact argues a good memory, for I
have never been clever at learning words by heart, in
prose or rhyme; so that I believe my remembrance
of events depends much more upon the events them-
selves than upon my possessing any special facility for
recalling them. Perhaps I am too imaginative, and
the earliest impressions I received were of a kind to
stimulate the imagination abnormally. A long series
of little misfortunes, so connected with each other as
to suggest a sort of weird fatality, so worked upon
my melancholy temperament when I was a boy that,
before I was of age, I sincerely believed myself to be
under a curse, and not only myself, but my whole
family, and every individual who bore my name.
I was born in the old place where my father, and
his father, and all his predecessors had been born, be-
yond the memory of man. It is a very old house,
!
• Copyright, 1886, by D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.


THE WITCHING TIME.
and the greater part of it was originally a castle,
strongly fortified, and surrounded by a deep moat
supplied with abundant water from the hills by a
hidden aqueduct. Many of the fortifications have been
destroyed, and the moat has been filled up. The water
from the aqueduct supplies great fountains, and runs
down into huge oblong basins in the terraced gardens,
one below the other, each surrounded by a broad pave-
ment of marble between the water and the flower-beds.
The waste surplus finally escapes through an artificial
grotto, some thirty yards long, into a stream, flowing
down through the park to the meadows beyond, and
thence to the distant river. The buildings were ex-
tended a little and greatly altered more than two hun-
dred years ago, in the time of Charles II, but since.
then little has been done to improve them, though
they have been kept in fairly good repair, according
to our fortunes.
In the gardens there are terraces and huge hedges
of box and evergreen, some of which used to be
clipped into shapes of animals, in the Italian style. I
can remember, when I was a lad, how I used to try
to make out what the trees were cut to represent, and
how I used to appeal for explanations to Judith, my
Welsh nurse. She dealt in a strange mythology of
her own, and peopled the gardens with griffins, dragons,
good genii and bad, and filled my mind with them at
the same time. My nursery window afforded a view


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
of the great fountains at the head of the upper basin,
and on moonlight nights the Welshwoman would hold
me up to the glass and bid me look at the mist and
spray rising into mysterious shapes, moving mystically
in the white light like living things.
“It's the Woman of the Water,” she used to say;
and sometimes she would threaten that if I did not
go to sleep the Woman of the Water would steal up
to the high window, and carry me away in her wet
arms.
The place was gloomy. The broad basins of water
and the tall evergreen hedges gave it a funereal look,
and the damp-stained marble causeways by the pools
might have been made of tombstones. The gray and
weather-beaten walls and towers without, the dark and
massively-furnished rooms within, the deep, mysterious
recesses, and the heavy curtains affected my spirits. I
was silent and sad from my childhood. There was a
great clock-tower above, from which the hours rang
dismally during the day, and tolled like a knell in
the dead of night. There was no light or life in the
house, for my mother was a helpless invalid, and my
father had grown melancholy in his long task of car-
ing for her. He was a thin, dark man, with sad eyes;
kind, I think, but silent and unhappy. Next to my
mother, I believe he loved me better than anything
on earth, for he took immense pains and trouble in
teaching me, and what he taught me I never have


10
THE WITCHING TIME.
forgotten. Perhaps it was his only amusement, and
that may be the reason why I never had a nursery
governess or teacher of any kind while he lived.
I used to be taken to see my mother every day, and
sometimes twice a day, for an hour at a time. Then I
sat upon a little stool near her feet, and she used to ask
me what I had been doing, and what I wanted to do. I
dare say she saw already the seeds of a profound melan-
choly in my nature, for she looked at me always with a
sad smile, and kissed me with a sigh when I was taken
away.
One night, when I was just five years old, I lay
awake in the nursery. The door was not quite shut, and
the Welsh nurse was sitting sewing in the room. Sud-
denly I heard her groan, and say in a strange voice,
“One—two-one-two!” I was frightened, and I
jumped up and ran to the door, barefooted as I was.
“What is it, nurse?” I cried, clinging to her skirts.
I can remember the look in her strange dark eyes as she
answered :
“One-two leaden coffins, fallen from the ceiling!”
she crooned, working herself in her chair. “One-two
-a light coffin and a heavy coffin, falling to the
floor!”
Then she seemed to notice me, and she took me back
to bed, and sang me to sleep with a queer old Welsh
song.
I do not know how it was, but the impression got


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
hold of me that she had meant that my father and moth-
er were going to die very soon. They died in the very
room where she had been sitting that night. It was a
great room, my day nursery, full of sun when there was
any; and even when the days were dark it was the most
cheerful place in the house. My mother grew rapidly
worse, and I was transferred to another part of the
building to make place for her. They thought my nur-
sery was gayer for her, I suppose; but she could not
live. She was beautiful when she was dead, and I cried
bitterly.
“The light one, the light one—the heavy one to
come,” crooned the Welshwoman. And she was right.
My father took the room after my mother was gone, and
day by day he grew thinner and paler and sadder.
“The heavy one, the heavy one, all of lead,” moaned
my nurse, one night in December, standing still, just as
she was going to take away the light after putting me to
bed. Then she took me up again, and wrapped me in a
little gown, and led me away to my father's room. She
knocked, but no one answered. She opened the door,
and we found him in his easy-chair, before the fire, very
white, quite dead.
So I was alone with the Welshwoman, till strange
people came, and relations whom I had never seen; and
then I heard them saying that I must be taken away to
some more cheerful place. They were kind people, and
I will not believe that they were kind only because I was
SWA


12
THE WITCHING TIME.
to be so very rich when I grew to be a man. The world
never seemed to be a very bad place to me, nor all the
people to be miserable sinners, even when I was most
melancholy. I do not remember that any one ever did
me any great injustice, nor that I was ever oppressed or
ill-treated in any way, even by the boys at school. I
was sad, I suppose, because my childhood was so gloomy,
and, later, because I was unlucky in everything I under-
took, till I finally believed I was pursued by Fate, and I
used to dream that the old Welsh nurse and the Woman
of the Water between them had vowed to pursue me to
my end. But my natural disposition should have been
cheerful, as I have often thought.
Among lads of my age I was never last, or even
among the last, in anything; but I was never first. If I
trained for a race, I was sure to sprain my ankle on the
day when I was to run. If I pulled an oar with others,
my oar was sure to break. If I competed for a prize,
some unforeseen accident prevented my winning it at
the last moment. Nothing to which I put my hand suc-
ceeded, and I got the reputation of being unlucky, until
my companions felt it was always safe to bet against me,
no matter what the appearances might be. I became
discouraged and listless' in everything. I gave up the
idea of competing for any distinction at the university,
comforting myself with the thought that I could not fail
in the examination for the ordinary degree. The day
before the examination began, I fell ill; and when at last


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
13
I recovered, after a narrow escape from death, I turned
my back upon Oxford, and went down alone to visit the
old place where I had been born, feeble in health and
profoundly disgusted and discouraged. I was twenty-
one years of age, master of myself and of my fortune;
but so deeply had the long chain of small unlucky cir-
cumstances affected me that I thought seriously of shut-
ting myself up from the world to live the life of a her-
mit, and to die as soon as possible. Death seemed the
only cheerful possibility in my existence, and my
thoughts soon dwelt upon it altogether.
I had never shown any wish to return to my own
home, since I had been taken away as a little boy, and
no one had ever pressed me to do so. The place had
been kept in order after a fashion, and did not seem to
have suffered during the fifteen years or more of my
absence. Nothing earthly could affect those old gray
walls that have fought the elements for so many centu-
ries. The garden was more wild than I remembered it;
the marble causeways about the pools looked more yel-
low and damp than of old, and the whole place at first
looked smaller. It was not until I had wandered about
the house and grounds for many hours, that I realized
the huge size of the home where I was to live in soli-
tude. Then I began to delight in it, and my resolution
to live alone grew stronger.
The people had turned out to welcome me, of course,
and I tried to recognize the changed faces of the old


14
THE WITCHING TIME.
gardener and the old housekeeper, and to call them by
name. My old nurse I knew at once. She had grown
very gray since she heard the coffins fall in the nursery
fifteen years before, but her strange eyes were the same,
and the look in them woke all my old memories. She
went over the house with me.
“And how is the Woman of the Water?" I asked,
trying to laugh a little. “Does she still play in the
moonlight?”
“She is hungry," answered the Welshwoman, in a
low voice.
“Hungry? Then we will feed her.” I laughed.
But old Judith turned very pale, and looked at me
strangely.
“Feed her? Ay-you will feed her well,” she mut-
tered, glancing behind her at the ancient housekeeper,
who with feeble steps tottered after us through the halls
and passages.
I did not think much of her words. She had always
talked oddly, as Welshwomen will, and though I was
very melancholy I am sure I was not superstitious, and I
was certainly not timid. Only, as in a far-off dream, I
seemed to see her standing with the light in her hand
and muttering, “The heavy one, all of lead," and then
leading a little boy through the long corridors to see his
father lying dead in a great easy-chair before a smoldering
fire. So we went over the house, and I chose the rooms
where I would live, and the servants I had brought with


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
15
me ordered and arranged everything, and I had no more
trouble. I did not care what they did, provided I was
left in peace, and was not expected to give directions ;
for I was more listless than ever, owing to the effects of
my illness at college.
I dined in solitary state, and the melancholy grand-
eur of the vast old dining-room pleased me. Then I
went to the room I had selected for my study, and sat
down in a deep chair, under a bright light, to think, or
to let my thoughts meander through labyrinths of their
own choosing, utterly indifferent to the course they
might take.
The tall windows of the room opened to the level of
the ground upon the terrace at the head of the garden.
It was in the end of July, and everything was open, for
the weather was warm. As I sat alone, I heard the un-
ceasing plash of the great fountains, and I fell to think-
ing of the Woman of the Water. I rose, and went out
into the still night, and sat down upon a seat on the
terrace, between two gigantic Italian flower-pots. The
air was deliciously soft, and sweet with the smell of
the flowers, and the garden
me than the house. Sad people always like run-
ning water, and the sound of it at night, though I can
not tell why. I sat and listened in the gloom, for it
was dark below, and the pale moon had not yet climbed
over the hills in front of me, though all the air above
was light with her rising beams. Slowly the white
ore
C


16
THE WITCHING TIME.
halo in the eastern sky ascended in an arch above the
wooded crests, making the outline of the mountains
more intensely black by contrast, as though the head
of some great white saint were rising from behind a
screen in a vast cathedral, throwing misty glories
from below. I longed to see the moon herself, and I
tried to reckon the seconds before she must appear.
Then she sprang up quickly, and in a moment more
hung round and perfect in the sky. I gazed at her,
and then at the floating spray of the tall fountains, and
down at the pools, where the water-lilies were rocking
softly in their sleep on the velvet surface of the moon-
lit water. Just then a great swan floated out silently
into the midst of the basin, and wreathed his long neck,
catching the water in his broad bill, and scattering show-
ers of diamonds around him.
Suddenly, as I gazed, something came between me
and the light. I looked up instantly. Between me and
the round disk of the moon rose a luminous face of a
woman, with great strange eyes, and a woman's mouth,
full and soft, but not smiling, hooded in black, staring at
me as I sat still upon my bench. She was close to me
so close that I could have touched her with my hand.
But I was transfixed and helpless. She stood still for a
moment, but her expression did not change. Then she
passed swiftly away, and my hair stood up on my head,
while the cold breeze from her white dress was wafted
to my temples as she moved. The moonlight, shining


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
17
through the tossing spray of the fountain, made tracer-
ies of shadow on the gleaming folds of her garments.
In an instant she was gone, and I was alone.
I was strangely shaken by the vision, and some time
passed before I could rise to my feet, for I was still weak
from my illness, and the sight I had seen would have
startled any one. I did not reason with myself, for I
was certain that I had looked on the unearthly, and no
argument could have destroyed that belief. At last I
got up and stood unsteadily, gazing in the direction in
which I thought the figure had gone; but there was
nothing to be seen-nothing but the broad paths, the
tall, dark evergreen hedges, the tossing water of the
fountains and the smooth pool below. I fell back upon
the seat, and recalled the face I had seen. Strange to
say, now that the first impression had passed, there was
nothing startling in the recollection ; on the contrary, I
felt that I was fascinated by the face, and would give
anything to see it again. I could retrace the beautiful
straight features, the long dark eyes and the wonderful
mouth, most exactly in my mind, and when I had recon-
structed every detail from memory, I knew that the
whole was beautiful, and that I should love a woman
with such a face.
“I wonder whether she is the Woman of the Wa-
ter!” I said to myself. Then rising once more, I wan-
dered down the garden, descending one short flight of
steps after another, from terrace to terrace, by the edge


THE WITCHING TIME.
of the marble basins, through the shadow and through
the moonlight; and I crossed the water by the rustic
bridge above the artificial grotto, and climbed slowly up
again to the highest terrace by the other side. The air
seemed sweeter, and I was very calm, so that I think I
smiled to myself as I walked, as though a new happiness
had come to me. The woman's face seemed always be-
fore me, and the thought of it gave me an unwonted
thrill of pleasure, unlike anything I had ever felt be-
fore.
I turned, as I reached the house, and looked back
upon the scene. It had certainly changed in the short
hour since I had come out, and my mood had changed
with it. Just like my luck, I thought, to fall in love
with a ghost! But in old times I would have sighed,
and gone to bed more sad than ever, at such a melan-
choly conclusion. To-night I felt happy, almost for the
first time in my life. The gloomy old study seemed
cheerful when I went in. The old pictures on the walls
smiled at me, and I sat down in my deep chair with a
new and delightful sensation that I was not alone. The
idea of having seen a ghost, and of feeling much the
better for it, was so absurd that I laughed softly, as I
took up one of the books I had brought with me and
began to read.
That impression did not wear off. I slept peacefully,
and in the morning I threw open my windows to the
summer air and looked down at the garden, at the


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
stretches of green and at the colored flower-beds, at
the circling swallows and at the bright water.
“A man might make a paradise of this place." I
exclaimed. “A man and a woman together!"
From that day the old castle no longer seemed
gloomy, and I think I ceased to be sad; for some time,
too, I began to take an interest in the place, and to try
and make it more alive. I avoided my old Welsh nurse,
lest she should damp my humor with some dismal proph-
ecy, and recall my old self by bringing back memories
of my dismal childhood. But what I thought of most
was the ghostly figure I had seen in the garden that first
night after my arrival. I went out every evening and
wandered through the walks and paths; but, try as I
might, I did not see my vision again. At last, after
many days, the memory grew more faint, and my old
moody nature gradually overcame the temporary sense
of lightness I had experienced. The summer turned to
autumn, and I grew restless. It began to rain. The
dampness pervaded the gardens, and the outer halls
smelled musty, like tombs; the gray sky oppressed me
intolerably. I left the place as it was and went abroad, -
determined to try anything which might possibly make
a second break in the monotonous melancholy from
which I suffered.
II.
Most people would be struck by the utter insignifi-
cance of the small events which, after the death of my


20
THE WITCHING TIME.
parents, influenced my life and made me unhappy. The
grewsome forebodings of a Welsh nurse, which chanced
to be realized by an odd coincidence of events, should
not seem enough to change the nature of a child, and to
direct the bent of his character in after years. The little
disappointments of schoolboy life, and the somewhat less
childish ones of an uneventful and undistinguished aca-
demic career, should not have sufficed to turn me out at
one-and-twenty years of age a melancholic, listless idler.
Some weakness of my own character may have con-
tributed to the result, but in a greater degree it was
due to my having a reputation for bad luck. However,
I will not try to analyze the causes of my state, for I
should satisfy nobody, least of all myself. Still less will
I attempt to explain why I felt a temporary revival of
my spirits after my adventure in the garden. It is
certain that I was in love with the face I had seen, and
that I longed to see it again; that I gave up all hope of
a second visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up
my traps, and finally went abroad. But in my dreams I
went back to my home, and it always appeared to me
sunny and bright, as it had looked on that summer's
morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.
I went to Paris. I went further, and wandered
about Germany. I tried to amuse myself, and I failed
miserably. With the aimless whims of an idle and use-
less man, came all sorts of suggestions for good resolu-
tions. One day I made up my mind that I would go


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE. 21
and bury myself in a German university for a time, and
live simply like a poor student. I started with the in.
tention of going to Leipsic, determined to stay there
until some event should direct my life or change my
humor, or make an end of me altogether. The express
train stopped at some station of which I did not know
the name. It was dusk on a winter's afternoon, and I
peered through the thick glass from my seat. Suddenly
another train came gliding in from the opposite direc-
tion, and stopped alongside of ours. I looked at the
carriage which chanced to be abreast of mine, and idly
read the black letters painted on a white board swing-
ing from the brass handrail: BERLIN-COLOGNE-PARIS.
Then I looked up at the window above. I started
violently, and the cold perspiration broke out upon my
forehead. In the dim light, not six feet from where I
sat, I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved, the
straight, fine features, the strange eyes, the wonderful
mouth, the pale skin. Her head-dress was a dark veil,
which seemed to be tied about her head and passed over
the shoulders under her chin. As I threw down the
window and knelt on the cushioned seat, leaning far
out to get a better view, a long whistle screamed through
the station, followed by a quick series of dull, clanking
sounds; then there was a slight jerk, and my train
moved on. Luckily the window was narrow, being
the one over the seat, beside the door, or I believe I
would have jumped out of it then and there. In an


22
THE WITCHING TIME.
instant the speed increased, and I was being carried
swiftly away in the opposite direction from the thing
I loved.
For a quarter of an hour I lay back in my place,
stunned by the suddenness of the apparition. At last
one of the two other passengers, a large and gorgeous -
captain of the White Königsberg Cuirassiers, civilly but
firmly suggested that I might shut my window, as the
evening was cold. I did so, with an apology, and re-
lapsed into silence. The train ran swiftly on, for a long
time, and it was already beginning to slacken speed be-
fore entering another station, when I roused myself and
made a sudden resolution. As the carriage stopped be-
fore the brilliantly lighted platform, I seized my belong-
ings, saluted my fellow-passengers, and got out, deter-
mined to take the first express back to Paris.
This time the circumstances of the vision had been so
natural that it did not strike me that there was anything
unreal about the face, or about the woman to whom it
belonged. I did not try to explain to myself how the
face, and the woman, could be traveling by a fast train
from Berlin to Paris on a winter's afternoon, when
both were in my mind indelibly associated with the
moonlight and the fountains in my own English home.
I certainly would not have admitted that I had been mis-
taken in the dusk, attributing to what I had seen a re-
semblance to my former vision which did not really
exist. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind,


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
23
er
and I was positively sure that I had again seen the face
I loved. I did not hesitate, and in a few hours I was on
my way back to Paris. I could not help reflecting on
my ill luck. Wandering as I had been for many months,
it might as easily have chanced that I should be traveling
in the same train with that woman, instead of going the
other way. But my luck was destined to turn for a
time.
I searched Paris for several days. I dined at the
principal hotels ; I went to the theatres ; I rode in the
Bois de Boulogne in the morning, and picked up an ac-
quaintance, whom I forced to drive with me in the after-
noon. I went to mass at the Madeleine, and I attended
the services at the English Church. I hung about the
Louvre and Notre Dame. I went to Versailles. I
spent hours in parading the Rue de Rivoli, in the neigh-
borhood of Meurice's corner, where foreigners pass and
repass from morning till night. At last I received an
invitation to a reception at the English Embassy. I
went, and I found what I had sought so long.
There she was, sitting by an old lady in gray satin
and diamonds, who had a wrinkled but kindly face, and
keen gray eyes that seemed to take in everything they
saw, with very little inclination to give much in return.
But I did not notice the chaperon. I saw only the face
that had haunted me for months, and in the excitement
of the moment I walked quickly toward the pair, forget-
ting such a trifle as the necessity for an introduction.


• 24
THE WITCHING TIME.
She was far more beautiful than I had thought, but I
never doubted that it was she herself, and no other.
Vision or no vision before, this was the reality, and I
knew it. Twice her hair had been covered ; now at last
I saw it, and the added beauty of its magnificence glori-
fied the whole woman. It was rich hair, fine and abun-
dant, golden, with deep ruddy tints in it like red bronze
spun fine. There was no ornament in it, not a rose, not
a thread of gold, and I felt that it needed nothing to
enhance its splendor; nothing but her pale face, her
dark strange eyes, and her heavy eyebrows. I could see
that she was slender, too, but strong withal, as she sat
there quietly gazing at the moving scene in the midst of
the brilliant lights and the hum of perpetual conversation,
I recollected the detail of introduction in time, and
turned aside to look for my host. I found him at last.
I begged him to present me to the two ladies, pointing
them out to him at the same time.
“Yes-uh-by all means—uh” replied his Excel-
lency, with a pleasant smile. He evidently had no idea
of my name, which was not to be wondered at.
“I am Lord Cairngorm," I observed.
“Oh-by all means," answered the Ambassador, with
the same hospitable smile. “Yes-uh-the fact is, I
must try and find out who they are: such lots of people,
you know.”
“Oh, if you will present me, I will try and find out
for you,” said I, laughing.
san


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
25
“Ah, yes_so kind of you-come along," said my
host. We threaded the crowd, and in a few minutes we
stood before the two ladies.
“ 'Lowmintrduce L'd Cairngorm,” he said ; then,
adding quickly to me, “Come and dine to-morrow,
won't you ?” he glided away with his pleasant smile and
disappeared in the crowd.
I sat down beside the beautiful girl, conscious that
the eyes of the duenna were upon me.
“I think we have been very near meeting before,”
I remarked, by way of opening the conversation.
My companion turned her eyes full upon me with an
air of inquiry. She evidently did not recall my face, if
she had ever seen me..
“Really-I can not remember," she observed, in a
low and musical voice. “When?”
“In the first place, you caine down from Berlin by
the express, ten days ago. I was going the other way,
and our carriages stopped opposite each other. I saw
you at the window.”
“Yes—we came that way, but I do not remember—"
She hesitated.
“Secondly,” I continued, “I was sitting alone in my
garden last summer-near the end of July—do you re-
member? You must have wandered in there through
the park; you came up to the house and looked at
m
me_»
“ Was that you ?" she asked, in evident surprise.


26
TAE WITCHING TIME.
Then she broke into a laugh. “I told everybody I had
seen a ghost; there had never been any Cairngorms in
the place since the memory of man. We left the next
day, and never heard that you had come there; indeed,
I did not know the castle belonged to yon.”
“Where were you staying?” I asked.
“Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay.
She is your neighbor, since it is you.”
“1-beg your pardon-but then-is your aunt Lady
Bluebell? I did not quite catch—"
“Don't be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes.
She is the relict of my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or
seventeenth Baron Bluebell—I forget exactly how many
of them there have been. And I–do you know who I
am?” She laughed, well knowing that I did not.
“No," I answered frankly. “I have not the least
idea. I asked to be introduced because I recognized
you. Perhaps-perhaps you are a Miss Bluebell ?”
“ Considering that you are a neighbor, I will tell you
who I am,” she answered. “No; I am of the tribe of
Bluebells, but my name is Lammas, and I have been
given to understand that I was christened Margaret.
Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful
American man once told me that my aunt was a Blue-
bell and that I was a Hair belle—with two l's and an e-
because my hair is so thick. I warn yon, so that you
may avoid making such a bad pun.”
“Do I look like a man who makes puns?” I asked,


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
27
being very conscious of my melancholy face and sad
looks.
Miss Lammas eyed me critically.
“No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I
can trust you,” she answered. “Do you think you could
communicate to my aunt the fact that you are a Cairn-
gorm and a neighbor ? I am sure she would like to
know.”
I leaned toward the old lady, inflating my lungs for a
yell. But Miss Lammas stopped me.
“ That is not of the slightest use,” she remarked.
“You can write it on a bit of paper. She is utterly
deaf.”
me
“I have a pencil," I answered ; “but I have no
paper. Would my cuff do, do you think ?”
“Oh, yes ! ” replied Miss Lammas, with alacrity
“ men often do that.”
I wrote on my cuff: “Miss Lammas wishes me to
explain that I am your neighbor, Cairngorm.” Then I
held out my arm before the old lady's nose. She seemed
perfectly accustomed to the proceeding, put up her
glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed
me in the unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear
nothing.
“I knew your grandfather very well,” she said.
Then she smiled and nodded to me again, and to her
niece, and relapsed into silence.
. “It is all right,” remarked Miss Lammas. « Aunt


28
.
THE WITCHING TIME.
e we never
Bluebell knows she is deaf, and does not say much, like
the parrot. You see, she knew your grandfather. How
odd, that we should be neighbors! Why have we never
met before ?"
“If you had told me you knew my grandfather when
you appeared in the garden, I should not have been in
the least surprised," I answered rather irrelevantly. “I
really thought you were the ghost of the old fountain.
How in the world did you come there at that hour ?"
“We were a large party, and we went out for a walk.
Then we thought we should like to see what your park
was like in the moonlight, and so we trespassed. I got
separated from the rest, and came upon you by accident,
just as I was admiring the extremely ghostly look of
your house, and wondering whether anybody would ever
come and live there again. It looks like the castle of
Macbeth, or a scene from the opera. Do you know any-
body here?”
“Hardly a soul. Do you ?”
“No. Aunt Bluebell said it was our duty to come.
It is easy for her to go out; she does not bear the burden
of the conversation."
“I am sorry you find it a burden,” said I. “Shall I
go away?”
Miss Lammas looked at me with a sudden gravity in
her beautiful eyes, and there was a sort of hesitation
about the lines of her full, soft mouth.
“No," she said at last, quite simply, “don't go away.


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
29
We may like each other, if you stay a little longer
—and we ought to, because we are neighbors in the
country.”
I suppose I ought to have thought Miss Lammas a
very odd girl. There is, indeed, a sort of freemasonry
between people who discover that they live near each
other, and that they ought to have known each other be-
fore. But there was a sort of unexpected frankness
and simplicity in the girl's amusing manner which would
have struck any one else as being singular, to say the
least of it. To me, however, it all seemed natural
enough. I had dreamed of her face too long not to be
ntterly happy when I met her at last, and could talk to
her as much as I pleased. To me, the man of ill-luck in
everything, the whole meeting seemed too good to be
true. I felt again that strange sensation of lightness
which I had experienced after I had seen her face in the
garden. The great rooms seemed brighter, life seemed
worth living; my sluggish, melancholy blood ran faster,
and filled me with a new sense of strength. I said to
myself that without this woman I was but an imperfect
being, but that with her I could accomplish everything
to which I should set my hand. Like the great Doctor,
when he thought he had cheated Mephistopheles at last,
I could have cried aloud to the fleeting moment, Ver-
weile doch, du bist so schön!
“Are you always gay?” I asked, suddenly. "How
happy you must be ! ”


30
THE WITCHING TIME.
“The days would sometimes seem very long if I
were gloomy,” she answered, thoughtfully. “Yes, I
think I find life very pleasant, and I tell it so.”
“How can you tell life' anything ?” I inquired.
“If I could catch my life and talk to it, I would abuse it
prodigiously, I assure you."
“I dare say. You have a melancholy temper. You
ought to live out-of-doors, dig potatoes, make hay, shoot,
hunt, tumble into ditches, and come home muddy and
hungry for dinner. It would be much better for you
than moping in your rock tower, and hating every-
thing."
“It is rather lonely down there," I murmured, apolo-
getically, feeling that Miss Lammas was quite right.
“Then marry, and quarrel with your wife,” she
laughed. “Anything is better than being alone.”
I am a very peaceable person. I never quarrel with
anybody. You can try it. You will find it quite im-
possible.”
“Will you let me try?” she asked, still smiling.
“By all means—especially if it is to be only a pre-
liminary canter,” I answered, rashly.
“What do you mean?” she inquired, turning quick-
ly upon me.
“Oh-nothing. You might try my paces with a
view to quarreling in future. I can not imagine how
you are going to do it. You will have to resort to im-
mediate and direct abuse."


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
31
“No. I will only say that if you do not like your
life it is your own fault. How can a man of your age
talk of being melancholy, or of the hollowness of exist-
ence? Are you consumptive? Are you subject to he-
reditary insanity? Are you deaf, like Aunt Bluebell ?
Are you poor, like-lots of people? Have you been
crossed in love? Have you lost the world for a woman,
or any particular woman for the sake of the world? Are
yon feeble-minded, a cripple, an outcast ? Are you-re-
pulsively ugly?” She laughed again. “Is there any
reason in the world why you shonld not enjoy all you
have got in life?”
“No. There is no reason whatever, except that I
am dreadfully unlucky, especially in small things."
“Then try big things, just for a change," suggested
Miss Lammas.“ Try and get married, for instance,
and see how it turns out.”
“If it turned out badly it would be rather serious."
“Not half so serious as it is to abuse everything
unreasonably. If abuse is your particular talent, abuse
something that ought to be abused. Abuse the Con-
servatives—or the Liberals—it does not matter which,
since they are always abusing each other. Make your-
self felt by other people. You will like it, if they don't.
It will make a man of you. Fill your mouth with peb-
bles, and howl at the sea, if you can not do anything
else. It did Demosthenes no end of good, you know.
You will have the satisfaction of imitating a great man.”


32
THE WITCHING TIME.
“Really, Miss Lammas, I think the list of innocent
exercises you propose—”
“Very well—if you don't care for that sort of thing,
care for some other sort of thing. Care for something,
or hate something. Don't be idle. Life is short, and
though art may be long, plenty of noise answers nearly
as well.”
“I do care for something I mean, somebody,” I
said.
“A woman? Then marry her. Don't hesitate.”.
“I do not know whether she would marry me,” I
replied. “I have never asked her.”
“ Then ask her at once," answered Miss Lammas.
“I shall die happy if I feel I have persuaded a melan-
choly fellow-creature to rouse himself to action. Ask
her, by all means, and see what she says. If she does
not accept you at once, she may take you the next time.
Meanwhile, you will have entered for the race. If you
lose, there are the ‘All-aged Trial Stakes,' and the
*Consolation race.”
“And plenty of selling races into the bargain. Shall
I take you at your word, Miss Lammas ?”
“I hope you will,” she answered.
“Since you yourself advise me, I will. Miss Lam-
mas, will you do me the honor to marry me?”
For the first time in my life the blood rushed to my
head and my sight swam. I can not tell why I said it.
It would be useless to try to explain the extraordinary
am


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
33
fascination the girl exercised over me, nor the still more
extraordinary feeling of intimacy with her which had
grown in me during that half hour. Lonely, sad, un-
lucky as I had been all my life, I was certainly not
timid, nor even shy. But to propose to marry a woman
after half an hour's acquaintance was a piece of mad-
ness of which I never believed myself capable, and of
which I should never be capable again, could I be placed
in the same situation. It was as though my whole be-
ing had been changed in a moment by magic—by the
white magic of her nature brought into contact with
mine. The blood sank back to my heart, and a moment
later I found myself staring at her with anxious eyes.
To my amazement she was as calm as ever, but her
beautiful mouth smiled, and there was a mischievous
light in her dark-brown eyes.
“Fairly caught,” she answered. “For an individ-
ual who pretends to be listless and sad you are not
lacking in humor. I had really not the least idea what
you were going to say. Wouldn't it be singularly
awkward for you if I said “Yes'? I never saw any-
body begin to practice so sharply what was preached to .
him—with so very little loss of time!”
“You probably never met a man who had dreamed
of you for seven months before being introduced.”
“No, I never did,” she answered, gayly. “It smacks
of the romantic. Perhaps you are a romantic character,
after all. I should think you were, if I believed you.


34
THE WITCHING TIME.
-
Very well; you have taken my advice, entered for a
Stranger's Race and lost it. Try the All-aged Trial
Stakes. You have another cuff, and a pencil. Propose
to Aunt Bluebell; she would dance with astonishment,
and she might recover her hearing."
III.
That was how I first asked Margaret Lammas to
be my wife, and I will agree with any one who says
that I behaved very foolishly. But I have not repented
of it, and I never shall. I have long ago understood
that I was out of my mind that evening, but I think
my temporary insanity on that occasion has had the
effect of making me a saner man ever since. Her
manner turned my head, for it was so different from
what I had expected. To hear this lovely creature,
who, in my imagination, was a heroine of romance, if
not of tragedy, talking familiarly and laughing readily,
was more than my equanimity could bear, and I lost
my head as well as my heart. But when I went back
to England in the spring, I went to make certain ar-
rangements at the Castle-certain changes and im-
provements which would be absolutely necessary. I
had won the race for which I had entered myself so
rashly, and we were to be married in June.
Whether the change was due to the orders I had
left with the gardener and the rest of the servants, or
to my own state of mind, I can not tell. At all events,


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
35
,
the old place did not look the same to me when I
opened my window on the morning after my arrival.
There were the gray walls below me, and the gray tur-
rets flanking the huge building; there were the fount-
ains, the marble causeways, the smooth basins, the tall
box-hedges, the water-lilies, and the swans, just as of old.
But there was something else there, too-something in
the air, in the water, and in the greenness that I did not
recognize-a light over everything by which everything
was transfigured. The clock in the tower struck seven,
and the strokes of the ancient bell sounded like a wed-
ding-chime. The air sang with the thrilling treble of
the song-birds, with the silvery music of the plashing
water, and the softer harmony of he leaves stirred by
the fresh morning wind. There was a smell of new-
mown hay from the distant meadows, and of blooming
roses from the beds below, wafted up together to my
window. I stood in the pure sunshine and drank the
air and all the sounds and the odors that were in it;
and I looked down at my garden and said, “It is Para-
dise, after all.” I think the men of old were right when
they called heaven a garden, and Eden, a garden inhab-
ited by one man and one woman, the Earthly Paradise.
I turned away, wondering what had become of the
gloomy memories I had always associated with my home.
I tried to recall the impression of my nurse's horrible
prophecy before the death of my parents, an impression
which hitherto had been vivid enough. I tried to re-


36
THE WITCHING TIME.
member my own self, my dejection, my listlessness, my
bad luck, and my petty disappointments. I endeavored
to force myself to think as I used to think, if only to
satisfy myself that I had not lost my individuality. But
I succeeded in none of these efforts. I was a different
man, a changed being, incapable of sorrow, of ill-luck, or
of sadness. My life had been a dream, not evil, but in-
finitely gloomy and hopeless. It was now a reality, full
of hope, gladness, and all manner of good. My home
had been like a tomb; to-day it was paradise. My heart
had been as though it had not existed; to-day it beat
with strength and youth, and the certainty of realized
happiness. I revelled in the beauty of the world, and
called loveliness out of the future to enjoy it before
time should bring it to me, as a traveler in the plains
looks up to the mountains, and already tastes the cool
air through the dust of the road.
Here, I thought, we will live and live for years.
There we will sit by the fountain toward evening and in
the deep moonlight. Down those paths we will wander
together. On those benches we will rest and talk.
Among those eastern hills we will ride through the soft
twilight, and in the old house we will tell tales on winter
nights, when the logs burn high, and the holly berries
are red, and the old clock tolls out the dying year. On
these old steps, in these dark passages and stately rooms,
there will one day be the sound of little pattering feet,
and laughing child-voices will ring up to the vaults of


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
37
the ancient hall. Those tiny footsteps shall not be slow
and sad as mine were, nor shall the childish words be
spoken in an awed whisper. No gloomy Welsh woman
shall people the dusky corners with weird horrors, nor
utter horrid prophecies of death and ghastly things. All
shall be young, and fresh, and joyful, and happy, and we
will turn the old luck again, and forget that there was
ever any sadness.
So I thought, as I looked out of my window that
morning, and for many mornings after that, and every
day it all seemed more real than ever before, and much
nearer. But the old nurse looked at me askance, and
muttered odd sayings about the Woman of the Water.
I cared little what she said, for I was far too happy.
At last the time came near for the wedding. Lady
Bluebell and all the tribe of Bluebells, as Margaret called
them, were at Bluebell Grange, for we had determined
to be married in the country, and to come straight to the
Castle afterward. We cared little for traveling, and not
at all for a crowded ceremony at St. George's in Han-
over Square, with all the tiresome formalities afterward.
I used to ride over to the Grange every day, and very
often Margaret would come with her aunt and some of
her cousins to the Castle. I was suspicious of my own
taste, and was only too glad to let her have her way
about the alterations and improvements in our home.
We were to be married on the thirtieth of July, and
on the evening of the twenty-eighth Margaret drove


THE WITCHING TIME.
over with some of the Bluebell party. In the long
summer twilight we all went out into the garden. Natu-
rally enough, Margaret and I were left to ourselves, and
we wandered down by the marble basins.
“It is an odd coincidence,” I said; “it was on this
very night last year that I first saw you."
“Considering that it is the month of July," answered
Margaret with a laugh, “and that we have been here
almost every day, I don't think the coincidence is so
extraordinary, after all.”
“No, dear,” said I, “I suppose not. I don't know
why it struck me. We shall very likely be here a year
from to-day, and a year from that. The odd thing,
when I think of it, is that you should be here at all.
But my luck has turned. I ought not to think anything
odd that happens now that I have you. It is all sure to
be good.”
“A slight change in your ideas since that remarkable
performance of yours in Paris," said Margaret. “Do
you know, I thought you were the most extraordinary
man I had ever met.”
“I thought you were the most charming woman I
had ever seen. I naturally did not want to lose any
time in frivolities. I took you at your word, I followed
your advice, I asked you to marry me, and this is the
delightful result—what's the matter?”
Margaret had started suddenly, and her hand tight-
ened on my arm. An old woman was coming up the
u were


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
39
path, and was close to us before we saw her, for the
moon had risen, and was shining full in our faces. The
woman turned out to be my old nurse.
“It's only old Judith, dear—don't be frightened,” I
said. Then I spoke to the Welshwoman: “What are
you about, Judith ? Have you been feeding the Woman
of the Water?"
“Ay—when the clock strikes, Willie—my lord, I
mean," muttered the old creature, drawing aside to let
us pass, and fixing her strange eyes on Margaret's
face.
“What does she mean?” asked Margaret, when we
had gone by.
“Nothing, darling. The old thing is mildly crazy,
but she is a good soul.”
We went on in silence for a few moments, and came
to the rustic bridge just above the artificial grotto through
which the water ran out into the park, dark and swift in
its narrow channel. We stopped, and leaned on the .
wooden rail. The moon was now behind us, and shone
full upon the long vista of basins and on the huge walls
and towers of the Castle above.
“How proud you ought to be of such a grand old
place !” said Margaret, softly.
“It is yours now, darling,” I answered. “You have
as good a right to love it as I—but I only love it because
you are to live in it, dear.”
Her hand stole out and lay on mine, and we were


40
THE WITCHING TIME.
both silent. Just then the clock began to strike far
off in the tower. I counted the strokes-eight-nine-
ten-eleven-I looked at my watch-twelve—thirteen-
I laughed. The bell went on striking.
“The old clock has gone crazy, like Judith,” I ex-
claimed. Still it went on, note after note ringing out
monotonously through the still air. We leaned over the
rail, instinctively looking in the direction whence the
sound came. On and on it went. I counted nearly
a hundred, out of sheer curiosity, for I understood that
something had broken, and that the thing was running
itself down.
Suddenly there was a crack as of breaking wood, a
cry and a heavy splash, and I was alone, clinging to the
broken end of the rail of the rustic bridge.
I do not think I hesitated while my pulse beat twice.
I sprang clear of the bridge into the black rushing water,
dived to the bottom, came up again with empty hands,
turned and swam downward through the grotto in the
thick darkness, plunging and diving at every stroke,
striking my head and hands against jagged stones and
sharp corners, clutching at last something in my fingers,
and dragging it up with all my might. I spoke, I cried
aloud, but there was no answer. I was alone in the
pitchy blackness with my burden, and the house was five
hundred yards away. Struggling still, I felt the ground
beneath my feet, I saw a ray of moonlight-the grotto
widened, and the deep water became a broad and shallow


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
brook as I stumbled over the stones and at last laid
Margaret's body on the bank in the park beyond.
“Ay, Willie, as the clock struck !" said the voice of
Judith, the Welsh nurse, as she bent down and looked
at the white face. The old woman must have turned
back and followed us, seen the accident, and slipped out
by the lower gate of the garden. “Ay," she groaned,
"you have fed the Woman of the Water this night,
Willie, while the clock was striking.”
I scarcely heard her as I knelt beside the lifeless body
of the woman I loved, chafing the wet white temples,
and gazing wildly into the wide-staring eyes. I remem-
ber only the first returning look of consciousness, the
first heaving breath, the first movement of those dear
hands stretching out toward me.
That is not much of a story, you say. It is the story
of my life. That is all. It does not pretend to be any-
thing else. Old Judith says my luck turned on that
summer's night, when I was struggling in the water to
save all that was worth living for. A month later there
was a stone bridge above the grotto, and Margaret and I
stood on it and looked up at the moonlit castle, as we
had done once before, and as we have done many times
since. For all those things happened ten years ago last
summer, and this is the tenth Christmas Eve we have
spent together by the roaring logs in the old hall, talking
of old times; and every year there are more old times to


42
THE WITCHING TIME,
talk of. There are curly-headed boys, too, with red-gold
hair and dark-brown eyes like their mother's, and a little
Margaret, with solemn black eyes like mine. Why could
she not look like her mother, too, as well as the rest of
them?
The world is very bright at this glorious Christmas
time, and perhaps there is little use in calling up the
sadness of long ago, unless it be to make the jolly fire-
light seem more cheerful, the good wife's face look
gladder, and to give the children's laughter a merrier
ring, by contrast with all that is gone. Perhaps, too,
some sad-faced, listless, melancholy youth, who feels
that the world is very hollow, and that life is like a per-
petual funeral service, just as I used to feel myself, may
take courage from my example, and having found the
woman of his heart, ask her to marry him after half an
hour's acquaintance. But, on the whole, I would not
advise any man to marry, for the simple reason that no
man will ever find a wife like mine, and being obliged
to go further, he will necessarily fare worse. My wife
has done miracles, but I will not assert that any other
woman is able to follow her example.
Margaret always said that the old place was beauti-
ful, and that I ought to be proud of it. I dare say she
is right. She has even more imagination than I. But
I have a good answer and a plain one, which is this, that
all the beauty of the Castle comes from her. She has
breathed upon it all, as the children blow upon the cold
IT IT


BY THE WATERS OF PARADISE.
43
glass window-panes in winter; and as their warm breath
crystallizes into landscapes from fairyland, full of exqui-
site shapes and traceries upon the blank surface, so her
spirit has transformed every gray stone of the old towers,
every ancient tree and hedge in the gardens, every
thought in my once melancholy self. All that was old is
young, and all that was sad is glad, and I am the gladdest
of all. Whatever heaven may be, there is no earthly
paradise without woman, nor is there anywhere a place
so desolate, so dreary, so unutterably miserable, that a
woman can not make it seem heaven to the man she
loves and who loves her.
I hear certain cynics laugh, and cry that all that has
been said before. Do not laugh, my good cynic. You
are too small a man to laugh at such a great thing as
love. Prayers have been said before now by many, and
perhaps you say yours, too. I do not think they lose
anything by being repeated, nor you by repeating them.
You say that the world is bitter and full of the Waters
of Bitterness. Love, and so live that you may be loved
-the world will turn sweet for you, and you shall rest,
like me, by the Waters of Paradise.


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
BY LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA.
So Christmas is near, and you ask me to keep it with
you, little cousin. May I thank you, and stay at home?
I shall keep Christmas with my folk. I know what you
are saying; yes, they are dead, yet in thought I can
be with them, and short is the bridge of hours that
parts me from them now. I, too, have reached the
winter of my life; the year and I are of an age. What
though the blossoms of May bore no fruit? I had my
spring; blighted and dark, summer was summer still;
and the autumn leaves fell thick at the door of the
bare garner. Now Christmas comes, and I must feast it;
then prepare— like the year-soon to lay down my worn
old life in peace, making way for a glad, new soul; per-
haps a soul that shall be part of yours. Who knows,
but God? Child, you are young and I am old, yet we
are closely linked; the love that has come to change
your life has brought you very near to me, for love
knows neither youth nor age. I remember that I prom-


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
45
as
ised once—it was the day you first spoke to me of James
-to tell you my tale; and I have a mind to do so now.
I will keep Christmas with my folk.
My father was made Vicar of Longparish the year
that I was born, and the year following my mother died;
80 father's sister, Aunt Sophia, came to us then, and
tended both for many a year. My early recollections
are of the simplest, for we lived a plain life among poor
and toiling people, whose lives, if possible, were plainer
still than ours. I never set foot on an unfamiliar road,
and all the faces I ever saw had looked upon me in my
cradle. I was a lonely child, and, not being trouble-
some, was reputed good; there is no better substitute
for virtue in the world than absence of vice. My worst
fault in Aunt Sophia's eyes was apparently an early
fancy that I had for playing with flowers, wrapping
their stalks in scraps of stuff and pretending they were
little girls; for I remember that when she came upon
me in the garden one day, keeping a rose-bud school,
and found that the plucked blossoms were her own-
that I had, moreover, tied round their waists the
worsteds that should have decked my sampler-she not
merely threw my flower-children straight into the river,
but whipped me for the only time in my life. My taste
in playmates was altogether singular: we lived by the
church, and I was accustomed to seek the graves of the
children who had died at my age, visiting them daily. I
firmly believed that because I loved them they would


46
THE WITCHING TIME.
ask God to make me good; and I hardly care to say how
long I cherished the simple faith.
This natural capacity for self-amusement was culti-
vated by Aunt Sophia, whose aim in life did not go be-
yond the fulfillment of her household and neighborly
duties; as regarded me; she satisfied her conscience by
scolding me mildly on occasions, teaching me my alpha-
bet, my catechism, and the use of the needle, and wash-
ing my face whenever I crossed her path. For the rest,
I was suffered to live my selfish little life in perfect free-
dom. Father spoiled me, and took it for granted that I
was as I should be. He was a hard-worked man, I his
relaxation; and it probably never entered his head that
he might have as good a hand as Aunt Sophia in my up-
raising. He saw in me a plaything, not a miniature
woman whose small but eager spirit was beginning to
peer with semi-conscious eyes into the book of life. So
I grew up an untrimmed weed, useless and wayward. I
had early made up my mind that if—to be good—a
woman must be forever teaching Betsy, stitching or
dusting, wielding a rolling-pin or a flat-iron, I should not
even aspire to any high degree of moral excellence;
therefore I displayed only just as much industry as was
needful for the securing of my character, and conse-
quently of my freedom. I was not happy, because
my neglected mind was clogged with the doubts of
years, and because I loved no fellow-creature above
myself; but the cause of my discontent was as yet


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
47
unknown to me, for I had not felt the emptiness of
my heart.
When I was sixteen Aunt Sophia fell ill, and this
event brought to light the unsuspected deficiencies of my
education. She was bedridden for many weeks, during
which the vicarage was in a state of anarchy; for I was
totally incapable of doing anything that had to be done,
save that-in spite of inexperience-I nursed my poor
aunt with a tenderness that won me her deep affection.
When convalescent she was able to assist me by her
counsel; but she never grew strong, and died in the
spring, leaving me to mourn her loss and the wasted years
of our estrangement. She could, I know, never have
satisfied my deeper cravings, for she was accustomed
to knead her daily bread in perfect unconsciousness
that life held anything more intricate than dough; yet,
had she lived, the first years of my womanhood had been
less difficult. Father was very kind to me, and put up
so patiently with my shortcomings that my zeal grew
great. My eighteenth birthday found me a good house-
wife, and a sober, thoughtful little woman; nor was that
all, for I had meantime earned the good-will of our
neighbors and more precious still——my father's confi-
dence and heart-whole affection. How I in my turn
cherished him I can not say; sincerely, I did not think
there was room in me for any other love. He would
often tease me by speaking of the future, whereupon I
invariably assured him that I should never marry; and,


THE WITCHING TIME.
indeed, I did something toward keeping my word in re-
fusing the hand of a certain wealthy young mill-owner,
William Carter by name, to whom I afterward owed a
most unreasonable grudge for having attempted to draw
me from father's side. But in the summer of that year
came a change.
At the farther end of our valley there lived a dear
woman to whom we were much attached. Miss Dell
lived alone, the orphan brothers she had reared having
left her to follow their own paths; and we heard one
day that Arthur, her youngest and dearest, had been
killed in action. So I went, the next afternoon, to bring
her our sorrow. I found her on the door-step, and be-
side her a young man, a stranger. He stepped aside to
let me pass; and Miss Dell, having kissed me, turned to
him with moist eyes.
“Good-by, Captain Charvel,” said she. “God bless
you for your kindness to my poor boy!”.
“Good-by,” he replied, smiling; “but it's for a very
short while, Miss Dell; I shall pass here next month,
when I leave my mother.”
“ Thank you,” she said ; “then it shall not be good-
by.'"
The young man bowed and went; but, as luck would
have it, he turned to look back over the hedge; and there
was I, tip-toe on the door-step like a fool, looking over
the hedge at him. I blushed for this all the way home;
and at supper that night, when father taxed me for my


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
49
bom
silence, I discovered that I was still thinking of the
young man. However, when I saw the prosy daylight
flooding my prosy little room next morning, I was rather
inclined to laugh at my momentary foolishness.
About four weeks later I determined to visit Miss
Dell again, and was so long over my simple toilet that if
any one had seen me they must have laughed. I should
even have gone in my best bonnet, had I not found my-
self creeping down-stairs like a thief to avoid the inquisi-
tive eye of Betsy; whereupon I was so ashamed that I
went back and laid aside my finery. Miss Dell was
alone, and we sat down to tea together, I being in the
worst of humors; for it was now clear to me that I had
hoped to see Captain Charvel, and that I was bitterly
disappointed. I remember it all well. The sun was hot,
but Miss Dell had no taste for fresh air, so she let the
burning rays pour through her speckless panes into the
stuffy little parlor, on to the wintry carpet and multitu-
dinous beaded chairs, the faded walls studded with pict-
ures, and the myriad china figures, crystals, and sea-shells
that swarmed on table, bracket, ledge, and sill.
Miss Dell was serving me a second cup when the
bell rang, and I upset my chair, so swiftly did I run
to the window.
“Miss Dell,” cried I, conscious of a sudden pallor,
“it's a gentleman; I think it's the one who came last
month.” And, before I could look indifferent, my
hand was in his.


THE WITCHING TIME.
At the end of an hour Captain Charvel's features
were still unknown to me, for I had not the courage
to look him in the face; but the carpet at his feet,
the chair he sat on, his chain, his waistcoat, and above
all his hands, are still indelible in my mind's eye;
while the sound of his voice sank into me. And I
stayed above an hour.
Although addressing both, Captain Charvel had at
first faced me rather than Miss Dell, and I suspected
-nay, I was convinced—that he tried his utmost to
make me raise my eyes. In all else I was obedient:
I laughed when he laughed; if he shifted his chair, I
found myself turning; but higher than his collar I
would not look. So he presently stood up, and, sitting
opposite Miss Dell, who was working in the window,
gave his whole attention to her tapestry. The conse-
quence was that I lifted my head and looked at his
handsome profile, clearly cut against the sunny pane;
I looked again and again, each time more lengthily,
and at last, when my heart was in my gaze, what
must he do but turn suddenly with a bright smile
that made my blood rush, and so fix his clear blue
eyes on me that I could not set mine free, but, con-
quered, sat there impotent with quivering lip, till he
had drawn my very soul away. Then I rose abruptly,
and, bending over the mantel-shelf, let a scalding tear
of shame fall into the lap of a china shepherdess. It
was so long before I recovered, that I had not the


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
51
courage to turn round again until Miss Dell called me
to admire her work, after which I took leave and
went with all imaginable awkwardness. I had not
reached the gate when Captain Charvel came after
me.
“Miss Nobel,” said he, "you have left your mit-
tens; at least, one."
I received the relic with a violent blush, for I
knew I had dropped both, and could only suppose
that he had kept the other.
“Good-by,” said I, and would have fled, but he
held my hand.
“We shall not meet for a year," said he; “will
you remember me then?”
“Of course," I stammered, “I never forget any-
body.”
6 Very well,” he replied, “I shall come back.”
I looked up for an instant, but I saw nothing;
and we parted.
To all outward appearance, the months that fol-
lowed differed in no way from the preceding, yet, to
me, the whole world bore a new aspect. I never
slept but Captain Charvel was my last thought, never
began a day without blessing him. My secret was
not hard to keep, for at nineteen the heart is buoyant,
and hope a constant guest; it was only at times that
the high tide of my love rose and bore down the
barriers of patience, and then it was as much as I


52
THE WITCHING TIME.
could do not to confess all. That father, and I should
live our lives face to face, he ignoring, I concealing,
the first object of my existence, caused me remorse
and pain. But instinct told me that this surrender of
my being to one I had twice met would be incom-
prehensible to father; and I shrank from exposing to
light treatment-even at the hands of one so dear-
the most vital portion of my heart.
As for Miss Dell, the windows of her mind re-
sembled ground glass : let in what light one would,
she was incapable of discerning anything. I often went
to see her, and would sometimes make bold to ask if
she had heard from Captain Charvel; she never had
heard, and indeed I soon found that she knew nothing
about him, beyond the fact that he had been her
brother's best friend, and had twice visited her in ac-
cordance with a promise made to his dead comrade.
Once, however, she found mention of him in an old
letter of Arthur Dell's, in which he said that Charvel
was more petted by the women, wherever they went,
than any man in the regiment. I did not much relish
this news. Another time she told me that his name
was William, and although I had hitherto hated the
name, I now canonized it, making myself forget that
it also belonged to the irrepressible admirer whose
obstinate attentions continued to vex me. It must
have been about this time, by the way, that the young
man took to sending me weekly nosegays; I was too


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
53
fond of flowers to destroy them, yet I did not wish
him to see them about when he called, so I kept them
in gallipots in the attic.
One night father felt a pain in his side, and, be-
ing as nervous as most men, began to fear that his
heart was diseased; which, thank Heaven, was not
the case. However, he was fidgety for some time,
and my future loneliness, should he be taken from
me, troubled him considerably. Therefore, as we sat
by the fire after supper one March evening, he said
suddenly:
“Pussy, how old are you?”
“Not twenty yet, father.”
“That's none too young to marry," answered he.
“I should like to see you married, Pussy ;” and he
backed his desire by many good reasons, even speak-
ing well of William Carter. I listened patiently,
then-
“Father," said I, “I couldn't marry him," and my
head sank. “I don't think I shall ever marry.”
“Tut, tut,” said he, “ that nonsense, that's childish,
that's carrying your love for me too far, my pet. You
see, Pussy, fathers can't live forever. I value this
love above all things, Mary, but believe me, you're
mistaken. You can find room for another in your
heart, my dear child; yes, and for more to fol-
low.”
Words can not express the prickings of my con-


-54
THE WITCHING TIME.
science. I just fell on my knees beside him and burst
into tears.
“Father,” I cried, “ dear, dearest father, I do love
you, but I have been very deceitful. I know there's
room for two, you and another-and-he's there al-
ready, father!”
No answer. I pressed his hand, no return; and
when I ventured to look at him, he was sitting as
stiff as pride, with the eyes of a judge and the mouth
of a martyr. Presently he rose, and walked round the
table.
“I'm surprised,” said he, “I'm surprised; don't
speak to me.”
So I sat still, and had completely dried my tears,
when he came and stood behind me.
. “I never could understand women," said he, dryly.
“ If you love him—and I'm bound to believe you-
why don't you have him ?”
“Why don't I have him? Why, father, he may
have forgotten me, for all I know !”
Father stared and I stared, then I began to laugh,
for I saw he was thinking of Will Carter; so, muster-
ing my courage, I drew him to a chair, and told him
what I could about Captain Charvel.
“My dear child,” said he, when I had finished,
“I'm sorry for you. You've shown yourself less pru-
dent than I thought; but rest assured the young man's
forgotten you by now, so there's an end of it.”


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
55
“Yes," I sighed, “I suppose he has forgotten me!
But that makes no difference.”
“How makes no difference? My dear Mary, I can't
answer you; you're not serious. It's impossible that
a good, sensible young woman like you can make her-
self believe she cares as much for a strange man she
knows nothing about, as for the father she has known
all her life. Do you mean to say that you would leave
me for that soldier, that white-washed ne'er-do-well ?”
“Of course, father," said I, in a peace-making tone,
“I should never leave you altogether.”
“Still, you would leave me, and for him? That's
enough. My dear Mary, you surprise me. You allow
yourself to openly love a man you've twice met, to
take possession of him, to place him above me. I can
only say that to my mind you are neither wise nor
modest. No, certainly not modest. If I believed you,
I should be truly grieved.”
“What!” I cried. “Do you doubt my word? I
tell you that Captain Charvel is not only the best and
handsomest man God ever made, but that I love him
with all my soul, and that unless I marry him I shall
die as I am!” Whereupon I bounced out of the
room.
The following day, father and I were chilly; we
spoke of the weather and of our neighbors, but never an
intimate word; and a longer evening I never spent, al-
though we went to bed at nine o'clock for very dullness.
e-


56
THE WITCHING TIME.
So at breakfast next morning I put out his favorite jam,
and decked the table with his favorite flowers, and gave
the warmest return pride would allow to his bleak kiss;
but when we had half done, and yet no word, my heart
sank. Suddenly father pushed his cup toward me.
“Pussy,” said he, breaking the silence with a cheer-
fulness that startled me, “ that tea was nice. I'll have
some more;” and he began, “ All in the Downs the fleet
was moored.”
I did not often sing at meals, still I joined in as best
I could, until my voice broke in the very middle of
“sweet William.” And thus our quarrel ended; nor
did we mention Captain Charvel again.
One Sunday, early in June, I was waiting for father
in the church-yard after service, while he spoke to a
parishioner; and although accustomed to his being thus
detained weekly, by the time I had watched the last loi-
terer go in to dinner, I was weary, and fell to pacing up
and down. And chancing to look up as I approached
the road, I saw a man leaning over the hedge with his
eyes fixed upon me. For an instant I did not know
him, then I found myself trembling; it was Captain
Charvel.
“Oh,” said I, “it's you."
“Yes,” he replied, " and a little before my time, Miss
Nobel. It is not quite a year since we parted.” .
I said, “Oh, isn't it?” but he must have known that
this was no news to me. Although agitated past all con-
S


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
:
67
trol, I did not think to say good-day and retire; foolishly
heroic, I stood before him, and looked at my feet while
he looked at me. Presently he asked-
“How is Miss Dell ?”
“I don't know," said I,“ aren't you staying there?”
“No," he replied, “ I'm at the ‘Cock and Bull. I
haven't come to see Miss Dell.”
I almost think I should have fled if father had not
that instant arrived. He glanced at me critically, then
turned to the Captain, and they exchanged salutations
with evident mutual interest.
"Father," I mumbled, “it's a friend of Miss Dell's
Cap-Captain Charvel.”
“Sir," said dear father, pompously, “I'm delighted
to meet you. If you are staying at Longparish, we shall
hope to see you at the vicarage. Pussy, won't you ask
Captain Charvel to tea ?”
“Oh, yes,” said I; but here followed an alarming
pause, to which Captain Charvel put an end by accepting
with alacrity the invitation he had not received.
They were happy days that followed. If I suffered
some misery, it was only of the kind bestowed by an all-
wise Providence on those who have much joy, lest they
should forget Heaven. Captain Charvel came daily at
father's request, and this in itself was bliss; but, as day
followed day and yet he scarcely spoke to me, I grew
uneasy. Father's vigilance was as great as any woman's;
he never left us alone for two minutes together, and but
.


58
THE WITCHING TIME.
for this I should almost have thought he did not know
that-in my estimation-Captain Cbarvel was not as
most men. He spoke of him ever as of one hitherto a
stranger, and indeed went so far as to ask my pardon
once for having spoiled our pleasant solitary life by his
constant company, assuring me that the conversation of
so intelligent a young man was beneficial to him. How-
ever, in spite of doubt and silence, I could not help feel-
ing that Captain Charvel cared for me a little ; nor could
I meet his eyes without being conscious of some ex-
change between us; how greatly to his gain, Heaven
only knew.
And three weeks passed. One afternoon, having
left Captain Charvel and father together, I went to visit
a sick woman down the valley; and while I sat by her
bedside, reading, one of her children ran to me in great
haste: some one was waiting for me down-stairs, would I
come? So I slipped on my bonnet and ran out with my
cape in my hand. It was Captain Charvel.
“Is anything the matter?” cried I, when we got
into the road; “father isn't ill, is he? What does he
want me for ?”
The Captain smiled.
“I don't know," said he, “I daresay your father does
want you, but I'm not aware of the fact. It is I that
want you."
I turned giddy, and my fingers shook so that I could
not fasten my cape; seeing which, Captain Charvel


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
stood still and hooked it for me. I was wretched, for he
took ever so much longer about it than need have been,
and he must have felt how I trembled.
“Miss Nobel,” said he, on the road, “I'm afraid you
don't like me.”
“Yes, I do,” was my reply, “I always like peo-
ple.”
“ You must be very happy, then. I like but few.”
“Isn't that rather selfish ?” I ventured to remark.
“Of course it is, but I can't help being selfish ; I've
been lonely nearly all my life.”
“Oh," said I, feeling that I must say something
quickly, “I did not know that men minded being
lonely."
He slackened speed a little.
“ Have you never felt,” said he, “ that your life was
incomplete ?”
“Yes," I whispered, “ often."
“Well, so have I. Remember, Miss Nobel, that men
and women are each but one half of a perfect whole,
needing the other for their own completeness. A single
life is but a fragment.”
“Oh, I don't see that," I answered, hurriedly, “I
think I could live alone quite well. I should very much
like to live alone and be a school-mistress.”
“No,” said Captain Charvel, “ you would not.”
“You don't know," I replied ; “it would only need a
little courage, ambition, and self-reliance."


60
THE WITCHING TIME.
“Well and good; but you forget that a woman's
courage, ambition, and reliance usually end in being
transplanted. Woman's virtues seldom blossom in their
own soil, and the man who has her heart has all; for
him she is brave, for him aspiring, and her trust is placed
in him."
“Perhaps," said I; but I knew he was right, and
wondered where he had learned this truth. Presently I
noticed that we were going out of our way.
“Don't you think," I timidly suggested, “ that we
had best keep to the road? It's getting late.”
“It won't be dark for another hour,” said Captain
Charvel positively; "you're not afraid, are you? With
me ?"
“No," I replied, “I'm not afraid,” which was not
strictly truthful, considering how I feared him, “but
father, he mayn't like my being out so late.”
“Very well,” said he, “I'm sorry you don't like being
with me ; we'll go back.” Which we did, to my incon-
ceivable disappointment. I walked as slowly as possible,
hoping he might repent; and at last (I really could not
help it) I said —
“Captain Charvel! Perhaps father wouldn't mind."
He turned on his heel that instant. .
“Of course he won't mind,” said he. “Your father
would trust you anywhere with me. Your father likes
me very much, Miss Nobel; he would be very hard-
hearted if he didn't, don't you think?”


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
61
I tried to laugh because I thought I must; then I
said: “I don't see why."
"You don't see why? I think I've done my best to
make him like me.” And I began to feel sorry we had
come the long way, after all. It must have been soon
after this that I stepped into a ditch and twisted my
ankle; slightly, to be sure, yet enough to make me limp.
“I think you'd better take my arm,” said Captain
Charvel. I had not the strength to refuse, but I gave
him the veriest tips of my fingers.
“Why, this won't support you,” laughed he; laying
hold of my hand, he drew it well through his arm, and
kept it there with firm but gentle pressure.
I was so much alarmed that I just pretended not to
notice what he did, but at every step I felt my face glow
redder, and it seemed an eternity that passed. Suddenly
he let me go, and I stumbled with a strange sense of
loss; but in an instant his arm was round my waist.
There was no ignoring this; if Captain Charvel
had been William Carter I could not have struggled
more frantically for freedom, and the consequence was
that he folded me in both his arms and held me to
him, quenching me utterly, so that when he presently
bade me lift my head I had not the power to disobey
And if any part of my immortal spirit were not his
already, I think he took it from me at that moment.
We did not say much going home; but when we
reached the field behind the vicarage I asked him to


62
THE WITCHING TIME.
leave me, that I might tell father alone; and, after
much protest, he consented, having first extorted from
me an avowal that I loved him—which I told him was
wasting breath, since I had loved him long before he
ever cared for me. Of course, being a man, he denied
this.
“You are an angel,” said he, “but you must not
speak so. If I had not loved you in the beginning,
you would never have thought of me again."
I did not tell him that it was just the other way
round; I only said that he was very conceited even
to think of such things, and we parted as gayly as
possible.
Our wedding-day was fixed for the first of Septem-
ber, and the weeks that intervened sped fast. Miss
Dell came to stay at the vicarage on purpose to help
me with my clothes. Indeed, I should never have
got on alone, for although I kept my thimble on all
day, it did not follow that Captain Charvel allowed me
to use it. I took him to see all the people I knew. I
was sinfully proud of him, and thought that every
woman in the parish must grow green with jealousy
when she set eyes on his beautiful face. It came to
my ears one day that many laughed at me, and said
one would think from my behavior that Captain Char-
vel had walked out of heaven. But I was not cross ;
I only thought them rather wicked. I must confess,
however, that I was not quite happy; I grudged him


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
every moment of absence; he could not keep away an
hour at a stretch but I was in a fever of apprehension;
and one day I unfortunately saw him talking to the
barmaid of the “Hare and Hounds,” a remarkably pretty
girl, on whom he was bestowing rather more attention
than I found needful. That very afternoon he chanced
to ask if there were anything about him that displeased
me, vowing that he would instantly reform; and what
must I do but beg him not to smile at the barmaid
again.
“Mary!” he exclaimed with such solemnity that I
flinched, “you're not going to tell me that you're jeal-
ous ?”
“Of course not,” said I, “I'm not at all jealous,
William, but I–I can't help wanting all your smiles
for the present. I dare say I shall be less fussy when
we're married. And oh,” I added, hiding my face,
“I'm in such mortal fear sometimes lest you should
not love me after all, or grow tired of me.”
He did not answer, and presently I said, without
looking up:
“Did you ever love another, William ? I don't
expect you to tell me if you'd rather not, but-I won-
der.”
“My dear Mary," he replied, almost sternly, “what
a child you are. Of course, if I had ever loved another
as I love you, you could not be Mrs. Charvel. But
you surely don't suppose that a man can live twenty-


64
THE WITCHING TIME.
five years without seeing a woman that pleases
him?"
“No,” said I, mournfully; “I suppose not. I'm
not jealous, William.”
“But you are," retorted he, “and this is terrible.
A woman must be all trust and belief. A jealous
woman_»
“But, William, I'm not jealous! Only don't you
think you might feel funny if you saw me stand five
minutes—it was quite five minutes—talking to-to the
hostler ? And smiling, too, like I smile at you? Per-
haps you wouldn't, but I like to think you would.”
“That's different,” he replied; "a man must be
jealous, a woman may not."
“Oh,” cried I, “that's unfair. We poor women,
how you treat us!”
“Silly Mary!” said he then; “it is because you are
better than we that we expect you to conform to a
higher standard. Always yield, always believe; that
is how wives keep their husbands. But,” added he,
smiling suddenly, “you're not going to be a jealous
wife! Come what may, you would always forgive me,
and that's why I love you. Don't try to say No-you
would.”
“We'll see," said I, “or rather, we won't, please
God. But oh, you are conceited, Captain Charvel!”
I remember that I asked him, later, if he would
forgive me, were there need; and he answered:


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
“No, by Heaven!” But it was half in jest.
The weeks passed rapidly. Toward the end of
August Captain Charvel left Longparish to visit his
mother, intending to return on the eve of our mar-
riage. I thought I should be miserable without him,
and so I was, in a way. Yet I enjoyed the last quiet .
days with father in my dear home. The thirty-first of
August found all ready, and my wedding-dress spread
under a sheet on the spare-room bed. Father and I
meant to take a last walk together in the afternoon,
but he was called away; so I went out alone into the
fields, pondering over the past, and filled with a flutter-
ing joy that nothing could quell. I dared not go far,
lest Captain Charvel should arrive in my absence.
I was resting on a stile, my eyes fixed on the church
and my thoughts on the future, when, hearing footsteps
behind me, I turned and saw a woman cross the meadow.
She was apparently a little older than I, young and fair,
buxom and neat; her shoes were white with dust, and
she had probably come from far, but her lilac print
dress was scrupulously clean; a large straw hat was
hanging down her back; in one hand she carried a
bundle, in the other a green umbrella. I can see her
still. What struck me most was the stolid determina-
tion of her walk. She looked weary but unconqner-
able, and her honest face bore a smile of radiant joy.
“Miss," said she as she approached, “is that Long.
parish Church ?”


66
THE WITCHING TIME.
“Yes," I replied. “But you are out breath; there
is room for two on the stile."
The girl sat down, and, drawing a white handker-
chief from the bundle, wiped her rosy cheeks.
“I'm hot,” said she, “ I've come a good bit of a way.”
“ Where from ?” asked I.
“ From Stonyhead.”
“From the sea ?” I cried; “not to-day?"
“ Bless you, no!” laughed the girl. “It's three
days since I started.”
“Oh, how dreadful,” said I. “I hope you've had
plenty to eat ?”
She shook her head and smiled to herself.
“ Thank you. It's not in want of food that I am;
it's my heart that is hungry for the sight of a face.”
There was something inexpressibly tender in the
tone of the girl's voice that went to my heart. I begged
her to come home with me and rest.
“I'm not tired, Miss,” she replied. “You're very
good to me. But my sweetheart lives here, and I've
come to fetch him.”
“Oh,” cried I then, beaming with sympathy, “I'm
waiting for my sweetheart! I'm going to be married
to-morrow, and you must come to the wedding."
The girl looked solemn.
“ It is not I,” she said, “that know when mine will
Swe
be.”
In the face of my own happiness I could not bear


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
67
'
to see another mournful, so I gently touched her brown
hand.
“ Aren't you happy ?” asked I; "aren't you sure
of him? I dare say it's no use asking, but I should
like to help you if I could. I want every one in Long-
parish to be happy tomorrow.”
Tears started to her eyes, and I was silent awhile,
regretting my words; then I said gently:
“ How long is it since you saw him ?”
This sympathy seemed to melt the girl; she dropped
her bundle and drew nearer.
“Miss,” she said, "you are very kind! And since
you know what it is to love a man, and since you wish
to hear, shall I tell you?”
• It was not a long tale. Her name was Susan Wood,
and her father had been a coast-guard at Stonyhead.
There was a rich family on the cliff, a lonely boy that
stole down when he dared, to play with Susan. They
were nearly of an age, but she was sturdier than he; and
once—they were children then—she wrestled with the
waves for his dear life. The boy told his father, who
gave the girl a guinea and forbade all future intercourse
between them; but still they met almost daily, the lad
escaping from his tutor at every opportunity to visit his
playmate by the sea, his preserver, the only young
creature that brightened his austere young life. And,
as year followed year, their love grew to passion. They
were no longer children; and the father, seeing a figure


68
THE WITCHING TIME.
scale the wall one night, hastened to the cliff and beheld
his son in the arms of the coast-guard's daughter. So
the youth was banished. “Susan," cried he at parting,
“come what may you are my wife. Always trust,
through silence and through ill-report. It may be for
years, but keep faith; I am yours only."
He sent her gold and gifts from foreign lands, and
letters full of deep affection. When they ceased, the
coast-guard thought him dead, but the girl still hoped.
His family had left Stonyhead. It was a servant of his
mother's, returning home for a while, who told Susan
her lover was alive; she had seen letters addressed to
him at Longparish.
We were both silent at the close of the tale, then I
said —
“Susan, you have been beautifully faithful. I hope
he is worthy of you."
The girl laughed.
“He worthy! I worthy, you mean. I'm a common
girl, but he loves me, and I'd work my fingers to the
marrow for him. Oh, I can not doubt! I have his
word.”
I doubted; yet I can say with truth that I was
wholly free from presentiment. She spoke of “him,"
and I understood and respected that dislike to uttering a
lover's name; I was besides—and this must be confessed
—too full of my own thoughts for sympathy to descend
to inquisitiveness. I rose and kissed the girl.


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
69
“ Bless you, Susan,” said I, “I hope you will be
happy. We must be friends." And I asked her once
more to take tea with me.
She would not, she must seek him.
“ Then I must leave you,” said I; “or if you'll come
across we can go together. But we must make haste;
see ! 'tis six o'clock, and Captain Charvel—that's my,
sweetheart, Susan-may have come.”
I was looking toward home; but, hearing no word,
turned to my new friend. She was standing just behind
me, upright with hanging arms, her gray eyes staring,
her flesh colorless. And then I knew.
Speechless we stood before each other, gazing with
horror at the wreck of our lives. Her lips quivered.
“ The name," she muttered, “ the name.” And sud-
denly she seized me by the shoulders. “The name !"
she cried; “speak!”
But I uttered no sound, and she let me go. I fell
against the hedge; the girl was at my feet.
“ Miss," she breathed, “it is not Charvel, not Will-
iam Charvel, not my Will that I saved from the sea ?
Say no! I'm a poor girl, his love is all I have. I came
to fetch him home.”
But still I could not speak. My face was hidden in
my hands. I only heard the groaning of the girl, and
presently a heavy, fearful thud ;-again—again. I
looked, and saw her kneeling by the stile, striking her
head against the wood.


70
THE WITCHING TIME.
. “What are you doing?” called I; her teeth were
clenched, and there was blood upon her face.
“I am killing myself,” she said. “God! Christ!
Holy angels! I want to die! Kill me, O Lord God!
Kill your servant!”
I seized her and kept her down.
“Susan !” I cried, “he is not worth this, he is a
devil! We must hold our hearts and live.”
But she broke from me with an awful cry, and leaped
across the grass to where the river ran.
I know not how long I stayed beside the hedge; it
was Miss Dell that roused me, calling my name across
the meadow. The sun had set. I crept toward her;
for all my deadness I could see the horror in her face, ill
masked beneath her smiles.
“Dear,” said she, with unwonted tenderness, “ come
home by the road, Mary, not through the garden, not to-
night.”
We were already at the wicket; I pushed it open,
unclasping her reluctant hands. I can still hear her cry.
“ Mary! Mary! Oh, for God's sake stop her! To-mor-
row is her wedding-day.”
Father, and some men I knew, were standing by the
river; and on the bank lay Susan, dead, her print dress
clinging to her buxom form. They would have drawn
me to the house, but I crouched down and peered into
the dead girl's face; white and wet, staring without
sight, gaping without breath, contorted without anguish.


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
And suddenly I heard the garden gate swing, footsteps
swift and gay upon the path. It was he. I rose and
went toward him; folding my arms behind me as if
to shun his outstretched hands, I looked boldly, love-
lessly, into his smiling eyes. They were all there-
. father, and Miss Dell, and the men.
“ Captain Charvel,” said I, aloud, that all might hear,
“there is bad news for you. Your wife is dead.”
His smile faded, but he only looked at me as one
without understanding, and the silence remained un-
broken, såve for the murmuring of those around.
“If not your wife,” said I then, “the woman who
should have borne that name.” And I pointed to where
she lay.
He started almost imperceptibly, and his head fell
low; it was dark, but my keen glance saw all; the
twitching lip, the glazed, bewildered eye. Suddenly he
drew himself up to his full height; standing before me
he scanned me well from head to foot, I meeting with
cold defiance the high disdainful sorrow of his gaze.
Then, turning to the rest
“Take up the girl," said he," and bring her to the
church."
They obeyed, as if helplessly, and, raising poor Susan
in their arms, bore her solemnly across the lawn, be-
tween the graves, along the winding path. And Captain
Charvel followed.
Father stood motionless; Miss Dell, poor soul, had


72
THE WITCHING TIME.
sunk on to the ground and wept; it seemed that I alone
saw all unmoved.
“Come,” said I, “let us go too."
My words roused father; he started forward, and
hand in hand we followed hastily, reaching the church
just as they prepared to enter.
“Stay!” cried he, sternly, “this must not be. There
shall be no defiling of God's house."
Captain Charvel turned round proudly.
“Then lay her here,” said he, "for the Spirit of
the Father is unconfinable, and the whole earth his
altar.”
· There came a pause; kneeling, he clasped the dead
girl's hand, and many knelt with him. Not I; the
silent heart in Susan's breast was not more cold than
mine.
“I charge you,” cried he then, “as many as are here
present, in the name of God, to witness this my oath. I
swear that from this hour this woman is my wife; nor
will I touch another, either in friendship or in love, be-
tween this day and the day of my death. Lord ! save
her! Among the angels let her soul find rest!”
He raised her stiffening fingers to his lips, then rose.
There was no sound but his heavy footfall; slowly
he faded into the closing night; and then my dead heart
quickened suddenly.
Half blind, half mad, I staggered throngh the dark-
ness.


THE CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.
73
“Come back!” I cried. “Come back ! you are for-
given.”
But he neither turned nor spoke; and when they
came to lift me from the ground they thought I never
should awaken more.
Such was not the will of Heaven. I lived, and was
strong.
We left Longparish, never to return, and I buried
the past in my barren heart, below the reach of words.
I was still young when father left me; and the years
rolled on. One day there came a letter telling me that
I was possessed of a fortune. I was a gray-haired
woman; but the tears I had shed at twenty for him
I loved, were not more bitter than those I shed now.
Colonel Charvel fell at Cawnpore.


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
By W. E. NORRIS.
I ALWAYS rather liked old Lady Strathannan. She
was not universally popular, it is true; I have heard
her accused of being worldly and grasping; many peo-
ple declared that she had been a bad mother; and there
was a general vague impression that she had not behaved
particularly well to her nephew, Bob Innes. But when
one came to examine into these charges, what did they
amount to? Worldly she may have been : so are a great
many other amiable and agreeable persons. Whether
she was grasping or not I really could not say; but if,
in her capacity of co-executrix and trustee under her late
husband's will, she was doing her best to set an encum-
bered estate free, and to ensure for her only son the
prospect of a handsome fortune when his long minority
should terminate, that, I take it, was no more than her
bounden duty, and ought to go far toward clearing her
from the imputation of being a bad mother. Is a bad
mother one who displays perseverance and ingenuity in


THE SPECTER OF STRATAANNAN.
75
marrying her numerous daughters to men of rank and
wealth? It all depends upon the point of view. Lady
Strathannan had succeeded in doing what most ladies in
her position endeavor to do, and what few, in these hard
times, can achieve; this, perhaps, might account for a
certain degree of envy and jealousy on the part of the
disappointed ones. As for her daughters, they have not,
to the best of my knowledge and belief, objected to the
husbands selected for them. With regard to Bob Innes,
all that was known for certain was that he had once been
engaged in an informal sort of way to his cousin, Lady
Janet, and that the old lady had put a stop to the en-
gagement. Perhaps she disapproved of first-cousin mar-
riages; the disapproval is a plausible and by no means an
uncommon one. In any case, Bob—who, though the best
fellow in the world, is only a clerk in a government
office, and is notoriously straitened as to income-could
not reasonably complain, as it seemed to me, when he
was sent about his business.
To set against these alleged shortcomings, Lady Strath-
annan had some attractive qualities. When in London,
she entertained a good deal in an unostentatious but
agreeable way; the beauty for which her daughters were
celebrated must, I imagine, have been inherited from
her, for at the age of sixty or thereabouts she was a very
handsome and venerable-looking lady, with an abundance
of gray hair, which, together with her waxen complex-
ion, gave her a resemblance to an old miniature. Her


76
THE WITCHING TIME.
manners were suave and amiable when she chose; and
that she did not always choose to make them so rendered
her civility all the more flattering to those who were fa-
vored by it. To me she had always been kind and polite,
which seemed to be a proof of disinterestedness, since
she must have been perfectly well aware that my means
were not such as to make me a conceivable candidate for
the hand of the only unmarried member of her family.
Therefore, when she was so good as to send me an invi-
tation to spend a week at Strathannan Castle, I wrote
and accepted forthwith, although it is not everybody
who could induce me to travel into the depths of Scot-
land in the middle of the winter.
To tell the truth, it was not for the sake of this old
woman, agreeable though I had always found her, nor
for the sake of Lady Janet, who was also agreeable, but
who had never troubled herself to notice my existence
particularly, nor for that of any of the people whom I
was likely to meet there, that I decided to visit Strath-
annan. The house is one in which I had always wished
very much to stay. That it possessed a ghost was in no
way remarkable; all old houses of any respectability pos-
sess a ghost. But what made the Strathannan specter
so peculiarly awe-inspiring was that it was said only to
manifest itself to those who had some undiscovered crime
upon their conscience — an attribute which, I should
think, must have made many of the late Lord Strathan-
nan's guests feel exceedingly uncomfortable. The legend


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
77
connected with it was that it had first revealed itself to
a certain disloyal Lord Strathanpan, whose feelings were
so worked upon by the apparition that he straightway
made full confession of his treachery, and requested that
he might be put to death, in accordance with his deserts.
His request was complied with (at all events, it seems
certain that there was a Lord Strathannan whose head
was cut off in the early part of the fourteenth century);
and, encouraged by this really striking success, the spec-
ter, it was said, had continued to show itself at intervals
to other guilty persons, whether belonging to the family
or not, who came within its reach. As an indirect testi-
mony to the integrity of my acquaintances, I am glad to
be able to add that not one of them had set eyes upon
this grewsome thing, though all professed to have heard
it pattering about the corridors. at night. That was
nothing when you were used to it, they said ; the Innes
family were no more perturbed by it than by the inex-
plicable bursting open of doors every now and again, ac-
cepting such manifestations merely as a salutary warning
that they had better behave themselves. However, I
was cautioned that Lady Strathannan, who was a nervous
woman, did not like the subject to be spoken of in her
presence.
Bob Innes and I are old friends and old schoolfel-
lows. If we do not meet quite as often as we once did,
that is because our respective avocations do not happen
to throw us together. We are very glad to see one
was
OW


78
THE WITCHING TIME.
another when we do meet, and, as chance would have it,
I encountered him at the club on the day previous to
that named in my invitation to Strathannan. Bob is a
good-looking, good-tempered young fellow, of six or seven
and twenty. He has carried about a somewhat gloomy
countenance since his disappointment in the matter of
Lady Janet; but he has not withdrawn himself from
society, where I believe that he is a great favorite; nor
is he given to talking about his troubles. He had never
mentioned the affair to me, although I suppose I know
him about as well as anybody. When, however, I told
him that I was about to spend a few days in the cradle
of his race, he became pensive, and for the first time
alluded to what I had hitherto imagined that he wished
to treat as a forbidden topic.
“You'll see Janet,” he said, with a sigh. “Give her
my love, will you, old chap ?—and tell her that I haven't
changed.”
“All right," I answered, hesitatingly; for I don't
much fancy such commissions. “Do you think I had
better give her your love, though ?”
“Oh, you needn't unless you like,” he returned. “I
dare say she will ask you whether you've seen me,
that's all. She doesn't need any messages, really. She
trusts me just as much as I trust her, and she knows
well enough that neither of us will change our minds at
this time of day."
, “But I thought it was all off," I said ; because I


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN. 79
divined that he would not be displeased if I questioned
him a little.
Bob blew a cloud of smoke, and remained silent for
a minute or two before replying.
“It's all off in one sense. The old cat represented
to me that we were too poor to marry, which I couldn't
deny, and of course I was bound to say that Janet was
free, so far as I was concerned; but you can't force a
girl to accept her freedom if she don't choose to accept it.
I told Janet she might throw me over if she liked; I
didn't think it my duty to throw her over. So there it
is. I've been perfectly square with the old cat; there's
no correspondence, no meeting on the sly—nothing of
that sort. Only. Janet considers herself engaged to me,
and I consider myself engaged to her.”
“It seems a poor lookout for both of you," I re-
marked.
6 Very,” he replied, laconically.
After a short pause, he resumed: “There's just this
to be said, that her father didn't forbid the engagement.
He thought there was no reason why we should not
marry some day, and, indeed, we might have married if
—if he had carried out what he always told me were
his intentions. I don't know whether you are aware that
he used to allow me three hundred a year-most people
seem to be aware of it.”
I said I had not heard.
“Well, he did. He said he considered me entitled


80
THE WITCHING TIME.
Caus
to that, because my father hadn't had all the money left
to him that he expected to get. The fact is, that
my grandfather spent every penny he could lay hands on,
and didn't leave enough personalty to pay his debts or
his legacies either. My uncle managed to get things
moderately straight in process of time; he laid by a cer-
tain amount every year, and, I believe, paid off some of
the mortgages. He was an awfully good old fellow. Of
course he wasn't obliged to make me an allowance, but
he thought he was, and he used to apologize because he
couldn't see his way to increasing it. However, he told
me over and over again that I should get ten thousand
pounds when he died; so that I was naturally rather as-
tonished and rather disappointed when it turned out that
I wasn't even mentioned in his will. It was a very old
will, dated the year of his marriage. Nobody disputed
the fact of his having made a second one; only, as it
wasn't forthcoming--why, I was left out in the cold.
My own belief was that that old aunt of mine had
made away with it, and I had the bad manners to tell
her so.”
“Really,” said I, “I think that was rather bad man-
ners, and rather bad judgment into the bargain.”
“Very likely. At all events she and I are not the
best of friends nowadays, as you may imagine. If you
want to give her pleasure, you might tell her that I've
taken to drink, or play, or some other little vice of that
kind. Then she'll repeat it to Janet, who won't believe


THE SPECTER OF STRATAANNAN.
81
her, and so you'll have made your hostess happy, with-
out doing anybody any harm.”.
I observed that making away with a will was a seri-
ous matter, and ventured to add that by all accounts a
member of the Innes family who should commit such an
offence would be exposed to perils which do not threaten
the ordinary felon.
Bob laughed a little uneasily. In these days few
people like to confess their faith in anything which does
not admit of mathematical demonstration, although, for
some reason or other, it seems to be considered less ridic-
ulous to believe in hobgoblins than in a revealed re-
ligion.
“Oh," he said, “there's a lot of nonsense talked
about the old place. You'll hear footsteps, I dare say.
I've heard them myself scores of times—easily explained,
no doubt. There is only one room which is supposed
to be haunted, and you're not likely to be put into that,
or to see anything startling if you are.”
He changed the subject at once, and did not allude
again to my approaching visit to Strathannan until just
before we parted, when he said, rather wistfully: “You
might drop me a line from Scotland, if it wasn't too
much trouble. I won't ask you to give any message to
Janet; perhaps it's better not; but there couldn't be
much harm in your just letting me know how she is look-
ing—and that sort of thing."
I was not cruel enough to refuse so modest a re-


82
THE WITCHING TIME.
quest; nor did I deem it incumbent upon me to mention
what Bob may already have known, namely, that Lady
Janet was, by common report, likely to become betrothed
ere long to young Hopley, the eldest son of the rich
brewer who had recently been raised to the peerage as
Lord Trent. I was sorry for Bob; but it seemed to me
that he was slightly unreasonable. When people can't
afford to marry, and when there is no prospect of their
being able to do so, the lady's relatives are surely justi-
fied in breaking off the match. As for the destruction
of the late Lord Strathannan’s will, everything pointed
to the probability that it had been effected by his own
hands. He would not be the first old gentleman who
has promised to provide for needy collaterals and has
thought better of his benevolent intentions, reflecting
that charity begins at home.
It was, therefore, by no means as a strong partisan of
my friend Bob's that I betook myself to Strathannan
Castle; yet I admit that, after I had seen Lady Janet, I
felt much more able to sympathize with him. Logically,
of course, the fact that she was so pretty and looked so
good did not alter the situation; but nobody, thank
Heaven! can compel us to be logical, and I suppose it
will be allowed that if Lady Janet had been a young
woman like the ordinary run of fashionable young
women, neither Bob nor anybody else would have in-
curred an irreparable loss in resigning her. It was as
one among a number of fashionable young women that I


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
83
had hitherto seen her, and I had not noticed anything dis-
tinctive about her, except that, like all her family, she
had a beautiful complexion. Now, however, having a
reason for being interested in her, I observed the wistful
expression of her soft brown eyes, and her pleasant
voice, and what I fancied was a look of quiet determina-
tion about the lower part of her face. I could well im-
agine her capable of holding her own in a gentle, per-
sistent way.
It was she who received me, on my arrival, in a vast
saloon which modern furniture had not availed to de-
prive of the somewhat gloomy and forbidding aspect
which characterized the whole building. She did not
ask any questions about Bob Innes; so that I was not
tempted to deliver the message which that luckless in-
dividual had authorized me to give or withhold. After
a few minutes, Lady Strathannan came in, followed by a
number of her guests, among whom I recognized Mr.
Hopley, a commonplace, good-humored-looking youth, of
the type commonly described as “cheery,” and fre-
quently—perhaps rather too frequently for some people's
taste— to be met with in country houses. One had only
to look at him to be convinced that, upon very small
provocation, he would arrange a skillful booby-trap over
one's bedroom door, and take the first opportunity of
playing some humorous trick with one's gun. I bad a
slight acquaintance with him, but, for the reasons above
hinted at, did not encourage familiarity on his part, and


84
THE WITCHING TIME.
I was glad to note that he had been provided with a few
kindred spirits upon whom to vent the exuberance of his
vitality.
Strathannan Castle looks a large house from the out-
side, but will not, I believe, accommodate a very large
party. About twenty of us sat down to dinner; and my
neighbor informed me that we were au grand complet.
“I should not be much surprised,” she added, rather
maliciously, in an undertone, “ if they had quartered you
in the ghost-room. I suppose you know there is a
ghost-room ?”
I replied that I had been told so, but had understood
that the ghost only disturbed the slumbers of the guilty;
consequently, I felt no anxiety on my own score. At
the same time, I should be glad to know what authority
she had for stating that I was to invade its special do-
main.
“If I tell you," said she, “ will you promise not to
breathe a word to Lady Strathannan ?” And, on receiv-
ing the required pledge, she continued: “Well, my maid
heard the housekeeper say to one of the housemaids that
she would be obliged to put you in the south wing, be-
cause the room which you were to have occupied has
been made uninhabitable by a dead rat, but that this
was on no account to be mentioned to her ladyship.
Are you afraid, Mr. Hervey? Do you believe in
ghosts?”
“I am not afraid," I answered, “and I am not at


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
85
present a believer, though open to conviction by the evi-
dence of my own senses. Novel experiences are always
interesting; so I trust that if there is a disembodied
spirit about the premises he won't fail to look me up in
the course of the night.”
Must I confess that, despite these brave words, I did
not altogether relish the idea of passing the night in a
so-called haunted apartment ? Certainly, I do not be-
lieve in ghosts. Upon the face of it, nothing can be
more childishly ridiculous than to suppose that an im-
mortal soul, after quitting this body, may have no better
employment assigned to it than to linger about the
scenes of its earthly pilgrimage and scare posterity with
undignified gibberings; yet, as everybody knows, theory
and practice are two different things, and neither in be-
lief nor in disbelief is poor humanity prone to be consist-
ent. I may sum up my sentiments upon the subject, by
saying that I was willing to believe in a ghost when I
saw one, but that I was not in the least anxious to see one.
Later in the evening, when I entered the sinoking-
room, where I found Hopley and his friends, together
with some of my fellow-guests who were of more
advanced years, I discovered, somewhat to my disgust,
that the surmise of the lady whom I had taken in to
dinner was shared by them. No member of the family
being present, they were free to question me as to the
whereabouts of my room, and, after I had accurately
described its position, Hopley slapped his leg and cried :
ere
ore


86
THE WITCHING TIME.
“By George, then, it's the room! I thought as
much! I remember old Strathannan telling me exactly
where it was, and he said he had never dared to put
any friend of his into it. This is grand sport! Now
we shall know what the Specter looks like. Tell you
what, Hervey, I'll sit up all night with you, if you like.”
*Many thanks," I answered — for this jocularity
seemed to me to be rather misplaced—“but, all things
considered, I think I should prefer the specter. There
will be a good big jug of cold water at his service when
he "comes, anyhow."
These last words were spoken with deliberate em-
phasis; because I did not doubt my young friend's
capacity for playing bogey upon occasion, and I trusted
that the prospect of a shower-bath on a December night
would be found uninviting, even by the most hardened
of practical jokers.
But Hopley returned, “If that's meant for me you
may set your mind at rest, my dear fellow. I wouldn't
venture into your part of the house after other people
had gone to bed for any money. I believe most people
who see that specter either drop down dead or go mad;
but you've got plenty of pluck, and I dare say you may
pull through. You won't find me stirring the thing
up, though.”
“In that case," said I, “I shall probably have a
quiet night. But I shall keep the cold water handy,
all the same."


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
87
pre
I was as good as my word. I placed the water-jug
by my bedside, and, as I was not in the least sleepy
when I retired to rest, I read a pamphlet about Free
Trade until my ideas were agreeably confused. Then
I blew out the candle, turned over on the other side,
and closed my eyes.
I don't know how many hours after this it was that
I awoke with a start, and with a horrible conviction
that I was not alone. Although I was frightened-
why should I not admit it? everybody who wakes with
a start must be frightened—I thought at once of Hopley,
and lay as still as a mouse, waiting to see what would
happen. The room was not quite dark, for the embers
of the wood fire which had been burning in the old-
fashioned grate when I went to sleep diffused a glow,
by the light of which I could distinguish a shadowy
white form bending over me. That the memory of
sundry by-gone peccadilloes flashed across my mind I
will not deny; but I had the self-control to abstain
from any articulate confession of them. Suddenly the
apparition stretched out its arm, flicked away my pillow
from under my head, and noiselessly vanished.
Not quite noiselessly, however, for I distinctly heard
the click of a closing lock, and that sound dispelled all
my fears. A ghost worthy of the name can not possibly
be under any obligation to open or shut doors. I was
out of bed in a trice, and grasping my water-jug I rushed
out into the long corridor; but never a sign could I dis-
ross


88
THE WITCHING TIME.
cover of Hopley and his boon companions. Retiring at
length to my room, somewhat discomfited, I struck a
light, and then for the first time my eyes fell upon a
door-handle close to the head of my bed. The door to
which it belonged was not paneled, but was papered all
over, like the rest of the wall; so that my having failed
to notice it was not very astonishing. I opened it now
without any hesitation, and passing through it, found
myself in an untenanted room very like my own, only
rather longer. That it was untenanted I satisfied myself
by careful investigation; presumably Hopley, or whoever
my nocturnal visitant had been, had escaped through it
to the corridor, and was now safe on the other side of
the house, whither pursuit was out of the question.
There was nothing for it but to go back to bed; so to
bed I went, and prepared to finish the night as comfort-
ably as I could without a pillow. It was annoying that
I should have failed to drench the fellow, but I derived
a good deal of comfort from the conviction that my rest
had been disturbed by a being of flesh and blood. Ghosts
are immaterial or they are nothing; and I do not believe
that a member of the Society for Psychical Research
would go so far as to affirm that a ghost is capable of
picking up a material object like a pillow and marching
off with it under his arm. With my nerves soothed by
these reflections, I soon dropped asleep, and was not
molested again until my servant came to wake me in
the morning.


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
89
nes
When I went down to breakfast I noticed that several
of the men who had been in the smoking-room on the
previous evening regarded me with an eager curiosity,
to which I took care that my features should convey no
response; but the innocent unconsciousness of Hopley
staggered me a little. He looked up as I entered, and
nodded to me, but was to all appearance engrossed in
conversation with Lady Janet, who was pouring out the
tea, and to whom he was making love after the manner
of his kind—that is to say, with a frank openness as -
bewildering in its way as Prince Bismarck's diplomacy.
It was difficult to believe that a man who advertised his
sentiments so publicly could have serious intentions, yet
I was assured in the course of the day that Mr. Hopley
was quite in earnest, and, moreover, that Lady Janet
fully intended to accept him.
Her demeanor at breakfast did not lead me to share
that conviction. She was civil and unembarrassed with
her neighbor, but did not seem to be paying much atten-
tion to what he said; and after I had taken the vacant
place on the other side of her, she honored me with the
greater share of her conversation. Her mother, she told
me, was unable to come down, as she was suffering from
one of the bad neuralgic headaches to which she was
subject.
“Mamma is always having headaches here,” Lady'
Janet said. “I don't think the air of Strathannan suits
her; and, indeed, a great many people complain of it at


90
THE WITCHING TIME.
first. I hope it hasn't given you a headache, Mr. Her-
vey."
· Now the truth was that I had rather a headache,
owing to my having lain for several hours with my head
a great deal too low; but I replied that I thought the
air of Strathannan delightful, and that I had slept capi.
tally.
This I said for the benefit of Hopley, who grinned,
as if he had suddenly remembered that a different report
might have been expected. “Oh, you did, eh? No
specters, then ?” he asked.
. Lady Janet looked slightly annoyed. There was
some laughter, under cover of which I noticed she bent
forward and said something in a low voice to Hopley;
and I overheard his hasty rejoinder: “Oh, no! it's all
right. I didn't mean anything-only chaff, you know.”
Some shooting took place during the morning in
the coverts near the house; but the results were not
magnificent, and were loudly murmured at by Mr. Hop-
ley, who, being the son of a brewer, was naturally ac-
customed to better things. “The old girl has let the
place go down disgracefully," he confided to me, just
before luncheon. “Gets her rents paid pretty regularly,
I believe; but, dash it all! rents ain't everything, you
know.”
Lady Strathannan may have deemed it wise—and
probably it was wise—to economize in the matter of
gamekeepers, but it does not cost much money to have


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
91
the ice on your lake swept; and as it had been freezing
hard for more than a week, we had a capital afternoon's
skating. Lady Janet was a skillful and graceful per-
former. I watched her evolutions with great interest
for some time, and was surprised to notice that she kept
her eyes pretty steadily on me; for I could not flatter
myself that this was due to any display of skill or grace
on my part. She was closely attended by Hopley, of
whom, however, she managed at length to get rid by
persuading him to join in a curling match which had
been arranged; and the first use that she made of her
freedom was to come skimming across the smooth,
glassy surface toward the humble writer of these pages.
“Mr. Hervey,” said she, when, with an ease which I
envied, she had whisked round, and brought herself to a
stand-still beside me, “I want to ask you a question.”
“Delighted to answer any question, Lady Janet,” I
declared, guessing what it was likely to be.
But my powers of divination proved less accurate
than I had supposed, and it was not the name of Bob
Innes that fell from her lips when she opened them
again. “I wanted to know," she said, with a little hesi-
tation, “whether — whether you saw anything last
night?”
“Since you ask me," replied I, “I did. But it
wasn't a ghost. Somebody came into my room in the
dead of the night and snatched my pillow from under
my head. In all probability it was Mr. Hopley. I was


92
THE WITCHING TIME.
rather startled for the moment, so he made his escape;
but I think I may promise to give him a more fitting
reception if he turns up again tonight.”
Lady Janet did not smile. “I never heard of any-
thing of that kind happening before,” said she, gravely;
“I don't understand it. What object could there be in
taking your pillow away?"
“ The object," I answered, laughing, “was no doubt
an amiable wish to frighten me; but it wasn't a con-
spicuous success, because I heard the door shut; and,
without knowing much about ghosts, I will venture to
say that they are not in the habit of opening and shut-
ting doors."
“Oh, but indeed they are !” she rejoined; " that is
exactly what so often occurs. Of course, though, you
would think it all superstitious nonsense, and I am very
glad that you are not frightened. It was only this after-
noon that I found out where Mrs. Menzies had put you,
and I was very angry with her about it. Still, if you
really don't mind—”
I assured her that I didn't mind in the least-rather
liked it, in fact.
“Then,” she said, “would it be asking too much if I
begged you not to mention to my mother what room
you are in? She would be so displeased if she knew;
and—and, to tell you the truth, there isn't another
vacant room in the house."
I had only just had time to give the promise re-


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
93
quested of me when our interview was interrupted by
Hopley, who wanted Lady Janet to come and see what a
first-rate hand he was at curling; so that I was unable to
make the inquiries about the haunted chamber which I
should have liked to make. When all is said and done,
we mortals are an uncertain and, to a large extent, irre-
sponsible race. Who will dare to boast that his judg-
ment is superior to the accidents of time, place, and
health ? For my own part, I would rather not write my-
self down an ass, but honesty constrains me to avow that
I am not quite the same man in the dark as I am in
broad daylight. Few things are more utterly absurd
and groundless than the fear of ghosts, specters, and
goblins. One knows exactly how such superstitions
arise, one understands that they are inevitable in a low
state of civilization; and when one is walking down Pall
Mall, or sitting in the club, one can smile at them easily
enough. Yet if one be the occupant of a room reputed
to be haunted, in a lonely Scotch castle, one's flesh may
quite as easily be made to creep by unexplained nocturnal
noises. I speak, of course, of my own flesh ; but I im-
agine that there are many other people like me.
The fact is that I slept very badly that night, and
that I heard innumerable noises for which I was unable
to account_footsteps, whisperings, even subdued sighs
or moans. It may have been the wind; it may have
been rats or bats or fifty things : all I know is that I
spent a very long and very disagreeable night, and that


94
THE WITCHING TIME.
-
neither specter nor practical joker appeared to bring my
vague disquietude to a climax. When my man came in,
in the morning, it occurred to me to tell him of the
trick which had been played upon me, and which had
not been repeated.
“ Williams,” said I, “ the night before last one of the
young gentlemen came into my room and ran away with
my pillow. It has been replaced, I see. Do you hap-
pen to know where it was discovered ?”
Williams, I believe, prides himself upon his impassi-
bility; yet it seemed to me that just the suggestion of a
smile fitted across his face as he replied: “Found in
Lady Strathannan's room, yesterday morning, sir, I an-
derstand.”
Really this was a little startling. Lady Strathannan,
as I knew, had been bad with neuralgia all day, and had
not got up until just before the dinner hour. It was im-
possible to suppose that she herself had robbed me of my
pillow. How in the world, then, had it found its way
into her room? I frowned at Williams, to repress any
ill-timed merriment on his part, and remarked that jokes
of that kind were not only very silly, but in extremely
bad taste, to which he replied, “ Yes, sir."
Williams, though a good servant, is a most aggravat-
ing man. I perceived from his manner that he had
something more to say; but I did not choose to question
him, because I make it a rule never to encourage any
repetition of servants’-hall gossip. After all, the very


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
95
best answer to a practical joke is to take no notice of it
until you see your way to reprisals.
The succeeding day was marked by no event worthy
of record. Lady Strathannan, recovered from her neu-
ralgia, joined us at breakfast and made herself extremely
agreeable to everybody—as, indeed, she usually does.
Personally I had no opportunity of talking with her
until the evening, when she created an opportunity by
leading me to the picture gallery to show me the famous
Guido, which is considered to be one of the chief treas-
ures of Strathannan. That this was a mere pretext she
candidly avowed as soon as I had seated myself beside
her on the old oak settle which faced the celebrated can-
vas in question.
“Mr. Hervey,” said she, “I brought you here be-
cause I am very anxious to have a few words with you
about my nephew Robert. I know you are a great
friend of his, and most likely he has told you all about
his troubles.”
She paused for me to make a sign of assent, and con-
tinued: “I dare say he has said some disagreeable things
to you about me, too; but that is of no consequence. I
am sorry that he should think badly of me; but I must
do my duty, and I should think that I was acting very
wrongly if I allowed his silly half-engagement to dear
Janet to go on. At the same time, one can not but
admit that he has some reason to consider himself un-
lucky. Perhaps you think so."
2 reas
i
.


96
THE WITCHING TIME.
I replied that, without imputing the smallest blame
to anybody, I was disposed to regard that as a simple
matter of fact.
“Exactly so; and these family quarrels are so very
painful, are they not? That is why I have made up my
mind to offer Robert an allowance. I shouldn't feel
justified in making it quite as much as he used to receive
from his uncle; but I think I could manage two hun.
dred a year. Now, dear Mr. Hervey, will you do me a
great favor, and try to arrange this for me?"
“Of course I can deliver any message that you are
pleased to intrust me with, Lady Strathannan," I an-
swered; "but wouldn't it be shorter to write to Bob
yourself ?"
“Well, no," she said; “because, unfortunately, he is
60 prejudiced against me that he would be quite sure to
refuse by return of post. And then I must tell you
that I wish to add a little condition to this offer. I want
him to promise me upon his honor that he will give up
all thought of marrying Janet, and that he will say as
much distinctly to her herself. Then we could be
friends again, and I would undertake to find him a nice
girl with a little money of her own before long, who
would make quite as good a wife for him as Janet or
anybody else. Now you know, Mr. Hervey-don't you?
—that it really doesn't matter in the least, after a year
or two, whether a man has happened to be in love with
his wife when he married her or not.”


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
97
ер
I was unable to divine why she should attribute any
such knowledge as this to a bachelor; but she went on to
speak in such flattering terms of my well-known tact,
and the amiability of my disposition and so forth, that I
ended by accepting the mission thrust upon me, though
I gave her fair warning that I did not expect to be suc-
cessful. Bob Innes, I suspected, was incorruptible, and
even if he had been open to a bribe, two hundred
pounds a year is not a very high price to set upon a
man's self-respect. For the obvious meaning of all this
was that Lady Janet would not consent to enter the
noble family of Hopley until her cousin should not only
have set her free but renounced her.
However, I like to get on with people as pleasantly
as I can, so I assured my hostess that I would do what in
me lay to bring about the reconciliation which she had
so much at heart, and forbore to inquire whether she had
noticed such a thing in her bedroom on the previous
morning as a pillow which did not belong to her. She
retired almost immediately after we had re-entered the
drawing-room, complaining of a return of her neuralgia,
and leaving Lady Janet to entertain the company.
Hopley and his young friends were very jocular
about the specter that night in the smoking-room. Con-
cealment is not very difficult; but to conceal the fact
that you have something to conceal is a higher branch of
art, and they evidently either knew or suspected that I
had not related the whole truth with regard to my ex-


98
THE WITCHING TIME.
perience in the haunted chamber. In any case, I was
determined that I would not allow myself to be drawn.
I bafiled their queries ; I submitted imperturbably to
their chaff, and I patiently sat them out-one conse-
quence of which was that when at length I reached my
bedroom I was dead tired. Ghost or no ghost, I could
not go through a second vigil; and I suppose I had not
been in bed five minutes before I was sound asleep.
I awoke precisely as I had done on the previous occa-
sion, with a shuddering conviction that something or
somebody was near me. As before, the room was not
quite dark, there being still a glow from the dying fire,
and, as before, that shadowy white figure was bending
over me. I don't in the least mind admitting that my
heart beat hard and fast; I believe that the motion of
anybody's heart would have become accelerated under
the circumstances; and I did what I think was quite the
best thing to do, in lying perfectly still, and waiting for
the apparition-whoever or whatever it might be—to
make the next move. But when for the second time a
hand-a most distinct, prehensile hand—was stretched
forward and plucked at my pillow, common sense on a
sudden re-asserted itself. It is contrary to all reason, and
beyond the limits of the most credulous assertion, that
a ghost can have hands capable of grasping pillows.
That dim white figure was Hopley, or, if not Hopley,
some other human being with whom I was resolved to
deal as he deserved. Unluckily, I had forgotten to place


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
99
the water-jug beside me; but with a sudden bound I
sprang up and stood erect upon the bed.
At the same instant, to my utter amazement, my
ghostly visitant collapsed upon the floor, and lay there
in a huddled heap, uttering moans of the extremest
terror and anguish. I don't know whether my nerves
might not have been shaken by this unexpected exhibi-
tion, if presently the moans of the prostrate one had
not resolved themselves into more or less coherent en-
treaties, and if I had not recognized, beyond all doubt,
the voice of Lady Strathannan.
“Mercy! mercy!” she shrieked. « Oh, I knew this
would happen to me some day! I ought never to
have entered your room! I will do anything you tell
me-I will give back the ten thousand pounds—any-
thing! Fool that I was ! I was beginning to disbelieve
in you! Oh, why, why, why have you appeared to
me!”
What a thing it is to have presence of mind! With
the rapidity of a flash of lightning, the whole situation
became clear to me. Lady Strathannan had robbed her
nephew; I was the specter, and it was my mission to
make her disgorge her ill-gotten gains. I threw myself
into the part with a readiness for which I do think that
I deserve the greatest credit. Many years ago, when I
was a boy, I took a few lessons in ventriloquism, and
learned, if not to ventriloquize, at least to disguise my
voice. It was in hollow accents, which, at such an hour


100
THE WITCHING TIME.
and in such a place, would have struck terror into the
stoutest heart, that I uttered the words : “ Woman, con-
fess your crime !"
“But not publicly!” she groaned. “Ah, don't make
me do that! For my poor children's sake, spare me! It
was for my children's sake that I burned the will. It was
wrong, I know; but I acted for the best, and-and for
Janet's happiness. I shall be sent to prison if I confess,
and others will suffer quite as much as I shall. You
wouldn't bring such misery upon an innocent family!”
“Yes, I would,” I replied; it was rather a colloquial
fashion of expressing myself, but she was too much
scared to notice that. “Wrong must be set right, and
stolen money must be restored.”
" It shall be ; I promise it-I swear it!" she gasped
out eagerly. “The money shall be paid to him as soon
as ever I can realize it.”
“That is not all,” I continued solemnly, after a short
pause. “You have defrauded your nephew of more
than money, and you must make amends to him. You
must consent to his marriage with your daughter.”
All this time Lady Strathannan was groveling on the
ground, and, as far as I could see, had her face hidden in
her hands. She made no articulate reply; but, listening
intently, I heard her mutter between her teeth, “I
won't!”
Without an instant's hesitation I responded. “You
will not obey?" I asked. “Die, then ! ” It was rather


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
101
re
a
a bold threat, because, in the first place, I could not kill
her, and, in the second, there are a good many people
who would prefer death to disgrace. Fortunately, how-
ever, it appeared that Lady Strathannan was not one of
these.
“No, no!” she shrieked, “I will obey, indeed I
will! Only give me time! I acted for the best. I
didn't think it was for her happiness to marry that man,
and I don't think so now—I can't think so. Still, I will
give my consent, if I must.”
“ You must!" I replied from the pit of my stomach.
Now this was all very satisfactory, so far as it went;
but the question was, how on earth was I to conclude the
interview? I ought, of course, to have faded slowly
away, but it was altogether out of my power to fade
away; besides which, I really couldn't trust the old
woman. It was essential that I should extort some tan-
gible pledge from her, otherwise courage might return to
her with the return of day; and it was exceedingly im-
probable that I should have a second chance of fright-
ening her out of her wits. It was a ticklish situation,
and I fully realized the risk of detection that I was run-
ning, but I had to make the best of it.
“Go to your room," quoth I, in sepulchral accents,
“take pen and paper and write as follows: ‘I, Elizabeth,
Countess of Strathannan, hereby acknowledge that I
have defrauded my nephew, Robert Innes, of ten thou-
sand pounds, left to him by his uncle in a will which I


102
THE WITCHING TIME.
feloniously destroyed; and, in consideration of his clem-
ency in sparing me public exposure, I engage to pay him
the said sum as the marriage-portion of my daughter,
Janet Innes, and to welcome him as my son-in-law and
the husband of the said Janet. When you have written
and signed this paper, bring it back and leave it here.
It will have disappeared in the morning; and, unless
you prove false to it, no mortal eye ever will see it.”.
I had a moment of intense anxiety after I had thus
delivered myself. It was obvious that no specter who
understood his business would ask for a signed engage-
ment, yet, as I said before, I had to make the best use I
could of my opportunity, and I imagine that her lady-
ship was too much delighted at the prospect held out to
her of immunity from public disgrace to cavil at details.
She bleated out a lachrymose assent, scrambled to her
feet and trotted away, without so much as glancing at
me.
Then I had another painful minute-five minutes, in-
deed, I should think-of suspense. Would she ever
come back again? When once she had reached her own
room, would she not, like a sensible woman, reflect that
no apparition had ever shown itself to her there, and
that by the simple expedient of avoiding the specter's
special hunting-grounds, she might hope to avoid all
future molestation? It was true that I had received a
distinct admission of guilt from her, and that I might
hold this over her in terrorem, but then there was noth-


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
103
ing to prevent her from meeting my assertion with a
point-blank denial, nor anything to convince a cold and
skeptical world that I had not been the victim of a night-
mare.
I don't know when I have felt so thankful in my life
as when I heard the pattering of her returning feet in
the adjoining room. In she came, bearing a folded paper
in her hand, and the instant that she was within my
reach, I made a grab at it and secured it. So overjoyed
was I at my success, that I really did not notice the cir-
cumstance that she had brought a candle with her.
But when, instead of a grisly phantom, she found her-
self confronted with a gentleman of the nineteenth
century, appareled in the customary nocturnal garb of the
period, she realized the heartless deception which had
been practiced upon her, and protested against it with
not unnatural warmth.
“You wretch !” she ejaculated. “You infamous,
wicked wretch !"
I am a very modest man by nature. I hopped deftly
into bed and covered myself up, taking care, however, to
keep a firm hold upon the paper. “My dear Lady
Strathannan,” said I, “let us not call one another hard
names. After what you have told me, I might say some
uncomplimentary things to you; but I won't. I am per-
suaded that you have repented of your sin, and you
have bound yourself down to make reparation for it.
More than that no charitable fellow-sinner would wish


104
THE WITCHING TIME.
to exact, and you may be sure that, so long as you ob-
serve the terms of our agreement, neither the strong arm
of the law nor the censure of society will fall upon
you.” :
“Of course,” she returned sullenly, after a few sec-
onds of consideration, “I am in your power, and I must
obey your orders. You have extorted information by a
most disgraceful and ungentlemanlike trick; but I sup-
pose you are not likely to feel ashamed of yourself. As
a matter of curiosity, though, I should like to hear how
you found your way into this roorn."
“Well, do you know, Lady Strathannan," I returned,
“that is the very question that I was thinking of put-
ting to you. How did you find your way into this
room? And, without for one moment permitting my-
self to speak about disgraceful and unladylike tricks,
may I ask what your object is in plucking my pillow
from under my head and running off with it? Because,
after all, it is my pillow for the time being; and, for the
time being, this is also my bedroom.”
“What!” she cried. “Do you mean to tell me that
this is the room they gave you when you arrived ?"
“It is, indeed," I answered; "and if you don't be-
liere me, you can look in the wardrobe and the chest of
drawers, and you will find all my things there."
“Menzies shall have a month's warning to-morrow,"
muttered Lady Strathannan.
“I hope you will not punish Mrs. Menzies," I said.


THE SPECTER OF STRATHANNAN.
105
“I believe she was much distressed at having to put me
here; but it seems that the room originally destined
for me has a leak in the roof, or a dead rat behind the
wainscot, or something; and really I think you had bet-
ter say nothing to her about it, because, if you do, she
will want to know how you found out the truth, which,
as I need hardly point out to you, might give rise to
scandal. And now that I have satisfactorily accounted
for my presence, may I once more venture to inquire"
“Oh, bother ! ” she interrupted. And then, after a
short pause: “Well, if you want to know, I can't sleep
without a pile of pillows when I have these neuralgic
headaches, and so I sometimes collect them from this
room and the next one, which communicates with mine.
If Menzies had put you into the next room, all this
would have been avoided; but, unfortunately, she did
once put an old gentleman in there—who snored, and I
told her that such a thing must not occur again. Why
didn't you speak when I helped myself to your pillow
the first time ?”
“To tell you the truth," I replied, “I took you for
the family specter. You returned the compliment to-
night, so we may cry quits."
“Mr. Hervey,” said Lady Strathannan, changing her
manner all of a sudden, and speaking in the dulcet tones
which I had always hitherto been accustomed to associate
with her, “I see that I was wrong in suspecting you of a
deliberate design, and I hope you will overlook anything


106
THE WITCHING TIME.
ISW
disagreeable that I may have said in the heat of the mo
ment. Of course, I have treated Robert Innes badly. I
won't attempt to justify myself; but, as you so truly say,
I have repented, and I am going to make reparation.
And now, will you kindly give me back that slip of
paper, which you snatched from me?”
“Most certainly I will, Lady Strathannan," answered
I. “I will give it back to you on Bob's wedding-day.”
And I kept my word. She received the written
confession of her fraud one day in the following June,
at the conclusion of a largely-attended ceremony in a
fashionable London church, and after I had taken care
to ascertain that Bob's £10,000 had been duly paid over
to him. Everybody said that Lady Strathannan had be-
haved so nicely about it, and had provided so much more
handsomely for her daughter than could have been ex-
pected.
Such, I believe, is the view taken by Bob himself,
who has become reconciled with his mother-in-law, and
who tells me that she is really not at all a bad old woman
in her way. With what feelings her ladyship regards
me I do not know, for she is rather clever at concealing
her feelings. She is extremely civil to me when we
meet, but she has not asked me to stay with her in
Scotland again, and it seems highly probable that I shall
go down to my grave without having had a second
opportunity of finding out whether the celebrated Spec-
ter of Strathannan is a myth or not.


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
BY VON DEGEN.
MARTIN DETAILLE'S ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED AT THE
VIGNA MARZIALI.
MARCELLO's voice is pleading with me now, perhaps
because after years of separation I have met an old
acquaintance who had a part in his strange story. I
have a longing to tell it, and have asked Monsieur
Sutton to help me. He noted down the circumstances
at the time, and he is willing to join his share to mine,
that Marcello may be remembered.
One day, it was in spring, he appeared in my little
studio among the laurels and green alleys of the Villa
Medici. “Come, mon enfant,” he said, “put up your
paints ;” and he unceremoniously took my palette out
of my hand. “I have a cab waiting outside, and we are
going in search of a hermitage.” He was already wash-
ing my brushes as he spoke, and this softened my heart,
for I hate to do it myself. Then he pulled off my velvet
jacket and took down my respectable coat from a nail on


108
THE WITCHING TIME.
the wall. I let him dress me like a child. We always
did his will, and he knew it, and in a moment we were
sitting in the cab, driving through the Via Sistina on our
way to the Porta San Giovanni, whither he had directed
the coachman to go.
I must tell my story as I can, for though I have been
told by my comrades, who can not know very well, that
I can speak good English, writing it is another thing.
Monsieur Sutton has asked me to use his tongue, because
he has so far forgotten mine that he will not trust him-
self in it, though he has promised to correct my mistakes,
that what I have to tell you may not seem ridiculous,
and make people laugh when they read of Marcello. I
tell him I wish to write this for my countrymen, not his;
but he reminds me that Marcello had many English
friends who still live, and that the English do not forget
as we do. It is of no use to reason with him, for neither
do they yield as we do, and so I have consented to his
wish. I think he has a reason which he does not tell
me, but let it go. I will translate it all into my own
language for my own people. Your English phrases
seem to me to be always walking sideways, or trying to
look round the corner or stand upon their heads, and
they have as many little tails as a kite. I will try not
to have recourse to my own language, but he must
pardon me if I forget myself. He may be sure I do
not do it to offend him. Now that I have explained so
much, let me go on.


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
When we had passed out of the Porta San Giovanni,
the coachman drove as slowly as he liked. The pay is
more outside the gates, and they always pretend then
that their horses are tired, and creep as slowly as pos-
sible; but Marcello was never practical. How could he
be, I ask you, with an opera in his head ? So we
crawled along, and he gazed dreamily before him. At
last, when we had reached the part where the little villas
and vineyards begin, he began to look about him.
You all know how it is out there; iron gates with
rusty names or initials over them, and beyond them
straight walks bordered with roses and lavender leading
up to a forlorn little casino, with trees and a wilderness
behind it sloping down to the Campagna, lonely enough
to be murdered in and no one to hear you cry. We
stopped at several of these gates and Marcello stood look-
ing in, but none of the places were to his taste. He
seemed not to doubt that he might have whatever
pleased him, but nothing did so. He would jump out
and run to the gate, and return saying, “ The shape of
those windows would disturb my inspiration," or, “ That
yellow paint would make me fail my duett in the second
Act;” and once he liked the air of the house well
enough, but there were marigolds growing in the walk,
and he hated them. So we drove on and on, until I
thought we should find nothing more to reject. At last
we came to one which suited him, though it was terribly
lonely, and I should have fancied it very agaçant to live


110
THE WITCHING TIME.
so far away from the world with nothing but those
melancholy olives and green oaks—ilexes, you call them
--for company.
“I shall live here and become famous !” he said de-
cidedly, as he pulled the iron rod which rang a great bell
inside. We waited, and then he rang again very im-
patiently and stamped his foot.
“No one lives here, mon vieux ! Come, it is getting
late, and it is so damp out here, and you know that the
damp for a tenor voice” He stamped his foot again
and interrupted me angrily.
“Why, then, have you got a tenor? You are stupid !
a bass would be more sensible; nothing hurts it. But
you have not got one, and you call yourself my friend!
Go home without me.” How could I, so far on foot?
“Go and sing your lovesick songs to your lean English
misses ! They will thank you with a cup of abominable
tea, and you will be in Paradise! This is my Paradise,
and I shall stay until the angel comes to open it!"
He was very cross and unreasonable, and those were
just the times when one loved him most, so I waited and
enveloped my throat in my pocket-handkerchief and
sang a passage or two just to prevent my voice from be-
coming stiff in that damp air.
“ Be still ! silence yourself !” he cried. “I can not
hear if any one is coming."
Some one came at last, a rough-looking sort of keeper,
or guardiano as they are called there, who looked at us


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
111
as though he thought we were mad. One of us cer-
tainly was, but it was not I. Marcello spoke pretty good
Italian, with a French accent, it is true, but the man un-
derstood him, especially as he held his purse in his hand.
I heard him say a great many impetuously persuasive
things all in a breath, then he slipped a gold piece into
the guardiano's horny hand, and the two turned toward
the house, the man shrugging his shoulders in a resigned
sort of way, and Marcello called out to me over his
shoulder-
“Go home in the cab, or you will be late for your
horrible English party! I am going to stay here to-
night.” Ma foi! I took his permission and left him ;
for a tenor voice is as tyrannical as a jealous woman.
Besides, I was furious, and yet I laughed. His was the
artist temperament, and appeared to us by turns absurd,
sublime, and intensely irritating; but this last never for
long, and we all felt that were we more like him our
pictures would be worth more. I had not got as far as
the city gate when my temper had cooled, and I began
to reproach myself for leaving him in that lonely place
with his purse full of money, for he was not poor at all,
and tempting the dark guardiano to murder him.
Nothing could be easier than to kill him in his sleep and
bury him away somewhere under the olive trees or in
some old vault of a ruined catacomb, so common on the
borders of the Campagna. There were sure to be a hun--
dred such convenient places. I stopped the coachman


112
THE WITCHING TIME.
and told him to turn back, but he shook his head and
said something about having to be in the Piazza of St.
Peter at eight o'clock. His horse began to go lame, as
though he had understood his master and were his ac-
complice. What could I do? I said to myself that it
was fate, and let him take me back to the Villa Medici,
where I had to pay him a pretty sum for our crazy ex-
pedition, and then be rattled off, the horse not lame at
all, leaving me bewildered at this strange afternoon.
I did not sleep well that night, though my tenor
song had been applauded, and the English misses had
caressed me much. I tried not to think of Marcello,
and he did not trouble me much until I went to bed;
but then I could not sleep, as I have told you. I fancied
him already murdered, and being buried in the darkness
by the guardiano. I saw the man dragging his body,
with the beautiful head thumping against the stones,
down dark passages, and at last leaving it all bloody and
covered with earth under a black arch in a recess, and
coming back to count the gold pieces. But then again I
fell asleep, and dreamed that Marcello was standing at
the gate and stamping his foot; and then I slept no
more, but got up as soon as the dawn came, and dressed
myself and went to my studio at the end of the laurel
walk. I took down my painting-jacket, and remem-
bered how he had pulled it off my shoulders. I took
up the brushes he had washed for me; they were only
half cleaned after all, and stiff with paint and soap. I


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA113
.
.
felt glad to be angry with him, and sacré'd a little, for it
made me sure that he was yet alive if I could scold at
him. Then I pulled out my study of his head for my
picture of Mucius Scævola holding his hand in the flame,
and then I forgave him; for who could look upon that
face and not love it?
I worked with the fire of friendship in my brush,
and did my best to endow the features with the expres-
sion of scorn and obstinacy I had seen at the gate. It
could not have been more suitable to my subject! Had
I seen it for the last time? You will ask me why I did
not leave my work and go to see if anything had hap-
pened to him, but against this there were several reasons.
Our yearly exhibition was not far off and my picture was
barely painted in, and my comrades had sworn' that
it would not be ready. I was expecting a model for the
King of the Etruscans; a man who cooked chestnuts in
the Piazza Montanara, and who had consented to stoop
to sit to me as a great favor; and then, to tell the truth,
the morning was beginning to dispel my fancies. I had
a good northern light to work by, with nothing senti-
mental about it, and I was not fanciful by nature; so
when I sat down to my easel I told myself that I had
been a fool, and that Marcello was perfectly safe: the
smell of the paints helping me to feel practical again.
Indeed, I thought every moment that he would come in,
tired of his caprice already, and even was preparing and
practising a little lecture for him. Some one knocked


114
THE WITCHING TIME.
-
at my door, and I cried "Entrez ! ” thinking it was he at
last; but no, it was Pierre Magnin.
“There is a curious man, a man of the country, who
wants you,” he said. “He has your address on a dirty
piece of paper in Marcello's handwriting, and a letter for
you, but he won't give it up. He says he must see ‘il
Signor Martino.' He'd make a superb model for a mur-
derer! Come and speak to him, and keep him while I
get a sketch of his head.”
I followed Magnin through the garden, and outside
for the porter had not allowed him to enter I found the
guardiano of yesterday. He showed his white teeth,
and said “Good day, signore," like a Christian; and
here in Rome he did not look half so murderous, only a
stupid, brown, country fellow. He had a rough peasant-
cart waiting, and he had tied up his shaggy horse to a
ring in the wall. I held out my hand for the letter and
pretended to find it difficult to read, for I saw Magnin
standing with his sketch-book in the shadow of the en.
trance-ball. The note said this-I have it still, and I
will copy it. It was written in pencil on a leaf torn
from his pocket-book :
“ Mon vieux ! I have passed a good night here, and
the man will keep me as long as I like. Nothing will
happen to me, except that I shall be divinely quiet, and
I have already a famous motif in my head. Go to my
lodgings and pack up some clothes and all my manu-


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
115
scripts, with plenty of music paper and a few bottles of
Bordeaux, and give them to my messenger. Be quick
about it!
“Fame is preparing to descend upon me! If you
care to see me, do not come before eight days. The
gate will not be opened if you come sooner. The
guardiano is my slave, and he has instructions to kill
any intruder who in the guise of a friend tries to get
in uninvited. He will do it, for he has confessed to
me that he has murdered three men already.”
(Of course this was a joke. I knew Marcello's way.)
“When you come, go to the poste restante and fetch
my letters. Here is my card to legitimate you. Don't
forget pens and a bottle of ink! Your
“ MARCELLO.”
There was nothing for it but to jump into the cart,
tell Magnin, who had finished his sketch, to lock up my
studio, and go bumping off to obey these commands.
We drove to his lodgings in the Via del Governo Vec-
chio, and there I made a bundle of all that I could think
of; the landlady hindering me by a thousand questions
about when the signore would return. He had paid
for the rooms in advance, so she had no need to be
anxious about her rent. When I told her where he was
she shook her head, and talked a good deal about the
bad air out there, and said “Poor signorino!” in a
melancholy way, as though he were already buried, and


116
THE WITCHING TIME.
looked mournfully after us from the window when we
drove away. She irritated me, and made me feel super-
stitious. At the corner of the Via del Tritone I jumped
down and gave the man a franc out of pure sentimen-
tality, and cried after him, “Greet the signore !” but
he did not hear me, and jogged away stupidly while I
was longing to be with him. Marcello was a cross to
us sometimes, but we loved him always.
The eight days went by sooner than I had thought
they would, and Thursday came, bright and sunny, for
my expedition. At one o'clock I descended into the
Piazza di Spagna, and made a bargain with a man who
had a well-fed horse, remembering how dearly Mar-
cello's want of good sense had cost me a week ago,
and we drove off at a good pace to the Vigna Marziali,
as I was almost forgetting to say that it was called.
My heart was beating, though I did not know why I
should feel so much emotion. When we reached the
iron gate the guardiano answered my ring directly, and
I had no sooner set foot in the long flower-walk than
I saw Marcello hastening to meet me.
“I knew you would come,” he said, drawing my
arm within his, and so we walked toward the little
gray house, which had a sort of portico and several
balconies, and a sun-dial on its front. There were
grated windows down to the ground floor, and the place,
to my relief, looked safe and habitable. He told me
that the man did not sleep there, but in a little hut


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
117
down toward the Campagna, and that he, Marcello,
locked himself in safely every night, which I was also
relieved to know.
“What do you get to eat ?” said I.
“Oh, I have goat's flesh, and dried beans and polen-
ta, with pecorino' cheese, and there is plenty of black
bread and sour wine,” he answered smilingly. “You
see, I am not starved.”
“Do not overwork yourself, mon vieux,” I said ;
“you are worth more than your opera ever will be.”
“Do I look overworked ?” he said, turning his face
to me in the broad, out-door light. He seemed a little
offended at my saying that about his opera, and I was
foolish to do it.
I examined his face critically, and he looked at me
half defiantly. “No, not yet," I answered rather un-
willingly, for I could not say that he did ; but there
was a restless, inward look in his eyes, and an almost
imperceptible shadow lay around them. It seemed to
me as though the full temples had grown slightly hol-
low, and a sort of faint mist lay over his beauty, making
it seem strange and far off. We were standing before
the door, and he pushed it open, the guardiano follow-
ing us with slow, loud-resounding steps.
“ Here is my Paradise,” said Marcello, and we en-
tered the house, which was like all the others of its
kind. A hall, with stucco bas-reliefs, and a stairway
adorned with antique fragments, gave access to the


118
THE WITCHING TIME.
upper rooms. Marcello ran up the steps lightly, and I
heard him lock a door somewhere above and draw out
the key, then he came and met me on the landing..
“This," he said, “is my work-room," and he threw
open a low door. The key was in the lock, so this
room could not be the one I heard him close. 6 Tell
me I shall not write like an angel here!” he cried.
I was so dazzled by the flood of bright sunshine after
the dusk of the passage, that I blinked like an owl at
first, and then I saw a large room, quite bare except
for a rough table and chair, the chair covered with
manuscript music...
. “You are looking for the furniture," he said, laugh-
ing; “it is outside. Look here ! ” and he drew me to
a rickety door of worm-eaten wood and coarse greenish
glass, and flung it open on to a rusty iron balcony.
He was right; the furniture was outside : that is to
say, a divine view met my eyes. The Sabine Mount-
ains, the Alban Hills, the broad Campagna, with its
mediæval towers and ruined aqueducts, and the open
plain to the sea. All this glowing and yet calm in the
sunlight. No wonder he could write there! The bal.
cony ran round the corner of the house, and to the
right I looked down upon an alley of ilexes, ending in a
grove of tall laurel trees—very old, apparently. There
were bits of sculpture and some ancient sarcophagi
standing gleaming among them, and even from so high
I could hear a little stream of water pouring from
sea.


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA. 119
an antique mask into a long, rough trough. I saw the
brown guardiano digging at his cabbages and onions, and
I laughed to think that I could fancy him a murderer!
He had a little bag of relics, which dangled to and fro
over his sun-burned breast, and he looked very innocent
when he sat down upon an old column to eat a piece of
black bread with an onion which he had just pulled out
of the ground, slicing it with a knife not at all like a
dagger. But I kept my thoughts to myself, for Mar-
cello would have laughed at them. We were standing
together, looking down at the man as he drank from
his hands at the running fountain, and Marcello now
leaned down over the balcony, and called out a long
“ Ohé!” The lazy guardiano looked up, nodded, and
then got up slowly from the stone where he had been
half-kneeling to reach the jet of water. .
. “We are going to dine,” Marcello explained. “I
have been waiting for you.” Presently we heard the •
man's heavy tread upon the stairs, and he entered bear-
ing a strange meal in a basket.
There came to light pecorino cheese made from ewe's
milk, black bread of the consistency of a stone, a great
bowl of salad apparently composed of weeds, and a
sausage which filled the room with a strong smell of
garlic. Then he disappeared and came back with a
dish full of ragged-looking goat's flesh cooked together
with a mass of smoking polenta, and I am not sure that
there was not oil in it.


120
THE WITCHING TIME.
“I told you I lived well, and now you see !” said
Marcello. It was a terrible meal, but I had to eat it,
and was glad to have some rough, sour wine to help
me, which tasted of earth and roots. When we had
finished, I said, “ And your opera! How are you get-
ting on?”
“Not a word about that !” he cried. “You see
how I have written !” and he turned over a heap of
manuscript; “ but do not talk to me about it. I will
not lose my ideas in words.” This was not like Mar-
cello, who loved to discuss his work, and I looked at
him astonished.
“Come,” he said, “we will go down into the garden,
and you shall tell me about the comrades. What are
they doing? Has Magnin found a model for his Clyt-
emnestra ?”
I humored him, as I always did, and we sat upon a
stone bench behind the house, looking toward the laurel
grove, talking of the pictures and the students. I
wanted to walk down the ilex alley, but he stopped
me.
“If you are afraid of the damp, don't go down
there,” he said ; “ the place is like a vault. Let us stay
here and be thankful for this heavenly view.”
“Well, let us stay here," I answered, resigned as
ever. He lit a cigar and offered me one in silence. If
he did not care to talk, I could be still too. From time
to time he made some indifferent observation, and I


À MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
121
answered it in the same tone. It almost seemed to
me as though we, the old heart-comrades, had become
strangers who had not known each other a week, or as
though we had been so long apart that we had grown
away from each other. There was something about him
which escaped me. Yes, the few days of solitude had
indeed put years and a sort of shyness, or rather cere-
mony, between us ! It did not seem natural to me now
to clap him on the back, and make the old, harmless
jokes at him. He must have felt the constraint, too,
for we were like children who had looked forward to a
game and did not know what to play at.
At six o'clock I left him. It was not like parting
with Marcello. I felt rather as though I should find
my old friend in Rome that evening, and here only
left a shadowy likeness of him.
to the gate, and pressed my hand, and for a moment
the true Marcello looked out of his eyes; but we called
out no last words to each other as I drove away. I had
only said, “Let me know when you want me;" and
he had said, “ Merci ! ” and all the way back to Rome
I felt a chill upon me, his hand had been so cold, and
I thought and thought what could be the matter with
him.
That evening I spoke out my anxiety to Pierre Mag-
nin, who shook his head and declared that malaria fever
must be taking hold of him, and that people often began
to show it by being a little odd.


122
THE WITCHING TIME.
, “He must not stay there! We must get him away
as soon as possible," I cried.
“We know Marcello, and that nothing can make
him stir against his will,” said Pierre. “Let him alone,
and lie will get tired of his whim. It will not kill him
to have a touch of malaria, and some evening he will
turn up among us merry as ever."
But he did not. I worked hard at my picture and
finished it, but for a few touches, and he had not yet
appeared. Perhaps it was the extreme application, per-
haps the sitting out in that damp place, for I insist upon
tracing it to something more material than emotion.
Well, whatever it was, I fell ill; more ill than I had
ever been in my life. It was almost twilight when it
overtook me, and I remember it distinctly, though I for-
get what happened afterward, or, rather, I never knew,
for I was found by Magnin quite unconscious, and he
has told me that I remained so for some time, and then
became delirious, and talked of nothing but Marcello. I
have told you that it was very nearly twilight; but just
at the moment when the sun is gone the colors show in
their true value. Artists know this, and I was putting
last tonches here and there to my picture, and especially
to my head of Mucius Scævola, or, rather, Marcello.
The rest of the picture came out well enough; but
that head, which should have been the principal one,
seemed faded and sunk in. The face appeared to grow
paler and paler, and to recede from me; a strange veil


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
123
S
spread over it, and the eyes seemed to close. I am not
easily frightened, and I know what tricks some peculiar
methods of color will play by certain lights, for the
moment I spoke of had gone, and the twilight grayness
had set in; so I stepped back to look well at it. Just
then the lips, which had become almost white, opened a
little, and sighed! An illusion, of course. I must have
been very ill and quite delirious already, for to my im-
agination it was a real sigh, or, rather, a sort of ex
hausted gasp. Then it was that I fainted, I suppose,
and when I came to myself I was in my bed, with
Magnin and Monsieur Sutton standing by me, and a
Sæur de Charité moving softly about among medicine
bottles, and speaking in whispers. I stretched out my
hands, and they were thin and yellow, with long, pale
nails; and I heard Magnin's voice, which sounded very
far away, say, “ Dieu merci ! ” And now Monsieur
Sutton will tell you what I did not know until long
afterward.
MARTIN DETAILLE.
ROBERT SUTTON'S ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED AT THE
VIGNA MARZIALI.
I am attached to Detaille, and was very glad to be
of use to him, but I never fully shared his admiration for
Marcello Souvestre, though I appreciated his good points.


124
THE WITCHING TIME. -
He was certainly very promising-I must say that. But
he was an odd, fighty sort of fellow, not of the kind
which we English care to take the trouble to understand.
It is my business to write stories, but not having need of
such characters I have never particularly studied them.
As I say, I was glad to be of use to Detaille, who is a
thorough good fellow, and I willingly gave up my work
to go and sit by his bedside. Magnin knew that I was a
friend of his, and very properly came to me when he
found that Detaille's illness was a serious one and likely
to last for a long time. I found him perfectly delirious,
and raving about Marcello. .
“Tell me what the motif is! I know it is a Marche
Funèbre !” And here he would sing a peculiar melody,
which, as I have a knack at music, I noted down, it be-
ing like nothing I had heard before. The Sister of
Charity looked at me with severe eyes; but how could
she know that all is grist for our mill, and that observa-
tion becomes with us a mechanical habit? Poor Detaille
kept repeating this curious melody over and over, and
then would stop and seem to be looking at his picture,
crying that it was fading away.
“Marcello! Marcello! You are fading too! Let
me come to you !” He was as weak as a baby, and
could not have moved from his bed unless in the
strength of delirium.
“I can not come !” he went on; “they have tied
me down.” And here he made as though he were


À MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
125
trying to gnaw through a rope at his wrists, and then
burst into tears. “Will no one go for me and bring me
a word from you?' Ah! if I could know that you are
alive!”
Magnin looked at me. I knew what he was think-
ing. He would not leave his comrade, but I must go.
I don't mind acknowledging that I did not undertake
this unwillingly. To sit by Detaille's bedside and listen
to his ravings enervated me, and what Magnin wanted
struck me as troublesome but not uninteresting to one of
my craft, so I agreed to go. I had heard all about Mar-
cello's strange seclusion from Magnin and Detaille him-
self, who lamented over it openly in his simple way at
supper at the Academy, where I was a frequent
guest.
I knew that it wonld be useless to ring at the gate of
the Vigna Marziali. Not only should I not be admitted,
but I should arouse Marcello's anger and suspicion, for I
did not for a moment believe that he was not alive,
though I thought it very possible that he was becoming
a little crazy, as his countrymen are so easily put off
their balance. Now, odd people are oddest late in the
day and at evening-time. Their nerves lose the power
of resistance then, and the real man gets the better of
them. So I determined to try to discover something
at night, reflecting also that I should be safer from
detection then. I knew his liking for wandering about
when he ought to be in his bed, and I did not doubt that


126
THE WITCHING TIME.
I should get a glimpse of him, and that was really all I
needed.
My first step was to take a long walk out of the
Porta San Giovanni, and this I did in the early morning,
tramping along steadily until I came to an iron gate on
the right of the road with “Vigna Marziali” over it;
and then I walked straight on, never stopping until I
had reached a little bushy lane running down toward
the Campagna to the right. It was pebbly, and quite
shut in by luxuriant ivy and elder bushes, and it bore
deep traces of the last heavy rains. These had evidently
been effaced by no foot-prints, so I concluded that it was
little used. Down this path I made my way cautiously,
looking behind and before me, from a habit contracted
in my lonely wanderings in the Abruzzi. I had a capital
revolver with me—an old friend and I feared no man;
but I began to feel a dramatic interest in my undertak-
ing, and determined that it should not be crossed by any
disagreeable surprises. The lane led me further down
the plain than I had reckoned upon, for the bushy edge
shut out the view; and when I had got to the bottom
and faced round, the Vigna Marziali was lying quite far
to my left. I saw at a glance that behind the gray
casino an alley of ilexes ended in a laurel grove; then
there were plantations of kitchen-stuff, with a sort of
thatched cabin in their midst, probably that of the
gardener. I looked about for a kennel, but saw none, 80
there was no watch-dog. At the end of this primitive


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
127
kitchen garden was a broad patch of grass, bounded by a
fence, which I could take at a spring. Now, I knew my
way, but I could not resist tracing it out a little farther.
It was well that I did so, for I found just within the
fence a sunken stream, rather full at the time, in conse-
quence of the rains, too deep to wade and too broad to
jump. It struck me that it would be easy enough to
take a board from the fence and lay it over for a bridge.
I measured the breadth with my eye, and decided that
the board would span it; then I went back as I had
come, and returned to find Detaille still raving.
As he could understand nothing, it seemed to me
rather a fool's errand to go off in search of comfort for
him; but a conscious moment might come, and, more-
over, I began to be interested in my undertaking; and
so I agreed with Magnin that I should go and take some
food and rest and return to the Vigna that night. I told
my landlady that I was going into the country and
should return the next day, and I went to Nazarri's and
laid in a stock of sandwiches and filled my flask with
something they called sherry, for, though I was no great
wine-drinker, I feared the night-chill.
• It was about seven o'clock when I started, and I re-
traced my morning's steps exactly. As I reached the
lane, it occurred to me that it was still too light for me
to pass unobserved over the stream, and I made a place
for myself under the hedge and lay down, quite screened
by the thick curtain of tangled overhanging ivy,


128
THE WITCHING TIME.
I must have been out of training, and tired by the
morning's walk, for I fell asleep. When I awoke it was
night; the stars were shining, a dank mist made its way
down my throat, and I felt stiff and cold. I took a pull
at my flask, finding it nasty stuff, but it warmed me.
Then I rang my repeater, which struck a quarter to
eleven, got up and shook myself free of the leaves and
brambles, and went on down the lane. When I got to
the fence I sat down and thought the thing over. What
did I expect to discover? What was there to discover ?
Nothing! Nothing but that Marcello was alive; and
that was no discovery at all, for I felt sure of it. I was
a fool, and had let myself be allured by the mere stage
nonsense and mystery of the business, and a mouse
would creep out of this mountain of precautions !
Well, at least, I could turn it to account by describing
my own absurd behavior in some story yet to be written,
and, as it was not enough for a chapter, I would add to
it by further experience. “Come along !” I said to my-
self. “ You're an ass, but it may prove instructive." I
raised the top board from the fence noiselessly. There
was a stile just there, and the boards were easily moved.
I laid down my bridge with some difficulty and stepped
carefully across, and made my way to the laurel grove as
quickly and noiselessly as possible.
There all was thick darkness, and my eyes only grew
slowly accustomed to it. After all there was not much
to see; some stone seats in a semicircle, and some frag-


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
129
.
ments of columns set upright with antique busts npon
them. Then a little to the right a sort of arch, with
apparently some steps descending into the ground, prob-
ably the entrance to some discovered branch of a cata-
comb. In the midst of the inclosure, not a very large
one, stood a stone table, deeply fixed in the earth. No
one was there; of that I felt certain, and I sat down,
having now got used to the gloom, and fell to eat my
sandwiches, for I was desperately hungry.
Now that I had come so far, was nothing to take
place to repay me for my trouble? It suddenly struck
me that it was absurd to expect Marcello to come out to
meet me and perform any mad antics he might be medi-
tating there before my eyes for my especial satisfaction.
Why I had supposed that something would take place in
the grove I do not know, except that this seemed a fit
place for it. I would go and watch the house, and if I
saw a light anywhere I might be sure that he was with-
in. Any fool might have thought of that, but a novelist
lays the scene of his drama and expects his characters to
slide about in the grooves like puppets. It is only when
mine surprise me that I feel they are alive. When I
reached the end of the ilex alley I saw the house before
me. There were more cabbages and onions after I had
left the trees, and I saw that in this open space I could
easily be perceived by any one standing on the balcony
above. As I drew back again under the ilexes, a win-
dow above, not the one on the balcony, was suddenly


130
THE WITCHING TIME.
lighted up; but the light did not remain long, and pres-
ently a gleam shone through the glass oval over the door
below.
I had just time to spring behind the thickest trunk
near me when the door opened. I took advantage of its
creaking to creep up the slanting tree like a cat, and lie
out upon a projecting branch.
As I expected, Marcello came out. He was very pale,
and moved mechanically like a sleep-walker. I was
shocked to see how hollow his face had become, as he
held the candle still lighted in his hand, and it cast deep
shadows on his sunken cheeks and fixed eyes, which
burned wildly and seemed to see nothing. His lips were
quite white, and so drawn that I could see his gleaming
teeth. Then the candle fell from his hand, and he
came slowly and with a curiously regular step on into
the darkness of the ilexes, I watching him from above.
But I scarcely think he would have noticed me had I
been standing in his path. When he had passed, I let
myself down and followed him. I had taken off my
shoes, and my tread was absolutely noiseless; moreover,
I felt sure he would not turn round.
On he went with the same mechanical step until he
reached the grove. There I knelt behind an old sarcoph-
agus at the entrance, and waited. What would he do?
He stood perfectly still, not looking about him, but as
though the clock-work within him had suddenly stopped.
I felt that he was becoming psychologically interesting,


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
131
after all. Suddenly he threw up his arms as men do
when they are mortally wounded on the battle-field, and
I expected to see him fall at full length. Instead of this,
he made a step forward.
I looked in the same direction and saw a woman,
who must have concealed herself there while I was wait-
ing before the house, come from out of the gloom, and
as she slowly approached and laid her head upon his
shoulder, the outstretched arms clasped themselves
closely around her, so that her face was hidden upon his
neck.
So this was the whole matter, and I had been sent
off on a wild-goose chase to spy out a common love-
affair! His opera and his seclusion for the sake of work,
his tyrannical refusal to see Detaille unless he sent for him
---all this was but a mask to a vulgar intrigue which, for
reasons best known to himself, could not be indulged in
in the city. I was thoroughly angry! If Marcello
passed his time mooning about in that damp hole all
night, no wonder that he looked so wretchedly ill, and
seemed half mad! I knew very well that Marcello was
no saint. Why should he be? But I had not taken
him for a fool! He had had plenty of romantic episodes,
and as he was discreet without being uselessly mysteri-
ous no one had ever unduly pried into them, nor should
we have done so now. I said to myself that that mixt-
ure of French and Italian blood was at the bottom of it;
French flimsiness and light-headedness and Italian love
reas


132
THE WITCHING TIME.
of cunning! I looked back upon all the details of my
mysterious expedition. I suppose at the root or my an-
ger lay a certain dramatic disappointment at not finding
him lying murdered, and I despised myself for all the
trouble I had taken to this ridiculous end : just to see
him holding a woman in his arms. I could not see her
face, and her figure was enveloped from head to foot in
something long and dark; but I could make out that
she was tall and slender, and that a pair of white hands
gleamed from her drapery. As I was looking intently,
for all my indignation, the couple moved on, and still
clinging to one another descended the steps. So even
the solitude of the lonely laurel grove could not satisfy
Marcello's insane love of secrecy! I kept still awhile;
then I stole to where they had disappeared, and listened ;
but all was silent, and I cautiously struck a match and
peered down. I could see the steps for a short distance
below me, and then the darkness seemed to rise and
swallow them. It must be a catacomb, as I had im-
agined, or an old Roman bath, perhaps, which Marcello
had made comfortable enough, no doubt, and as likely as
not they were having a nice little cold supper there.
My empty stomach told me that I could have for-
given him even then could I have shared it. I was
in truth frightfully hungry as well as angry, and sat
down on one of the stone benches to finish my sand-
wiches.
The thought of waiting to see this love-sick pair re-


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
133
turn to upper earth never for a moment occurred to me.
I had found out the whole thing, and a great humbug it
was! Now I wanted to get back to Rome before my
temper had cooled, and to tell Magnin on what a fool's
errand he had sent me. If he liked to quarrel with me,
all the better!
All the way home I composed cutting French
speeches, but they suddenly cooled and petrified like a
gust of lava from a yolcano when I discovered that the
gate was closed. I had never thought of getting a pass,
and Magnin ought to have warned me. Another griev-
ance against the fellow! I enjoyed my resentment, and
it kept me warm as I patroled up and down. There are
houses, and even small eating-shops, outside the gate, but
no light was visible, and I did not care to attract atten-
tention by pounding at the doors in the middle of the
night; so I crept behind a bit of wall. I was getting
nsed to hiding by this time, and made myself as comfort-
able as I could with my ulster, took another pull at my
flask, and waited. At last the gate was opened and I
slipped through, trying not to look as though I had been
out all night like a bandit. The guard looked at me nar-
rowly, evidently wondering at my lack of luggage. Had
I had a knapsack I might have been taken for some in-
nocently mad English tourist indulging in the mistaken
pleasure of trudging in from Frascati or Albano; but
a man in an ulster, with his hands in his pockets,
sauntering in at the gate of the city at break of day as


134
THE WITCHING TIME.
though returning from a stroll, naturally puzzled the
officials, who looked after me and shrugged their
shoulders.
Luckily I found an early cab in the Piazza of the
Lateran, for I was dead-beat, and was soon at my lodg-
ings in the Via della Croce, where my landlady let me
in very speedily. Then at last I had the comfort of
throwing off my clothes, all damp with the night dew,
and turning in. My wrath had cooled to a certain point,
and I did not fear to lower its temperature too greatly
by yielding to an overwhelming desire for sleep. An
hour or two could make no great difference to Magnin
- let him fancy me still hanging about the Vigna Mar
ziali! Sleep I must have, no matter what he thought.
I slept long, and was awakened at last by my land-
lady, Sora Nanna, standing over me, and saying, “There
is a signore who wants you."
“It is I, Magnin!” said a voice behind her. “I
could not wait for you to come!” He looked haggard
• with anxiety and watching.
“Detaille is raving still,” he went on, “only worse
than before. Speak, for Heaven's sake! Why don't
you tell me something?" And he shook me by the arm
as though he thought I was still asleep.
“Have you nothing to say? You must have seen
something! Did you see Marcello ?”
“Oh! yes, I saw him."
“ Well ?”


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
135
“Well, he was very comfortable-quite alive. He
had a woman's arms around him.”
I heard my door violently slammed to, a ferocious
“ Sacré gamin!” and then steps springing down the
stairs. I felt perfectly happy at having made such an
impression, and turned and resumed my broken sleep
with almost a kindly feeling toward Magnin, who was at
that moment probably tearing up the Spanish Scalinata
two steps at a time, and making himself horribly hot.
It could not help Detaille, poor fellow! He could not
understand my news. When I had slept long enough
I got up, refreshed myself with a bath and something
to eat, and went off to see Detaille. It was not his
fault that I had been made a fool of, so I felt sorry for
him.
I found him raving just as I had left him the day
before, only worse, as Magnin said. He persisted in
continually crying, “Marcello, take care! no one can
save you !” in hoarse, weak tones, but with the regularity
of a knell, keeping up a peculiar movement with his
feet, as though he were weary with a long road, but
must press forward to his goal. Then he would stop and
break into childish sobs.
“My feet are so sore,” he murmured, piteously, “and
I am so tired! But I will come! They are following
me, but I am strong!” Then a violent struggle with
his invisible pursuers, in which he would break off into
that singing of his, alternating with the warning cry.


136
THE WITCHING TIME.
The singing voice was quite another from the speaking
one. He went on and on, repeating the singular air
which he had himself called a Funeral March, and which
had become intensely disagreeable to me. If it was one
indeed, it surely was intended for no Christian burial.
As he sang, the tears kept trickling down his cheeks, and
Magnin sat wiping them away as tenderly as a woman.
Between his song he would clasp his hands, feebly
enough, for he was very weak when the delirium did not
make him violent, and cry in heart-rending tones, “ Mar-
cello, I shall never see you again! Why did you leave
us ?” At last, when he stopped for a moment, Magnin
left his side, beckoning the Sister to take it, and drew
me into the other room, closing the door behind him.
“Now tell me exactly how you saw Marcello,” said
he; so I related my whole absurd experience—forget-
ting, however, my personal irritation, for he looked too
wretched and worn for anybody to be angry with him.
He made me repeat several times my description of
Marcello's face and manner as he had come out of the
house. That seemed to make more impression upon him
than the love business.
“ Sick people have strange intuitions," he said,
gravely; "and I persist in thinking that Marcello is very
ill and in danger. Tenez !” And here he broke off,
went to the door, and called “Ma soeur ! ” under his
Treath. She understood, and after having drawn the
bed-clothes straight, and once more dried the trickling


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
137
,
tears, she came noiselessly to where we stood, the wet
handkerchief still in her hand. She was a singularly
tall and strong-looking woman, with piercing black eyes
and a self-controlled manner. Strange to say, she bore
the adopted name of Claudius, instead of a more femi-
nine one.
“Ma soeur,” said Magnin, “at what o'clock was it
that he sprang out of bed and we had to hold him for
so long?”
“Half-past eleven and a few minutes,” she answered
promptly. Then he turned to me.
“At what time did Marcello come out into the gar-
den?”
“Well, it might have been half-past eleven," I an-
swered, unwillingly. “I should say that three quarters
of an hour might possibly have passed since I rang my
repeater. Mind you, I won't swear it!” I hate to have
people try to prove mysterious coincidences, and this
was just what they were attempting.
“ Are you sure of the hour, ma sæur ?." I asked, a
little tartly. She looked at me calmly with her great,
black eyes, and said:
“I heard the Trinità de' Monti strike the half-hour
just before it happened.”
“Be so good as to tell Monsieur Sutton exactly what
took place,” said Magnin.
“One moment, monsieur ;” and she went swiftly
and softly to Detaille, raised him on her strong arm, and


138
THE WITCHING TIME.
held a glass to his lips, from which he drank mechani-
cally. Then she came and stood where she could watch
him through the open door.
“He hears nothing,” she said, as she hung the hand-
kerchief to dry over a chair; and then she went on.
“It was half-past eleven, and my patient had been very
uneasy—that is to say, more so even than before. It
might have been four or five minutes after the clock had
finished striking that he became suddenly quite still and
then began to tremble all over, so that the bed shook
with him.” She spoke admirable English, as many of
the Sisters do, so I need not translate, but will give her
own words.
“He went on trembling until I thought he was going
to have a fit, and told Monsieur Magnin to be ready to
go for the doctor, when just then the trembling stopped,
he became perfectly stiff, his hair stood up upon his
head, and his eyes seemed coming out of their sockets,
though he could see nothing, for I passed the candle be-
fore them. All at once he sprang out of his bed and
rushed to the door. I did not know he was so strong.
Before he got there I had him in my arms, for he has
become very light, and I carried him back to bed again,
though he was struggling like a child. Monsieur Mag-
nin came in from the next room just as he was trying to
get up again, and we held him down until it was past,
but he screamed Monsieur Souvestre's name for a long
time after that. Afterward he was very cold and ex.
me


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
139
hausted, of course, and I gave him some beef-tea, though
it was not the hour for it.”
“I think you had better tell the Sister all about it,"
said Magnin, turning to me. “It is best that the nurse
should know everything.”
“ Very well,” said I; “though I do not think it's
much in her line.” She answered me herself: “Every.
thing which concerns our patients is our business. Noth-
ing shocks us." Thereupon she sat down and thrust her
hands into her long sleeves, prepared to listen. I re-
peated the whole affair as I had done to Magnin. She
never took her brilliant eyes from off my face, and
listened as coolly as though she had been a doctor
hearing an account of a difficult case, though to me it
seemed almost sacrilege to be describing the behavior of
a love-stricken youth to a Sister of Charity.
“What do you say to that, ma sæur ?” asked Mag-
nin, when I had done.
. “I say nothing, monsieur. It is sufficient that I
know it;" and she withdrew her hands from her sleeves,
took up the handkerchief, which was dry by this time,
and returned quietly to her place at the bedside.
“I wonder if I have shocked her, after all ?” I said
to Magnin.
“Oh, no," he answered. “They see many things,
and a sour is as abstract as a confessor; they do not
allow themselves any personal feelings. I have seen
Sour Claudius listen perfectly unmoved to the most


140
THE WITCHING TIME.
abominable ravings, only crossing herself beneath her
cape at the most hideous blasphemies. It was last sum-
mer when poor Justin Revol died. You were not here."
Magnin put his hand to his forehead.
“You are looking ill yourself,” I said. “Go and try
to sleep, and I will stay."
“Very well,” he answered; “but I can not rest un-
less you promise to remember everything he says, that I
may hear it when I wake;" and he threw himself down
upon the hard sofa like a sack, and was asleep in a mo-
ment; and I, who had felt so angry with him but a few
hours ago, put a cushion under his head and made him
comfortable.
I sat down in the next room and listened to Detaille's
monotonous ravings, while Sæur Claudius read in her
book of prayers. It was getting dusk, and several of the
academicians stole in and stood over the sick man and
shook their heads. They looked around for Magnin,
but I pointed to the other room with my finger on
my lips, and they nodded and went away on tip-
toe.
It required no effort of memory to repeat Detaille's
words to Magnin when he woke, for they were always
the same. We had another Sister that night, and as
Sæur Claudius was not to return till the next day at mid-
day, I offered to share the watch with Magnin, who was
getting very nervous and exhausted, and who seemed to
think that some such attack might be expected as had
m
US


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
141
occurred the night before. The new Sister was a gentle,
delicate-looking little woman, with tears in her soft
brown eyes as she bent over the sick man, and crossed
herself from time to time, grasping the crucifix which
hung from the beads at her waist. Nevertheless she was
calm and useful, and as punctual as Sæur Claudius her-
self in giving the medicines.
The doctor had come in the evening, and prescribed
a change in these. He would not say what he thought
of his patient, but only declared that it was necessary to
wait for a crisis. Magnin sent for some supper, and we
sat over it together in silence, neither of us hungry. He
kept looking at his watch.
“If the same thing happens to-night, he will die!”
said he, and laid his head on his arms.
“He will die in a most foolish cause, then,” I said,
angrily, for I thought he was going to cry, as those
Frenchmen have a way of doing, and I wanted to irritate
him by way of a tonic; so I went on-
“It would be dying for a vaurien who is making
an ass of himself in a ridiculous business which will
be over in a week! Souvestre may get as much fe-
ver as he likes ! only don't ask me to come and nurse
him.”
“It is not the fever," said he slowly, “it is a horrible
nameless dread that I have; I suppose it is listening to
Detaille that makes me nervous. Hark!” he added, “it
strikes eleven. We must watch !”
me


142
THE WITCHING TIME.
ar
“ If you really expect another attack you had better
warn the Sister," I said ; so he told her in a few words
what might happen.
“Very well, monsieur," she answered, and sat down
quietly near the bed, Magnin at the pillow, and I near
him. No sound was to be heard but Detaille’s ceaseless
lament.
And now, before I tell you more, I must stop to en-
treat you to believe me. It will be almost impossible
for you to do so, I know, for I have laughed myself at
such tales, and no assurances would have made me credit
them. But I, Robert Sutton, swear that this thing hap-
pened. More I can not do. It is the truth.
We had been watching Detaille intently. He was
lying with closed eyes, and had been very restless. Sud-
denly he became quite still, and then began to tremble,
exactly as Sæur Claudius had described. It was a curi-
ous, uniform trembling, apparently in every fibre, and
his iron bedstead shook as though strong hands were at
its head and foot. Then came the absolute rigidity she
had also described, and I do not exaggerate when I say
that not only did his short-cropped hair seem to stand
erect, but that it literally did so. A lamp cast the
shadow of his profile against the wall to the left of his
bed, and as I looked at the immovable outline which
seemed painted on the wall, I saw the hair slowly rise
until the line where it joined the forehead was quite a
different one-abrupt instead of a smooth sweep. His


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
143
eyes opened wide and were frightfully fixed, then as
frightfully strained, but they certainly did not see us.
We waited breathlessly for what might follow. The
little Sister was standing close to him, her lips pressed
together and a little pale, but very calm. “Do not be
frightened, ma sour,” whispered Magnin; and she an-
swered in a business-like tone, “No, monsieur,” and
drew still nearer to her patient, and took his hands,
which were stiff as those of a corpse, between her own
to warm them. I laid mine upon his heart; it was
beating so imperceptibly that I almost thought it had
stopped, and as I leaned my face to his lips I could feel
no breath issue from them. It seemed as though the
rigor would last forever.
Suddenly, without any transition, he hurled himself
with enormous force, and literally at one bound, almost
into the middle of the room, scattering us aside like
leaves in the wind. I was apon him in a moment, grap-
pling with him with all my strength, to prevent him
from reaching the door. Magnin had been thrown
backward against the table, and I heard the medicine
bottles crash with his fall. He had flung back his hand
to save himself, and rushed to help me with the blood
dropping from a cut in his wrist. The little Sister
sprang to us Detaille had thrown her violently back
apon her knees, and now, with a nurse's instinct, she
tried to throw a shawl over his bare breast. We four
must have made a strange group!


144
THE WITCHING TIME.
Four? We were five! Marcello Souvestre stood
before us, just within the door! We all saw him, for
he was there. His bloodless face was turned toward
us unmoved; his hands hung by his side as white as
his face; only his eyes had life in them; they were
fixed on Detaille.
“Thank God, you have come at last!” I cried.
“Don't stand there like a fool! Help us, can't you?”
But he never moved. I was furiously angry, and, leav-
ing my hold, sprang upon him to drag him forward.
My outstretched hands struck hard against the door,
and I felt a thing like a spider's web envelop me.
It seemed to draw itself over my mouth and eyes, and
to blind and choke me, and then to flutter and tear
and float from me.
Marcello was gone!
Detaille had slipped from Magnin's hold, and lay in
a heap upon the floor, as though his limbs were broken.
The Sister was trembling violently as she knelt over
him and tried to raise his head. We gazed at one an-
other, stooped and lifted him in our arms, and carried
him back to his bed, while Sæur Marie quietly collected
the broken phials.
“You saw it, ma suur?” I heard Magnin whisper
hoarsely.
“Yes, monsieur !” she only answered, in a trembling
voice, holding on to her crucifix. Then she said, in a
professional tone :


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
145
“ Will monsieur let me bind up his wrist ?” And
though her fingers trembled and his hand was shaking,
the bandage was an irreproachable one.
Magnin went into the next room, and I heard him
throw himself heavily into a chair. Detaille seemed to
be sleeping. His breath came regularly; his eyes were
closed with a look of peace about the lids, his hands
lying in a natural way upon the quilt. He had not
moved since we laid him there. I went softly to where
Magnin was sitting in the dark. He did not move, but
only said, “Marcello is dead !”
“He is either dead or dying,” I answered, “and we
must go to him.”
“Yes,” Magnin whispered, “we must go to him,
but we shall not reach him."
“We will go as soon as it is light,” I said, and then
we were still again.
When the morning came at last he went and found
a comrade to take his place, and only said to Seur
Marie, “ It is not necessary to speak of this night;" and
at her quiet “You are right, monsieur,” we felt that
we could trust her. Detaille was still sleeping. Was
this the crisis the doctor had expected ? Perhaps; but
surely not in such fearful form. I insisted upon my
companion having some breakfast before we started,
and I breakfasted myself, but I can not say I tasted
what passed between my lips.
We engaged a closed carriage, for we did not know
8
0


146
THE WITCHING TIME.
what we might bring home with us, though neither of
us spoke out his thoughts. It was early morning still
when we reached the Vigna Marziali, and we had not
exchanged a word all the way. I rang at the bell, while
the coachman looked on curiously. It was answered
promptly by the guardiano, of whom Detaille has al-
ready told you.”
“Where is the signore?” I asked through the gate.
“ Chi lo sa ?” he answered. “He is here, of course;
he has not left the Vigna. Shall I call him ?”
“ Call him ?” I knew that no mortal voice could
reach Marcello now, but I tried to fancy he was still
alive.
“No," I said. “Let us in. We want to surprise
him; he will be pleased.”
The man hesitated, but he finally opened the gate,
and we entered, leaving the carriage to wait outside.
We went straight to the house; the door at the back
was wide open. There had been a gale in the night,
and it had torn some leaves and bits of twigs from the
trees and blown them into the entrance-hall. They
lay scattered across the threshold, and were evidence
that the door had remained open ever since they had
fallen. The guardiano left us, probably to escape
Marcello's anger at having let us in, and we went up
the stairs unhindered, Magnin foremost, for he knew
the house better than I, from Detaille's description.
He had told him about the corner room with the bal-


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
147
cony, and we pretended that Marcello might be there,
absorbed betimes in his work, but we did not call him.
He was not there. His papers were strewn over
the table as though he had been writing, but the ink-
stand was dry and full of dust; he could not have used
it for days. We went silently into the other cham-
bers. Perhaps he was still asleep? But, no! We
found his bed untouched, so he could not have lain in
it that night. The rooms were all unlocked but one,
and this closed door made our hearts beat. Marcello
could scarcely be there, however, for there was no key
in the lock; I saw the daylight shining through the
key-hole. We called his name, but there came no an-
swer. We knocked loudly, still no sign from within ;
80 I put my shoulder to the door, which was old and
cracked in several places, and succeeded in bursting it
open.
Nothing was there but a sculptor's modeling-stand,
with something upon it covered with a white cloth,
and the modeling-tools on the floor. At the sight of
the cloth, still damp, we drew a deep breath. It could
not have hung there for many hours, certainly not for
twenty-four. We did not raise it. “He would be
vexed,” said Magnin, and I nodded, for it is accounted
almost a crime in the artist's world to unveil a sculp-
tor's work behind his back. We expressed no surprise
at the fact of his modeling; a bann seemed to lie
upon our tongues. The cloth hung tightly to the ob-
1
O


148
THE WITCHING TIME.
ject beneath it, and showed us the outline of a woman's
head and rounded bust, and so veiled. we left her.
There was a little winding stair leading out of the
passage, and we climbed it, to find ourselves in a sort
of belvedere, commanding a superb view. It was a
small, open terrace, on the roof of the house, and we
saw at a glance that no one was there.
We had now been all over the casino, which was
small and simply built, being evidently intended only
for short summer use. As we stood leaning over the
balustrade we could look down into the garden. No
one was there but the guardiano, lying among his
cabbages with his arms behind his head, half asleep.
The laurel grove had been in my mind from the be-
ginning, only it had seemed more natural to go to the
house first. Now we descended the stairs silently and
directed our steps thither.
As we approached it, the guardiano came toward
us lazily.
“Have you seen the signore ?” he asked, and his
stupidly placid face showed me that he, at least, had
no hand in his disappearance.
“No, not yet," I answered, “but we shall come
across him somewhere, no doubt. Perhaps he has
gone to take a walk, and we will wait for him. What
is this?” I went on, trying to seem careless. We
were standing now by the little arch, of which you
know.
seeu


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
149
“ This ?” said he; “I have never been down there,
but they say it is something old. Do the signori want
to see it? I will fetch a lantern."
I nodded, and he went off to his cabin. I had a
couple of candles in my pocket, for I had intended to
explore the place, should we not find Marcello. It
was there that he had disappeared that night, and my
thoughts had been busy with it; but I kept my candles
concealed, reflecting that they would give our search an
air of premeditation which would excite curiosity.
“When did you see the signore last?” I asked,
when he had returned with the lantern.
“I brought him his supper yesterday evening."
" At what o'clock ?”
“ It was the Ave Maria, signore,” he replied. “He
always sups then.”
It would be useless to put any further questions.
He was evidently utterly unobserving, and would lie to
please us.
“Let me go first,” said Magnin, taking the lantern,
We set our feet upon the steps; a cold air seemed to fill
our lungs and yet to choke us, and a thick darkness lay
beneath. The steps, as I could see by the light of my
candle, were modern, as well as the vaulting above
them. A tablet was let into the wall, and in spite of
my excitement I paused to read it, perhaps because I was
glad to delay whatever awaited us below. It ran thus :
“Questo antico sepolcro Romano scoprì il Conte


150
THE WITCHING TIME.
Marziali nell'anno 1853, e piamente conservò." In
plain English:
“Count Marziali discovered this ancient Roman
sepulcher in the year 1853, and piously preserved it.”
I read it more quickly than it has taken time to
write here, and hurried after Magnin, whose footsteps
sounded faintly below me. As I hastened, a draught
of cold air extinguished my candle, and I was trying to
make my way down by feeling along the wall, which
was horribly dark and clammy, when my heart stood
still at a cry from far beneath me-a cry of horror!
“Where are you?” I shouted; but Magnin was call-
ing my name, and could not hear me. “I am here. I
am in the dark !”
I was making haste as fast as I could, but there were
several turnings.
“I have found him!” came up from below.
“ Alive?” I shouted. No answer.
One last short flight brought me face to face with
the gleam of the lantern. It came from a low doorway,
and within stood Magnin, peering into the darkness.
I knew by his face, as he held the light high above
him, that our fears were realized.
Yes, Marcello was there. He was lying stretched
upon the floor, staring at the ceiling, dead, and already
stiff, as I could see at a glance. We stood over him
saying not a word, then I knelt down and felt of
him, for mere form's sake, and said, as though I had


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
151
not known it before, “He has been dead for some
hours."
“Since yesterday evening,” said Magnin, in a horror-
stricken voice, yet with a certain satisfaction in it, as
though to say, “You see, I was right.”
Marcello was lying with his head slightly thrown
back, no contortions in his handsome features; rather
the look of a person who has quietly died of exhaus-
tion—who has slipped unconsciously from life to death.
His collar was thrown open and a part of his breast, of
a ghastly white, was visible. Just over the heart was
a small spot.
“Give me the lantern," I whispered, as I stooped
over it. It was a very little spot, of a faint purplish-
brown, and must have changed color within the night.
I examined it intently, and should say that the blood
had been sucked to the surface, and then a small prick
or incision made. The slight subcutaneous effusion led
me to this conclusion. One tiny drop of coagulated
blood closed the almost imperceptible wound. I probed
it with the end of one of Magnin's matches. It was
scarcely more than skin-deep, so it could not be the stab
of a stiletto, however slender, or the track of a bullet.
Still, it was strange, and with one impulse we turned to
see if no one were concealed there, or if there were no
second exit. It would be madness to suppose that the
murderer, if there was one, would remain by his victim.
Had Marcello been making love to a pretty contadina,


152
THE WITCHING TIME.
na-
and was this some jealous lover's vengeance? But it
was not a stab. Had one drop of poison in the little
wound done this deadly work ?
We peered about the place, and I saw that Magnin's
eyes were blinded by tears and his face as pale as that
upturned one on the floor, whose lids I had vainly tried
to close. The chamber was low, and beautifully orna-
mented with stucco bas-reliefs, in the manner of the
well-known one not far from there upon the same road.
Winged genii, griffins, and arabesques, modeled with
marvelous lightness, covered the walls and ceiling.
There was no other door than the one we had entered
by. In the center stood a marble sarcophagus, with the
usual subjects sculptured upon it, on the one side Her-
cules conducting a veiled figure, on the other a dance of
nymphs and fauns. A space in the middle contained
the following inscription, deeply cut in the stone, and
still partially filled with red pigment :
D. M.
VESPERTILIAETHC.AIMATONILTIAOC.
Q · FLAVIVS · VIX · IPSE · SOSPES ·
MON · POSVIT.
“What is this?” whispered Magnin. It was only a
pickaxe and a long crowbar, such as the country people
use in hewing out their blocks of “tufa,” and his foot
had struck against them. Who 'could have brought
them here? They must belong to the guardiano above,


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
153
but he said that he had never come here, and I believed
him, knowing the Italian horror of darkness and lonely
places; but what had Marcello wanted with them? It
did not occur to us that archæological curiosity could
have led him to attempt to open the sarcophagus,
the lid of which had evidently never been raised, thus
justifying the expression, “piously preserved.”
As I rose from examining the tools my eyes fell
upon the line of mortar where the cover joined to the
stone below, and I noticed that some of it had been re-
moved, perhaps with the pickaxe which lay at my feet.
I tried it with my nails and found that it was very
crumbly. Without a word I took the tool in my hand,
Magnin instinctively following my movements with the
lantern. What impelled us I do not know. I had my-
self no thought, only an irresistible desire to see what
was within. I saw that much of the mortar had been
broken away, and lay in small fragments upon the
ground, which I had not noticed before. It did not
take long to complete the work. I snatched the lantern
from Magnin's hand and set it upon the ground, where it
shone full upon Marcello's dead face, and by its light I
found a little break between the two masses of stone and
managed to insert the end of my crowbar, driving it in
with a blow of the pickaxe. The stone chipped and
then cracked a little. Magnin was shivering.
“What are you going to do ?” he said, looking
around at where Marcello lay.


154
THE WITCHING TIME.
“Help me!” I cried, and we two bore with all our
might upon the crowbar. I am a strong man, and I
felt a sort of blind fury as the stone refused to yield,
What if the bar should snap? With another blow I
drove it in still further, then using it as a lever, we
weighed upon it with our outstretched arms until every
muscle was at its highest tension. The stone moved a
little, and, almost fainting, we stopped to rest.
From the ceiling hung the rusty remnant of an iron
chain which must once have held a lamp. To this, by
scrambling upon the sarcophagus, I contrived to make
fast the lantern.
“Now!” said I, and we heaved again at the lid. It
rose, and we alternately heaved and pushed until it lost
its balance and fell with a thundering crash upon the
other side; such a crash that the walls seemed to shake,
and I was for a moment utterly deafened, while little
pieces of stucco rained upon us from the ceiling. When
we had paused to recover from the shock we leaned over
the sarcophagus and looked in.
The light shone full upon it, and we saw-how is it
possible to tell ? We saw lying there, amid folds of
moldering rags, the body of a woman, perfect as in life,
with faintly rosy face, soft crimson lips, and a breast of
living pearl, which seemed to heave as though stirred by
some delicious dream. The rotten stuff swathed about
her was in ghastly contrast to this lovely form, fresh as the
morning! Her hands lay stretched at her side, the pink


. A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
155
ere
palms were turned a little outward, her eyes were closed
as peacefully as those of a sleeping child, and her long
hair, which shone red-golden in the dim light from
above, was wound around her head in numberless finely
plaited tresses, beneath which little locks escaped in
rings upon her brow. I could have sworn that the blue
veins on that divinely perfect bosom held living blood !
. We were absolutely paralyzed, and Magnin leaned
gasping over the edge as pale as death, paler by far than
this living, almost smiling face to which his eyes were
glued. I do not doubt that I was as pale as he at this
inexplicable vision. As I looked, the red lips seemed to
grow redder. They were redder! The little pearly
teeth showed between them. I had not seen them be-
fore, and now a clear ruby drop trickled down to her
rounded chin and from there slipped sideways and fell
upon her neck. Horror-struck I gazed upon the living
corpse, till my eyes could not bear the sight any longer.
As I looked away my glance fell once more upon the
mysterious inscription, half Latin, half Greek, and the
awful meaning of the words flashed upon me suddenly
as I read them this second time. “To Vespertilia”_
that was in Latin, and even the Latin name of the
woman suggested a thing of evil flitting in the dusk.
But the full horror of the nature of that thing had been
veiled to Roman eyes under the Greek tñs aijatowTÍ-
dos, “The blood-drinker, the vampire woman.” And
Flavius-her lover-vix ipse sospes, “ himself hardly


156
THE WITCHING TIME.
saved” from that deadly embrace, had buried her here,
and set a seal upon her sepulcher, trusting to the weight
of stone and the strength of clinging mortar to imprison
for ever the beautiful monster he had loved.
“Infamous murderess!” I cried, “you have killed
Marcello !” and a sudden, vengeful calm came over me.
“Give me the pickaxe,” I said to Magnin. I can hear
myself saying it still. He picked it up and handed it
to me as in a dream; he seemed little better than an
idiot, and the beads of sweat were shining on his fore-
head. I took my knife, and from the long wooden
handle of the pickaxe I cut a fine, sharp stake. Then
I clambered, scarcely feeling any repugnance, over the
side of the sarcophagus, my feet among the folds of
Vespertilia's decaying winding-sheet, which crushed like
ashes beneath my boot.
I looked for one moment at that white breast, but
only to choose the loveliest spot, where the network of
azure veins shimmered like veiled turquoises, and then
with one blow I drove the pointed stake deep down
through the breathing snow and stamped it in with my
heel.
An awful shriek, so ringing and horrible that I
thought my ears must have burst; but even then I felt
neither fear nor horror. There are times when these
can not touch us. I stooped and gazed once again at
the face, now undergoing a fearful change-fearful and
final!


A MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
157
“Foul vampire !” I said quietly in my concentrated
rage. “You will do no more harm now!” And then,
without looking back upon her cursed face, I clambered
out of the horrible tomb.
We raised Marcello, and slowly carried him up the
steep stairs—a difficult task, for the way was narrow and
he was so stiff. I noticed that the steps were ancient up
to the end of the second flight; above, the modern pas-
sage was somewhat broader. When we reached the top,
the guardiano was lying upon one of the stone benches ;
he did not mean us to cheat him out of his fee, I gave
him a couple of francs.
“You see that we have found the signore," I tried to
say in a natural voice. “He is very weak, and we will
carry him to the carriage." I had thrown my handker-
chief over Marcello's face, but the man knew as well as
I that he was dead. Those stiff feet told their own
story, but Italians are timid of being involved in such
affairs. They have a childish dread of the police, and
he only answered, “Poor signorino! He is very ill; it
is better to take him to Rome," and kept cautiously clear
of us as we went up to the ilex alley with our icy bur-
den, and he did not go to the gate with us, not liking to
be observed by the coachman, who was dozing on his
box. With difficulty we got Marcello's corpse into the
carriage, the driver turning to look at us suspiciously.
I explained we had found our friend very ill, and at the
same time slipped a gold piece into his hand, telling
sam


158
THE WITCHING TIME.
him to drive to the Via del Governo Vecchio. He
pocketed the money, and whipped his horses into a trot,
while we sat supporting the stiff body, which swayed
like a broken doll at every pebble in the road. When
we reached the Via del Governo Vecchio at last, no one
saw us carry him into the house. There was no step
before the door, and we drew up so close to it that it
was possible to screen our burden from sight. When
we had brought him into his room and laid him upon
his bed, we noticed that his eyes were closed; from the
movement of the carriage, perhaps, though that was
scarcely possible. The landlady behaved very much as
I had expected her to do, for, as I told you, I know the
Italians. She pretended, too, that the signore was very
ill, and made a pretence of offering to fetch a doctor,
and when I thought it best to tell her that he was dead,
declared that it must have happened that very moment,
for she had seen him look at us and close his eyes again.
She had always told him that he ate too little and that
he would be ill. Yes, it was weakness and that bad air
out there which had killed him; and then he worked
too hard. When she had successfully established this
fiction, which we were glad enough to agree to-for
neither did we wish for the publicity of an inquest-she
ran out and fetched a gossip to come and keep her com-
pany.
So died Marcello Souvestre, and so died Vespertilia
the blood-drinker at last.


À MYSTERY OF THE CAMPAGNA.
159
There is not much more to tell. Marcello lay calm
and beautiful upon his bed, and the students came and
stood silently looking at him, then knelt down for a mo-
ment to say a prayer, crossed themselves, and left him
for ever.
We hastened to the Villa Medici, where Detaille was
sleeping, and Sister Claudius watching him with a satis-
fied look on her strong face. She rose noiselessly at our
entrance, and came to us at the threshold. “He will re-
cover,” said she, softly. She was right. When he
awoke and opened his eyes he knew us directly, and
Magnin breathed a devout “Thank God!"
“Have I been ill, Magnin?” he asked very feebly.
“You have had a little fever,” answered Magnin,
promptly; “but it is over now. Here is Monsieur Sut-
ton come to see you."
“ Has Marcello been here ?” was the next question.
Magnin looked at him very steadily.
“No,” he only said, letting his face tell the rest.
“Is he dead, then ?” Magnin only bowed his head.
“Poor friend !” Detaille murmured to himself, then
closed his heavy eyes and slept again.
A few days after Marcello's funeral we went to the
fatal Vigna Marziali to bring back the objects which had
belonged to him. As I laid the manuscript score of the
opera carefully together, my eye fell upon a passage
which struck me as the identical one which Detaille had
so constantly sung in his delirium, and which I had


160
THE WITCHING TIME.
noted down. Strange to say, when I reminded him of
it later, it was perfectly new to him, and he declared
that Marcello had not let him examine his manuscript.
As for the veiled bust in the other room, we left it un-
disturbed, and to crumble away unseen.


THE WITCHES.
BY EDMUND GOSSE.
I.
At dead of night in Cranley Street,
A silent crowd of yokels meet;
In marshaled line they form, and stand
With candles lighted in their hand;
Then up the lane they turn to go:
Down the calm meads no breezes blow,
The flame scarce wavers to and fro-
The flame to scare the witches.
And now, through smoke of flaring dips,
The stars are seen, like ghostly ships,
With all sails set in heaven's dark sea;
And ghostly white from the elder-tree
The clusters hang; but still there flows
No honey from the parched-up rose,
No breath from the honey-suckle blows-
Alls blighted by the witches.


162
THE WITCHING TIME.
III.
Through leaden air the young men pass,
Their shoes are dry in the long grass;
No living creature round them stirs,
No weasel squeaks, no fern-owl whirrs;
Through the dull night with might and main-
Each nerve and sinew on the strain-
They bear their candles up the lane
To daunt the midnight witches.
IV.
IV.
But one by one their flames burn blue,
And all but three, then all but two,
By unseen lips at gateways blown,
Go out, till one is left alone;
One trembling flame that seems to shrink
Within its wall of fingers pink,
And now would rise and now would sink,
Sole help against the witches.
V.
Still guarding this one light they rise,
Till, darker than the dark blue skies,
A starless mass above them burst-
The windmill upon Coneyhurst;
And through the fern and furze they hear,
With aching nerve of the tingling ear,
A sound that curdles them with fear-
The rustling of the witches.


THE WITCHES.
163
VI.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
As by one kindred aim possessed,
Four singing shadows rush together
Toward the old gibbet in the heather;
One passes by the lads and blows
Their sole light vainly as she goes;
The blood within their bodies froze
At the meeting of the witches.
VII.
Now round the gallows in a ring
They dance, and as they dance, they sing.
But look! for by the saints alive!
They were but four, they now are five;
And mid their shadowy garments gray
A taller, blacker form than they
Now crouches down, now leaps away!
The devil's with the witches !
VIII.
The candle-flame burns low and sick,
And wastes upon the slanted wick;
The lad who holds it's like to die,
With beating heart and palsied eye;
One minute more, one minute more,
And the whole country-side's given o’er
To demons from the night's black shore
And malice-working witches !


164
THE WITCHING TIME.
IX.
But still his English heart is stout,
And, seeing the flame is well-nigh out,
With suck'd breath, as one plays the flute,
He darts up to the gibbet's root;
And on the bed that no dew wets
Of moss and whortle-leaves, he sets
His candle-end, and straight forgets
His fear of ghastly witches.
In time! in time! with scream and start,
The black descends, the gray depart;
A sulphurous smell invades the brain,
But passes in a whiff of rain.
The morning straight begins to break;
The cocks in Canvil farmstead wake;
The numb world breathes, all for the sake
Of midnight-harrying witches.
XI.
Now back to town the yokels pass ;
Sweet dew falls fresh upon the grass ;
From elms within the coppice-pale
Shouts nightingale to nightingale;
The web of stars fades out of sight,
In heavenly odor sinks the night,
The spell is gone, the air is light,
Set free from weight of witches.


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
BY VERNON LEE
It seemed to Decimus Little that there could be no
doubt left. His only wonder was whether any one else
had been near making that discovery. As he sat in a
deep window of the big drawing-room, the light of the
candles falling yellow upon the shining white arms and
shoulders, the shining white expanses of shirt-front, the
lustrous silks and lustrous black cloth within doors; the
great wave of moor and fell unfurling grayish-green in
the pale-blue twilight without; as he sat there alone in
the window, he wondered how it would be if any of these
creatures assembled for the coming of age of the heir of
Hotspur Hall could guess that he knew. His eyes me-
chanically followed the tall figure of his host, as his broad
shoulders and gray beard appeared and reappeared in the
crowd; they sought out the yellow ridge of curls of the
son and heir, as his head rose and fell while talking"to
the ladies in the corner. What if either of them could
guess? If old Sir Hugh Hotspur could guess that there


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
167
was in the world another creature beside himself who
knew the position of that secret door; if young Hotspur
could guess that there existed close by another man who
might, any day, penetrate into that secret chamber to
which, at the close of these merry-making days, the
youth must be solemnly admitted, to lose, during that
fatal hour among unspeakable mysteries, all lightness of
heart for ever?
Mr. Little was not at all surprised at the fact of hav-
ing made this extraordinary discovery. Although in no
way a conceited man, he was accustomed to think of
himself as connected with extraordinary matters, and in
some way destined for an extraordinary end. He was
one of those men who, without ever having done, or
even said, or perhaps even thought, anything especially
remarkable, are yet remarkable men. Whenever he
came into a room, he felt people's eyes upon him, and
knew that they were asking, “Who is that young
man?” And still Mr. Decimus Little did not consider
himself handsome, nor did any one else consider him
80, to his knowledge. From the matter-of-fact point
of view, all one could say was that he was of middle
height, more inclined to be fat than thin, with small
not irregular features, hair varying between yellow and
gray, a slight stoop, a somewhat defective sight, and a
preference for clothes of ample cut and of neutral tints.
But then the matter-of-fact eye just missed that some-
thing indefinable which constituted the remarkable char-


168
THE WITCHING TIME.
acter of Mr. Little's appearance. As it was with his
person, so likewise was it with his history; there was
more significance therein than could easily be defined.
A distant relative, on the female side, of the illustrious
border house of Hotspur, Mr. Little possessed a modest
income and the education of a gentleman. He had
never been to school, and had left college without tak-
ing his degree. He had begun reading for the law, and
left off. He had tried writing for the magazines, but
without success. He had at one time inclined to High-
Church asceticism and the moralizing of Whitechapel;
he had also been addicted to socialism, and spent six
months learning to make a chest of drawers in a Bir-
mingham co-operative workshop. He had begun writing
a biography of Ninon de Lenclos, studying singing, and
forming a collection of rare medals; and he was now
considerably interested in Esoteric Buddhism and the
Society for Psychical Research, although he felt by no
means prepared to accept the new theosophy, nor to
indorse the conclusions concerning thought transference.
And finally, and quite lately, Mr. Decimus Little had also
been in love, and had become engaged to a cousin of his,
a young lady studying at Girton College; but he was
not quite sure whether the engagement was absolutely
binding on either side, or whether marriage would be cer-
tainly conducive to the happiness of both parties. For Mr.
Decimus Little was gradually maturing a theory to the
effect of his being a person with a double nature, reflective


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
169
and idealistic on the one hand, and capable, on the other,
of extraordinary impulses of lawlessness; and it is notori-
ous that such persons, and indeed, perhaps, all very com-
plex and out-of-the-common personalities are not very fit
for the marriage state. It was consonant with what Mr.
Little often lamented as the excessive skepticism of his
temper, that he should not have made up his mind about
the hidden chamber at Hotspur Hall, and the strange
stories concerning it. He had often discussed the mat
ter, which, as he remarked, was a crucial one in all ques-
tions of the supernatural. He had triumphantly argued
with a physiologist at his club that mere delusion could
not be a sufficient explanation for so old and diffused a
belief, as, indeed, mere delusion could not account for
any belief of any kind. He had argued equally tri-
umphantly with a clergyman in the train against the
notion that the occupant of the secret chamber was the
Evil One, and had added that the existence of evil
spirits offered serious, very serious, difficulties to a
thoughtful mind. And Mr. Little, being, as he often
remarked, open to arguments and evidence on all points,
had elaborated various explanations of the mystery of
the hidden chamber, and had even attempted to sound
the inhabitants of Hotspur Hall on the subject. But the
servants had not understood his polished but rather shad-
owy Oxford English, or he had not understood their
thick Northumbrian, and the members of the family had
dropped the subject with a somewhat disconcerting


170
THE WITCHING TIME.
sharpness of manner; and Mr. Little was the last man
in the world to rudely invade the secrets of others, by
experiments of towels hung out of windows, and such
like; indeed, the person capable of such courses would
have inspired him with horror.
And by an irony of fate-Mr. Little believed in the
irony of fate, and was occasionally ironical himself—it
had been given to him, to this skeptical and unobtrusive
man, to discover that room hidden in the thickness of
the Norman wall, and whose position had baffled so much
ingenious, pertinacious, and impertinent inquiry.
There could no longer be any doubt about it; this
door, revealed only by its hollow sound and its rusty iron
bolt, against which Mr. Little had accidentally leaned
that day when the shame of having intruded upon a
flirtation (and a flirtation, too, between the heir of Hot-
spur and the heiress of his hereditary foes the Blenkin-
sops) had made him rush, like a mad creature, along un-
known passages and up the winding staircase of the peel
tower—this door, whitewashed to look like stone and
hidden just under the highest battlements of Hotspur,
could only be that of the mysterious chamber. It had
flashed across Mr. Little's mind when first he had leaned,
confused and panting, against the wall of the staircase,
and the wall had yielded to his pressure and creaked per-
ceptibly; and the certainty had grown with every sub-
sequent examination of the spot, and of the exterior of
the castle. People had hitherto wasted their ingenuity


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
171
apon seeking a window in Hotspur Hall which should
correspond with no ostensible room; accident had re-
vealed to Mr. Little a room which corresponded with no
window visible from without. It now seemed so simple
that it was impossible to conceive how the secret could
so long have been kept. The secret chamber was, could
be, only in the oldest portion of the castle, in the peel
tower, built for the protection of stock and goods from
the Scottish raids; and it was, it could be, only under
the very roof of the tower, taking air and light through
some chimney or trap-door from the battlements above.
There could be no doubt about it; and as Mr. Decimus
Little sat in the window-seat of the great drawing-
room at Hotspur, with on the one side the crowd of
guests brilliant in the yellow candle-light, and the great
dark wave of fell and moor rising into the blue twilight
on the other, he thought how strange it was that of all
these people there was only one, besides the master of
Hotspur, who knew the position of the fatal room:
only one besides the heir of Hotspur who might—who
knows?-penetrate into its secrets, and that one person
should be himself. Strange; and yet, somehow, it did
not take him by surprise.
And, after all, what was the secret of that chamber?
A monstrous creature, or race of creatures, hidden away
by the unrightful heirs ? An ancient ancestor, living
on by diabolic arts throughout the centuries? A demon,
a specter, some horror nameless because inconceivable


172
THE WITCHING TIME.
to those who had not seen it, or perhaps some almost
immaterial evil, some curse lurking in the very atmos-
phere of the place ? It was notorious that the some-
thing, whatever it was, made it impossible for a Hot-
spur ever to marry a Blenkinsop; that the heir of Hot-
spur was introduced to this mystery on coming of age;
and that no Hotspur, after coming of age, had ever
been known to smile: these were well authenticated
facts; but what mystery or horror upon earth or in hell
could be sufficient cause for these well ascertained re-
sults, no one had ever discovered. Every explanation
was futile and insufficient.
These were the thoughts which went on in Mr. Lit-
tle's mind throughout that week of coming of age at Hot-
spur Hall. All day and all night—at least, as much of
the night as he could account for—these questions kept
going round and round in his mind, presenting now
one surface, now another, but ever present and ever act-
ive. He walked about, ate his dinner, talked, danced
automatically, knowing that he did it all, but as one
knows what another person is doing, or what one is
reading in a book, without any sense of its being one's
self or its being real; nay, with a sense of being re-
moved miles and miles from it all, living in a different
time and place, to which this present is as the past and
the distant. The secret chamber — its mystery; the
door, the color of the wall, the shape of the iron bolt,
the slant of the corkscrew steps—these were reality in
1


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
173
the midst of all, this unrealness. And withal a strange
longing: to stand again before that door, to handle once
more that rusty bolt; a wish like that for some song,
or some beloved presence, the desire for that ineffable
consciousness, that overwhelming sense of concentrated
life and feeling, of being there, of realizing the thing.
No one, reflected Mr. Little, can know what strange
joys are reserved for strange natures; how certain creat-
ures, too delicate and unreal for the every-day interests
and pleasures of existence to penetrate through the soul-
atmosphere in which they wander, will vibrate, with
almost agonized joy, live their full life on contact with
certain mysteries. Every day Mr. Little would seek
that winding staircase in the peel tower; at first with
hesitation and shyness, stealing up almost ashamed of
himself; then secretly and stealthily, but excited, reso-
lute, like a man seeking the woman he loves, bent upon
the joy of his life. Once a day at first, then twice, then
thrice, counting the hours between the visits, longing
to go back as soon as he had left, as a drunkard longs
to drink again when he has just drunk. He would
watch for the moment when the way was clear, steal
along the corridors and up the winding stairs. Then,
having reached close to the top of the staircase, near a
trap-door in the ceiling which led on to the battlements
of the tower, he would stop, and lean against the shelv-
ing turning wall opposite the door, or sit down on the
steps, his eyes fixed on the tower wall, where a faint


174
THE WITCHING TIME.
line and the rusty little bolt revealed the presence of
the hidden chamber.
What he did it would be hard to say; indeed, he
did nothing, he merely felt. There was nothing at all
to see, in the material sense; and this piece of wind-
ing staircase was just like any other piece of winding
staircase in the world: it was not anything external
that he wanted, it was that ineffable something within
himself. So at least Mr. Little imagined at first, fre-
quently persuading himself that, to a nature like his,
all baser satisfaction of curiosity was as nothing; telling
himself that he did not care what was inside the room,
that he did not even wish to know. Why, if by the
pulling of that bolt he might see and know all, he
would not pull it. And, saying this to himself, by
way of proving it, he laid his fingers gently on the
bolt. And in so doing he discovered the depth of
his self-delusion. How different was this emotion when
he felt-he actually felt—the bolt begin to slide in
his hand, from what he had experienced before, while
merely contemplating it! The blood seemed to rush
through his veins, he felt almost faint. This was real-
ity, this was possession. The mystery lay there, with
the bolt, in the hollow of his hand; at any instant he
might .... Mr. Little had no intention of drawing
the bolt. He never reasoned about it, but he knew
that that bolt never must, never should, be drawn by
him. But in proportion to this knowledge was the
n


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
175
entrancing excitement of feeling that the bolt might
be drawn, that he grasped it in his fingers, that a little
electric current through some of his nerves, a little
twitch in some of his muscles, and the mystery would
be disclosed.
It was the last of the seven days' revelry of the
coming of age. All the other neighboring properties
of the Hotspurs had been visited in turn; tenants had
been made to dine and dance on one lawn after an-
other; innumerable grouse had been massacred on the
moors; endless sets of Venetian lanterns had been
lighted, had caught fire, and tumbled on to people's
heads; Sir Hugh's old port and Johannisberg, and
the strange honey-beer, called Morocco, brewed for
centuries at Hotspur, had flowed like water, or rather
like the rain, which freely fell, but did not quench
that northern ardor. There was to be a grand ball
that night, and a grand display of fire-works. But Mr.
Little's soul was not attuned to merriment, nor were
the souls, as he suspected, of Sir Hugh Hotspur and
his son. For, according to popular tradition, it was
on this last night of the seven days' merry-making
that the heir of Hotspur must be introduced into the
hidden chamber.
Throughout lunch Mr. Little kept his eyes on the
face of his host and his host's son. What might be
passing in their mind? Was it hidden terror or a
dare-devil desperation at the thought of what the night


176
THE WITCHING TIME.
must bring? But neither Sir Hugh nor young Harry
showed the slightest emotion; their faces, it seemed to
Mr. Little, were imperturbable like stone.
Mr. Little waited till the family and guests were
safely assembled on the tennis-lawn, then hastened
along the corridor and up the steps of the peel tower.
The afternoon, after all the rain, was hot and steamy,
clearly foreboding a storm; and as Mr. Little groped his
way up the tower steps, he felt his heart moving slackly
and irregularly, and a clamminess spread over his face
and hands; he had to stop several times in order to
take breath. As usual, he seated himself on the top-
most step, holding his knees with his arms, and looking
at the piece of wall opposite, which concealed the mys-
terious door.
Mr. Little sat there a long time, while the tower
stairs grew darker and darker, the faint line betraying
the door grew invisible, and even the bolt was lost in
the general darkness. To-night—the thought, nay, al-
most the sentence in which it was framed, went on like
a bell in Mr. Little's mind-to-night they would creep
up those stairs, they would stand before that door. Sir
Hugh's hand would be upon that bolt: he saw it all so
plainly, he felt every tingle and shudder that would
pass through their bodies. Mr. Little rose and gently
grasped the bolt; how easily it would move! Sir Hugh
would not require the smallest effort. Or would it be
young Harry Hotspur ? No; it would doubtless be Sir
Ose


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
177
COL
Hugh. He would pause like that a moment, his hand
on the bolt, whispering a few words of encouragement,
perhaps a prayer. No; he would be silent. He would
hold the bolt, little guessing how recently another hand
had been upon it, little dreaming that, but a few hours
before another member of the family of Hotspur (for
Mr. Little always regarded himself in that light) had
had it in his power to ...
The thought remained unfinished in Mr. Little's
mind. With a cry he fell all of a heap upon the steps,
a blinding light in his eyes, a deafening roar in his ears.
He had opened the secret door.
He came slowly to his senses, and with life there re-
turned an overwhelming, vague sense of horror. What
he had done he did not know; but he knew he had
done something terrible. He slid, it seemed to him
that he almost trickled-for his limbs had turned to
water-down the stairs. He ran, and yet seemed to be
dragging himself, along the corridors and out of one
of the many ivy-grown doorways of the old border cas-
tle. To the left hand of the gate, at a little distance,
was the tennis court; a long beam of sun, yellow among
the storm-clouds, fell upon the grass, burnishing it into
metallic green, and making the white, red, yellow,
and blue of the players' dresses stand out like colored
enamel. Some of them shouted to him, among others
young Harry Hotspur ; but Mr. Little rushed on, heed-
less of their shouts, scaling the banks of grass, breaking


178
THE WITCHING TIME.
through the hedges, scrambling up hillside after hillside,
until he had got to the top of the fells, where the short
grayish-green grass began to be variegated with brown
patches of bog and lilac and black patches of heather,
and cut in all directions by the low walls of loose black
stones. He stopped and looked back. But he started
off again, as he saw in the distance below, among
the ashes and poplars of the narrow valley which
furrowed those treeless undulations of moorland, the
chimney-stacks of Hotspur llall, the battlements of
the square, black peel tower, reddened by the low
light.
On he went, slower, indeed, but still onward, until
every vestige of Hotspur and of every other human
habitation was out of sight, and the chain of fells had
closed round him, billow upon billow, under the fading
light. On he went, looking neither to the right nor to
the left, save when he was startled by the bubbling of a
brook, spurting from the brown moor bog on to the
stony road; or by the bleating of the sheep who wan-
dered, vague white specks, upon the grayish grass of
the hillside. The clouds accumulated in gray masses,
with an ominous yellow clearing in their midst, and
across the fells there came the sound of distant thunder.
Presently a few heavy drops began to fall; but Mr.
Little did not heed them, but went quickly on, among
the bleating of the sheep and the cry of the curlews,
along the desolate road across the fells; rain-drop suc-


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
179
ceeding rain-drop, till the hill-tops were enveloped in
a sheet of rain.
But Mr. Little did not turn back. He was dazed,
vacant, quite unconscious of all save one thing: he had
opened the hidden door at Hotspur Hall.
At length the road made a turn, began to descend,
and in a dip of the fells some light shone forth in the
darkness and the mist. Mr. Little started, and very
nearly ran back: he had thought for a moment that
these must be the lights of Hotspur: but a second's
reflection told him that Hotspur must lie far behind,
and presently, among the blinding rain which fell in cold
sheets, he found himself among some low black cottages.
In the window of one of them was a light, and over the
door, in the darkness, swung an inn sign. He knocked,
and entered the inn kitchen, a trickle of water following
him wherever he went, and, in the tone and with the
look of a sleep-walker, said something about having
been overtaken by a storm during a walk on the moors,
and wanting a night's shelter. The innkeeper and his
wife were evidently too pastoral-minded to reflect that
gentlemen do not usually walk on the fells without
a hat, and in blue silk socks and patent-leather shoes ;
and they heaped up the fire, by the side of which
Mr. Little collapsed into an arm-chair, indifferent
to the charms of bacon and beer and hot griddle-
cakes.
He tried to settle his ideas. Of what had passed he


180
THE WITCHING TIME.
knew but this much for certain, that he had opened the
secret door.
The following morning Mr. Little summoned up his
courage, and, after a great argument with himself, turned
his steps toward Hotspur Hall. The day was fresh and
blowy; a delicate blue haze hung over the hills, out of
which, larger and larger, emerged a brilliant blue sky.
In the valley the towers of Hotspur and its tall chimneys
rose among the trees. Soon Mr. Little could see the
bright patches of geranium on the lawn. All this, he
argued with himself, must have been a delusion, a result
of over-psychological study and a thunder-storm upon a
nervous and poetical temperament. He tried to remem-
ber what he had read about delusions in Carpenter's
“Mental Physiology," and about that supposed robbery,
or burglary, which Shelley believed himself to have wit-
nessed. Mr. Little couldn't remember the details, but
he was pleased it should have been Shelley. He felt
quite foolish and almost happy as he passed through the
rose garden, among the strawberry nets, and in at the
by-entrance of Hotspur. He walked straight into the
dining-room, where he knew the family was assembled
at breakfast, jauntily, and one hand in his pocket.
“Why, Little, where the deuce have you spent the
night ?” cried Sir Hugh Hotspur; and the question
was echoed in various forms by the rest of the company.
“Why, Little, have you been in the horse-pond ? .” cried
young Harry, pointing to his guest's clothes, which,


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
181
drenched the previous night, did indeed suggest some
such immersion. Mr. Little did not answer; he felt
himself grow cold and pale, and grasped a chair-back.
In making this rude remark, the heir of Hotspur had
burst into a peal of laughter.
Mr. Little understood; they had found the mys-
terious chamber empty, its horror fled; he had really
opened that door; the heir of Hotspur could still
laugh. He explained automatically how he had been
caught by a storm on the fells, and been obliged to
pass the night at a wayside inn; but the whole time,
while he pretended to be eating his breakfast, his brain
was on fire with a thought-
“Where had it gone—it, the something which he
had let loose ?”
That night Mr. Little slept, or rather, as our an-
cestors more correctly expressed it, lay, at Hotspur. For
the word sleep was but a mockery. There was a second
storm, and all night the wind howled in the trees, the
drops fell from the eaves, and the room was illumined
by fitful gleams of lightning. It seemed to Mr. Little
that the evil spirit, or whatever else it might be, which
had once been safely locked up in the hidden chamber,
was now loose in the house. On reflection he could not
doubt it: when he had fallen senseless on the stairs,
something had passed out of the door; he had heard and
felt the wind of its passage. It had issued from the
room; it must now be somewhere else, at loose, free to


182
THE WITCHING TIME.
wreak its will with every flash of lightning. Mr. Little
expected that the solid masonry of Hotspur would catch
fire and burn like a match; with every crash of thunder
he expected that the great peel tower would come
rattling on to the roof. He realized for the first time
the tales of the companions of Ulysses opening the bag
of the winds; of the Arabian fisherman breaking Solo-
mon's seal on the flask which held the djinn; they no
longer struck him as in the least ridiculous, these stories.
He too had done alike. For, after all, was it not pos-
sible that there existed in Nature forces, beings, unknown
to our ordinary every-day life? Did not all modern in-
vestigations point in that direction, and was it not pos-
sible, then, that by the mercy of Providence such a force
or being, fatal to our weak humanity, might have been
permitted to be inclosed within four walls--one family,
or rather, one unhappy member of one family, being
sacrificed for the good of mankind, and facing this terror
alone, that the rest of his kind might not look upon that
ineffable mystery? And now he, in the lawlessness of
his skepticism, had stepped in and opened that sacred
door. . . . He understood now why he had often felt
that he was destined to commit some terrible crime.
Mr. Little sat up in bed, and as the lightning fitfully
lit up the antique furniture of his room, he began
mechanically to mutter some prayers of his childhood,
and some Latin formulæ of exorcism which he had
learned at the time of his offering to do the article


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
183
“ Incubus” for the “Encyclopædia Britannica.” What
should he do? Confess to Sir Hugh Hotspur ? or to
Sir Hugh's son? He felt terrified at the mere notion ;
but he understood that his terror was no mere vulgar
fear of being reprimanded for a gross breach of hos-
pitality and honor—that it was due to the sense that,
having this terrible secret, he had no right to ruin there-
with the lives of innocent men. The Hotspurs would
know but too soon!
Meanwhile Mr. Little felt an imperative need to
confess what he had done, to ask advice and assistance.
He wished for once that he had been able to go over to
Rome that time that Monsignor Tassel had tried to con-
vert him, instead of being deterred by the oleographs
in Monsignor Tassel's chapel. What would he not give
to kneel down in a confessional, and pour out the
horrible secret through the perforated brass plate!
All of a sudden he jumped out of bed, struck a light,
and dragged his portmanteau into the middle of the
room. He had remembered Esmé St. John, and the
fact that Esmé St. John, his former chum at Oxford,
was working in the slums of Newcastle, not three hours
hence. How could he ever, in the lawless hardness of
his heart, have thought Esmé ridiculous, have actually
tried to reason him out of his High Church asceticism ?
This was indeed the just retribution, the fall of the
proud, that he should now seek shelter and peace in
Esmé's spiritual arms, and bring to the man, nay, rather


184
THE WITCHING TIME.
to the saint, at whom he had once scoffed, a story which
he would himself have once ridiculed as the most child-
ish piece of superstition. The mere thought of that act
of humiliation did him good; and the terrors of the
night seemed to diminish as Mr. Little stooped over
his portmanteau and folded his clothes with neat but
feverish hands. As soon as it was light, he stole out
of the house, walked to the neighboring village, knocked
up the half-idiotic girl who had charge of the post-office,
and sent off a sixpenny telegram telling the Reverend
Esmé St. John that he would join him at Newcastle
that afternoon.
Mr. Little was rather surprised, and in truth rather
dashed, when he met his old friend. He had spent the
hours in the train framing his confession: a terrible tale
to tell, yet which he felt a sudden disappointment at
being prevented from telling. Prevented he did feel.
He found the Reverend Esmé St. John making a round
among his parishioners; they had told him so at Mr. St.
John's chapel, and he had realized vividly the whole
scene; Esmé, emaciated, hollow-voiced, fresh from some
death-bed, leaving the rest of his flock to follow the call
of this pale creature, in whom he would scarcely recog-
nize an old friend, and the very touch of whose hand
would tell him that things more terrible than death were
at stake. But it was otherwise. After wandering about
various black and grimy slums under the thick black
Newcastle sky, and up various precipitous alleys' and


THE HIDDEN DOOR..
185
flights of steps strewed with egg-shells and herring-
heads, Mr. Little found his old friend in a back yard
sheltered by the crumbling red roof of “The Musician's
Rest” inn (where the first bars of “Auld Lang Syne"
swung over the door). By his side was a fat, tattered,
but extremely jovial red-haired woman washing in a tub,
and opposite, an unkempt ragamuffin with his hands in
his pockets, singing at the top of his little voice a comic
song in Northumbrian dialect. Mr. Esmé St. John was
leaning against the doorway, laughing with all his might;
he was fat, bald, had a red face, and a very humorous eye
-in fact, did not resemble in the least the hollow-
cheeked, flashing-eyed young fanatic of ten years be-
fore. He stretched out his broad hand to Mr. Little,
and said: “Do listen to this song, it's about the Board
School man—it's really too delicious, and the little chap
sings it quite nicely!”
Mr. Little listened, not understanding a word, and
thinking how little this man, laughing over å foolish
song sung by a street-boy, guessed the terrible confession
he was about to receive.
When the song was finished, the Reverend Esmé St.
John took Little's arm, and began to overwhelm him
with futile questions while leading him down the steep
streets of Old Newcastle, until they got to the door of a
large and gorgeous eating-house.
“You must be hungry,” said Mr. St. John. “I've
ordered dinner here for a treat, because my old house-


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
187
under the high-level bridge, over whose colossal span the
square old castle stood out black against the sky.
Mr. Little crept through a battered wooden gateway,
and picked his way among the puddles, the fallen beams,
and the refuse heaps of a court-yard. A light appeared
at a window.
“Here we are,” said Esmé, and they followed an old,
witch-like woman, herself following a thin, black cat, up
some crazy, wooden stairs, and into a suite of low, large
rooms. Mr. St. John held up a lantern. The room in
which they stood was utterly dismantled, the very wain-
scoting torn out, the ceiling gaping in rent lath and
plaster. In a corner stood a bed, a crazy chest of draw-
ers, and washing apparatus, a table, and chair; and in
the next room, where the old woman's light had pre-
ceded them, was a similar bed, a shelf of books, a large
black cross nailed to the wall, and a wooden step for
kneeling.
“That's my room," said the clergyman. “You may
have it if you prefer. But here's a fire-place in this one,
so you'd better keep it."
So saying, Mr. St. John applied a match to the fag-
ots, and the gaunt apartment was flooded with a red
light.
“I must make some arrowroot for an old woman of
mine," said the clergyman, producing a tin can and
saucepan. “May I make it on your fire ?”
Mr. Little watched him in silence, then suddenly


188
THE WITCHING Z'IME.
said: “Esmé, I thought at first you were changed from
old days, but I see you are still a saint. Alas! I fear it
is 1 who have changed but too sadly;” and he sighed.
“You are growing too fat," answered Mr. St. John
good-humoredly, but quite missing the fact that this was
the exordium of a confession. Then, to Mr. Little's
annoyance, he asked him leave to carry the arrowroot
to his old woman, who lived in a lane hard by. Mr.
Little remained seated by the fire, while the housekeeper
(since she must be dignified by such a title) unpacked
his portmanteau. Yes, indeed, this was the man to
whom he could make his confession, and this was the
place—this dismantled, tumble-down old mansion, ten-
anted now only by a few poor bargees' families and by
countless generations of rats. And Mr. Little put an-
other piece of coal on, in preparation of the nightly
conference he was about to have. .
Presently Mr. St. John returned.
“ Esmé,” said Mr. Little, putting his hand on his
friend's sleeve, “I wish to speak to you."
“About what?” asked Mr. St. John. “It's very
late to begin talking."
“ About myself," answered Mr. Little, gravely.
“Do you want anything else? Would you like
some brandy and water, or another pillow? You may
have mine—or an additional blanket?” asked his friend.
Mr. Little shook his head. “I have all I want in
the way of material comforts."


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
189
“ In that case,” replied the clergyman, “I shall leave
you at once. If, as you imply, you want spiritual com-
forts, you must wait till to-morrow, for I am perfectly
worn out, and have to be up to-morrow at half-past four.
I've been nursing a man from the chemical works these
five nights. Good-night!” and, taking his candle, Mr.
St. John walked into his room, leaving his friend greatly
disconcerted by this want of sympathy.
The following day Mr. Little accompanied his friend
on one of his rounds. After visiting a number of squalid
places, where Mr. Little would certainly have thought
about measles and small-pox had he not been thinking
about the mystery of Hotspur Hall, they returned to
the row of houses, once fashionable mansions, with their
fronts on the river, among which loomed, next to the
black and crumbling former Town Hall, the shell of a
family mansion in which they were lodged.
“This was once the fashionable part of Newcastle,"
said Mr. St. John. “An old lady of ninety once told me
she could remember the time when this street used to be
crowded with coaches and footmen and link boys of a
winter's night. I want to show you my mission-room;
I'm very proud of it.” ,
They entered a black passage, close to an inexpress-
ibly shabby public-house, and ascended a wide stone
staircase, unswept for ages, as was attested by the cab-
bage-stalks and herring-heads which lay about in various
stages of decomposition. On the first landing à rope


190
THE WITCHING TIME.
was stretched, and a line of clothes, or rather rags, dry.
ing after the wash-tub, formed a picturesque screen
before several open doors, whence issued squealing of
babies, grind of sewing machines, and various unsavory
odors. Mr. St. John unlocked a door and admitted his
friend into a large hall, gracefully decorated with pas-
toral stucco moldings, but filled with church seats, and
whose raised extremity, suggestive of the dais for an or-
chestra, was occupied by an altar duly appointed accord-
ing to ritualistic notions. The place smelt considerably
of stale tobacco and damp straw.
“These were the former assembly rooms,” explained
Mr. St. John; “ and this, which is now my little chapel
for the lowest scum of Newcastle slums, was once the
ball-room. What would those ladies in hoops and pow-
der think of the change, I wonder ?”
Mr. Little saw his opportunity.
“ This place must be haunted,” he said. “By-the-
way, Esmé, what are your views on the subject of ghosts
and the supernatural ? I should be very interested to
know.”
Mr. St. John had locked the door behind them.
“Never mention the word ghost before me," he ex-
claimed; it drives me perfectly wild to see all the tom-
fooling that has been going on of late about apparitions,
haunted houses, secret chambers, and all that blasphe-
mous rubbish. It is really a retribution of Heaven to see
you agnostic wiseacres taking up such contemptible


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
191
twaddle. I'm very sorry to hear that you have been in
correspondence with those people, Little.”
“But—" objected Mr. Little.
“No buts for me!” cried the Reverend Esmé St.
John, hotly; “I can not conceive how any man of
education and character can fiddle-faddle about idiotic
superstitions which it is the duty of every Christian
and every gentleman to pluck out of the minds of
the vulgar.”
It was clear that this was not the moment to
begin a confession about the mysterious room at Hot-
spur.
“How surprised he will be,” thought Mr. Little
(and a vague sense of satisfaction mingled with the
horror of the thought), “when he hears that I, even I,
the skeptical, antinomian Little, have come in contact
with mysteries more strange and awful than any ever
examined into by any society for psychical research.”
Despite his old friend's want of sympathy, Mr.
Decimus Little continued to lodge with the Reverend
Esmé St. John, in the grimy and crumbling old man-
sion by the Tyneside, following him about on his
various errands of mercy. “A man situated like me,”
Mr. Little had said to himself, “a great sinner (if you
like the pious formula of former ages), a character pre-
destined to evil (if you prefer the more modern
phraseology of determinism), does well to live in the
shadow of a truly good man: his saintliness is a bul.


192
TAE WITCHING TIME.
wark against evil spirits; or, at all events, the sight of
perfect serenity and purity of mind must calm a deeply
troubled spirit.” Indeed, he more than once began to
make this remark, in terms even more subtle, to his
friend; but Mr. St. John, whether from fear of Mr.
Little’s dialectic power, which might shake some of
his most cherished beliefs, or from some other reason,
invariably turned a deaf ear to all such beginnings
of confession.
But either the serenity of the ritualistic philan-
thropist was inadequate to calm a brain so over-excited
or the evil spirits let loose by Mr. Little made short
work of the bulwarks of Esmé's saintliness. The
thought of that opened door began to haunt him like
a nightmare: the effort at guessing what had been
liberated when that door was opened wore out his
energies. Was it à monster--a poor, loathsome, half-
human thing, hiding, perhaps lying starving at this
moment, in some corner of the castle: a thing with-
out mind, or speech, or shape, but endowed with mon-
strous strength, starting forth in the night and throttling
the unrightful owner or his young children with stupid
glee? Or, more horrible almost, forcing by its pres-
ence that honorable and kindly old man into crime;
tempting him, with the fear lest this hideousness should
become known to the world, into spilling the blood of
what seemed but a loathly reptile, but might be his
third cousin, or his great-uncle? Mr. Little buried his


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
193
Wor
Dom
face in his pillow at the thought. But it might be
worse still—in that room might have been inclosed
some ghastly mediæval plague, some crumbling long-
dead corpse, whose every particle was ready to take
wing and spread forgotten diseases over the country.
Or was it something less tangible, less conceivable-a
ghost, a demon, some fearful supernatural evil?
Every morning, when his tea was set down by the
housekeeper upon the rickety table in his dismantled
bedroom, Mr. Little would unfold, with trembling fin-
gers, the local newspaper, half expecting that his eye
would fall upon a notice headed “Hotspur Hall.” And
there were moments when he could scarce resist the
impulse of rushing to the station, and buying a ticket
for the village nearest Hotspur.
But a stop was put to such fears about a week
after his arrival at Newcastle ; alas ! only to be suc-
ceeded by fears much more terrible. Returning home
one day he saw a letter on his table; a presentiment
told him it was about that. Yet he shook all over
when he saw the address on the back of the envelope,
“ Hotspur Hall, Northumberland.” He sank on to a
chair, and was for some time unable to open the letter.
It was from Sir Hugh—Sir Hugh writing to the guest,
the cousin who had betrayed all the sacred laws of hos-
pitality, to inform him of all the horrors in which his
act had involved an innocent, honorable, and happy
household. Mr. Little groaned, and held the letter un-


194
THE WITCAING TIME.
opened. Then suddenly he opened it, tore it open
madly. It ran as follows:
“MY DEAR LITTLE :-I have been too busy of late to
let you know that Edwardes discovered in your room
here, two days after your sudden departure from Hot-
spur, a whole outfit which you bad apparently forgotten.
It consists of a shirt, a pair of check breeches, two white
ties, a colored silk handkerchief, a sponge, and a razor-
strop. Let us know where you wish all this to be sent.
I write to relieve your mind on the subject, as you have
doubtless missed these valuables. Lady Hotspur and
Harry unite in hoping that you are enjoying yourself,
and that we may see you soon again.
“Yours, sincerely,
“Hugh NORTH HOSTPUR.
“P. S.-I may tell you—but in strict confidence-a
piece of news that will doubtless give you pleasure.
Our Hal is engaged since the day before yesterday to
the Honorable Cynthia Blenkinsop, whom you admired
the evening of the Yeomanry ball. The wedding is for
next May.”
ar
ve
1
What did this mean? They did not suspect him,
that was clear; and nothing terrible had occurred, that
was clear also. What then? Was it possible that ....
But Mr. Little's eyes rested on the postscript. Harry
Hotspur engaged to the Honorable Cynthia Blenkinsop:


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
195
a marriage between the two hereditary enemies, whose
enmity dated from the time of Chevy Chase! And
there returned to his mind the ancient Northumbrian
prophecy (he could not quite pronounce it in the origi-
nal), that as long as the fell is green and the moor is
purple, as long as deer haunt the woods (they don't,
thought Mr. Little) and the seamew the rocks, as long
as the secret door at the Hall remains closed, so long
will never a Hotspur wed a Blenkinsop.
The secret door had been opened, they knew it, and
with its opening the curse had been removed from the
family. The heir might laugh, though he had come of
age (he had laughed at Mr. Little's wet clothes, if you
remember); he might marry a Miss Blenkinsop; the door
had been opened, and he had opened it!
Mr. Little jumped up from his chair and rushed to
his friend's door.
“Esmé,” he cried, “we'll dine at the Kafe” (that
being the local pronunciation of the word Café) “to-
night; and here's a sovereign for the poor woman who
broke her leg. ... Harry Hotspur is going—” But
he stopped himself, and when the clergyman opened the
door, astounded at these high spirits, and asking why
this sudden launching into festivities and lavish chari-
ties, he could only answer, “Only a letter I've had from
Sir Hugh Hotspur. It seems-it seems I left quite a lot
of things behind; a pair of check trowsers among others.
Quite valuable, you know-quite valuable !”


196
THE WITCHING TIME.
But Mr. Little's happiness—nay, self-congratulation
-came to a speedy end. That night, as he lay awake,
owing to the unwonted luxury of coffee after dinner, a
thought struck him. If the—the thing, the mystery,
the whatever it was, had been liberated from the secret
chamber, as was proved beyond doubt, not only by his
consciousness of having opened the door, but by the
news in Sir Hugh's letter; and if, at the same time, it
had not manifested itself to the inhabitants of the Hall,
as was likewise clearly the case from the cheerful tone in
which the master of Hotspur wrote, why, then what had
become of it? Mr. Little, who believed in the inde-
structibility of force, could not have imagined it to have
come to an end; and, if still existing, it must be some-
where.
At this moment a sound—a moan, which made his
blood run cold-issued from the darkness of the room.
Mr. Little struck a light. The bare, dismantled room,
with its unwainscoted walls and torn lath ceiling, was
empty, and its bareness admitted of no hiding-place any-
where.
“It is the wind in the chimney!” he said to himself,
and extinguished his candle.
But the ghastly moan, this time ending in a sort of
gurgling laugh, was repeated, and with it a horrible
thought flashed across Mr. Little's mind: What if that
mysterious something should attach itself to the man
who had disturbed its long seclusion-if the Terror of


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
197
Hotspur Hall should have fastened upon the rash creat-
ure who had let it loose !
And again there issued from the darkness of that
dismantled room the moan, the gurgling laugh. In
what shape would it reveal itself? Mr. Little, in the
course of his studies, had read M. Maury's “Magie au
Moyen Age”; a similar work by the Rev. Baring
Gould; the valuable “Essay on Superstition in the Mid-
dle Ages,” by Dr. Schindler, Royal Prussian Sanitary
Councilor and Man-midwife at Greiffenberg; he had
also once bought the works of Theophrastus Bombastes
of Hohenheim, called “ Paracelsus,” bat found them too
boring to read. So that his mind was well stocked with
alternatives among which a mediæval mystery could se-
lect. His suspicions were one day aroused by a strange-
looking man, dark and grimy, who got on to the Tyne
steamer one evening at Wallsend, kept his hat over his
face and his eyes fixed upon Mr. Little, and then dodged
him up and down Newcastle to the very door of his
house. “Who are you?” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Lit-
tle, stopping short and facing him. He half expected
the man to unmask—that is, to take off his hat, and, dis-
playing the face of a corpse, to answer, like the mysteri-
ous stranger in Calderon's play, “I am thyself.” But
the man muttered something about its being very hard
on a fellow; that since Mr. St. John had been good to
the wife, he ought also to be good to the husband; that
he had never touched a drop of liquor till after his mar-


198
THE WITCHING TIME.
oma
riage with that woman-he hadn't, etc. Mr. Little
turned away in disgust. On another occasion, his sus-
picions were awakened by a large black dog, which in-
sisted upon following him, and even walked into his
room, but he proved to have his master's address on his
collar, and was consequently sent home next morning.
One day, again, as Mr. Little was leaning out of the
lattice window, looking at the red roofs of Gateshead,
the solitary black church on the green mound, sur-
rounded by cinder-heaps and chemical refuse, above the
Tyne, his eyes fell upon the gray mass of water which
rolled slowly below him; and it seemed to him as if,
suddenly, in the curl of a heavy-laden wave, he had seen
-a face, upturned eyes staring at him. “Pooh!” said
Esmé St. John, whom slumming had made slightly cyn-
ical, “it's only some wretched creature who's drowned
himself. They'll take him up at the next dead-house.”
But Mr. Little shook his head : those eyes had looked
at him.
Mr. Little had wondered whether he would be
haunted : he soon began to be so, or very nearly. He
scarcely ventured to enter his room alone, lest he should
find waiting for him, he knew not what; or to approach
his own bed, lest, on raising the sheet, he should find it
already horribly occupied. Every knock made him
start; and it was only by an effort that he could induce
himself to cry “Come in !” to the old woman who
brought him his hot water. But the day was serene


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
: 199
compared with the night. He would lie awake for
hours listening to the sullen lapping of the Tyne under
the windows, to the scurrying of the rats round the
walls, the creaking of broken woodwork in the wind,
the rattling of the incessant trains over the high-level
bridge close by: lie awake breathless, feeling a presence
in the room, but never daring to open his eyes; feeling
it coming nearer and nearer, and at the same time ex-
panding, filling the place, choking him, yet never daring
to look; until the horrible consciousness would die away
as it had come, and there remain only the sickening ter-
ror it had brought, and the speculations, while listening
to the strokes of the Gateshead clock, as to what the
terror might be. Yet, was it something visible, defina-
ble, or was it merely a rague curse ?
“Esmé,” said Mr. Little one day,“ do you consider
-do you consider--that a man who knows his life to
be under a curse; well, suppose something like insanity,
you know: but not that — nothing really hereditary,
merely a personal thing, a curse, a something making
life quite unbearable to him and every one else—do you
think that such a man would have a right to marry ?”
Mr. St. John looked at him long and fixedly. “Such
a man, in my humble opinion, ought to have a good
course of iron, or phosphorus, or, best of all, of whip-
ping, to take down his conceit; and he certainly oughtn't
to get married, unless he knew for certain that the lady
would administer some such treatment to him."
COU


200
THE WITCHING TIME.
“You have grown very coarse, Esmé!” exclaimed
Mr. Little, “I admit that you do a great deal of good
to others, but I sometimes question whether a man of
refinement by associating wholesale with laundresses and
bargees does much good to himself.”
“ Very likely not,” replied the clergyman, dryly.
“Happily, some men aren't always thinking all day
long whether they are doing good to themselves or
not.”
“He is right, all the same, he is right,” said Mr.
Little to himself.
Whatever the coarseness of fibre of Mr. St. John,
and his lack of all power of sympathy and intuition,
there was no denying that he had given expression to a
very sound ethical view.
No; a man in the position of Decimus Little must
not marry. He must not drag another life into the
atmosphere of horror with which, in one second of law-
lessness, he had surrounded himself. It was impossible
to conceive a happy home with the mysterious horror of
Hotspur Hall constantly in the background. No; he
must never marry. But had he not foreseen this answer
before putting the question to his friend? Nay, had he
not always felt, long before setting his foot in Hotspur
Hall, that some dark fate would come between him and
happiness; that the joys of wife and children were not
for a creature like him, unreal and lawless, marked for
some strange and horrible destiny? All this had not


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
201
been mere silly despondency, or, as his friend Esmé
would have thought, morbid self-importance.
He determined to write to his cousin and break off at
once. But how convey to this charming, buoyant, and
decidedly positivistic and positive young student of Gir-
ton a fact so contrary to all her beliefs and tendencies,
as that an unknown terror, inclosed for centuries in the
secret chamber of a border castle, had suddenly, through
his fault, shunted itself upon him ? Mr. Little revolved
the matter in his mind, and found a melancholy little
pleasure in so doing. He determined at last upon
merely telling the young lady that this marriage had be-
come impossible, and hinting dimly to her that this was
due to no diminution of affection, no want of duty on his
part, but to a terrible and mysterious curse (not insanity,
nor consumption he would underline that) under which
he was laboring, and which forbade his ever sharing a
life which meant unspeakable horror.
Mr. Little sat for a long time before his writing-case,
resting his chin on his hand, and jotting down half sen-
tences at intervals.
Yes, he could see it all: the surprise and mystifica-
tion of the dear girl, her tears of rage (he knew she
would rage), her feeling of faintness and sickness, her
sudden calling upon her bosom friend, Miss Hopper (the
student of political economy, with the cropped hair and
divided skirts)—he had always disliked Miss Hopper, an
unwomanly young person—to shed light upon it. And


202
THE WITCHING TIME.
even Miss Hopper, who, he knew, had once said she was
surprised her Gwendolen could love any man, and least
of all a little, gray-haired muff —even Miss Hopper
would have to admit that her friend's unhappy lover
was marvelously magnanimous. And then Gwendolen
would write imploringly to know what had happened ;
nay, rather (he knew her well), she would come herself,
arrive at Newcastle, drive to his house, and then there
would be a grand explanation. Esmé St. John would be
present, that would make everything proper, and Esmé
would be so astounded ; and Gwendolen would go on her
knees to him and he on his knees to Gwendolen, and
finally they would bid each other farewell, and Esmé
would take her hand, and bid ber kiss Decimus, and
then lead her away to the nearest sisterhood, where she
would immediately proceed to turn hospital nurse for the
rest of her days, and wear a lock of Decimus's hair
round her neck under a scapular.
Mr. Little covered his eyes with his hands, and began
to cry. For the first time since opening that door he
felt quite peaceable and pleased with himself.
He was startled by the entrance of Martha, Mr. St.
John's old housekeeper.
“I beg your pardon, sir," she said, making a violent
effort over a strong northern accent, “but would you
mind my dusting a little ?”
“ Dust away,” answered Mr. Little, sadly, implying
that he, too, was dust and ashes."


THE HIDDEN DOOR.. - 203
In a room as scantily furnished as was Mr. Little's,
the operation of dusting would, one might imagine, be
necessarily a brief one; but Martha contrived to prolong
it singularly. She was passing the duster for the fourth
or fifth time over the lid of Mr. Little’s portmanteau,
when she suddenly turned round, and said-
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“I did not say anything," answered Mr. Little,
gloomily.
“ No, sir, no more you did, sir. But I was a-saying,
sir, if as I might take the liberty, sir, as I see—but there
was no prying, sir, I assure you, for I'm greatly averse
to prying into folks' concerns, especially the gentry's,
and it was all casual like, as we say. I was a-saying,
sir, seeing how you received a letter from Sir Hugh Hot-
spur the other day; if you would just put in a word for
me now as they've got a new butler, for it would indeed
be a charity, let alone all the injustice, to get a body back
into her rights, and a widow, too, as I've been these
fifteen years, and with only a third cousin in the
world.”
“My good woman,” interrupted Mr. Little, “explain
yourself. I fail to comprehend a word.”
“ Well, then, sir,” proceeded Martha, resuming the
violent efforts to get the better of her Northumbrian
accent, "you should know that I was once in a better
place than this, as good a place as any of them have,
. . . for I was laundress at Hotspur Hall, and a better


204
THE WITCHING TIME.
laundress you never seed, sir, nor linen better kept than
mine was. And then, as Heaven would have it, on ac-
count of the wickedness of men, I lost my place through
no fault of mine, but merely all along of that room in
the peel tower, the room as is lit from the top and as
has no windows, as perhaps, sir, you know.”
“Hush !” cried Mr. Little, with a gesture like that of
a man fainting, “for mercy's sake, woman ... explain
... that room ... the room on the topmost landing
of the peel tower. ..."
“ Yes, sir, with a door as is hidden in the wall-se-
cret like.”
“You opened that door? You were sent away for
opening that door ? Answer me—for Heaven's sake,
Martha, answer me!” and Mr. Little clutched the old
lady's arm.
“Lor, sir! there was no harm meant. I did not
mean to be prying into other folks' concerns, as I always
says is best left alone. Although there is such as is
always a-prying into everything,”
“ You opened that door? Yes, or no ?”
“Well, yes, sir, I did, as I was a-going to tell you,
sir,” cried Martha, terrified at Mr. Little's face, and try-
ing to extricate her arm from his hand. “I beg your
pardon, sir, as you're a-tearing of my sleeve.”
Mr. Little let her go.
- “That door-the last door in the peel tower, on the
left; a door hidden in the wall; the door of a room


THE HIDDEN DOOR.
205
without a window; a room lit from the battlements
above?"
“ Yes, sir,” answered Martha, beginning to quake all
over; “exactly as you says, sir. The topmost door in
the peel tower, on the left; a door hidden in the wall.
It was all along of opening that, as you says, sir.”
“Then, Martha," said Mr. Little, solemnly, sitting
upright, and fixing his eyes on the old woman's, “you
were sent away from Hotspur Hall for opening that
door—the door of the secret chamber!”
“Well, sir, it may be called the secret chamber, for
all as I know now, and the butler would have had me
keep it a secret what I saw there, sure enough-all them
bottles of wine as he had hidden away to sell to the
*Blue Bull' at Blenkinsop; but of my time there was
no one as had a right to call it a secret room, seeing as it
was the room as we used to put the drying lines in o'
winter, when it was too damp to dry the clothes out of
doors, as maybe it still is, on account of that draught
from the skylight in the roof.”
“Enough!” cried Mr. Little. “Woman, not one
word more!”
Visitors at Hotspur Hall still continue to look for
the secret room, to hang out towels from the windows,
and pump the servants, all in vain. Young Harry Hot-
spur was never known to laugh quite as much as that
time that Mr. Little appeared at breakfast in the clothes
which he had worn that night on the fell; at least, he


206
THE WITCHING TIME.
rarely laughed except when he chanced to see Mr. Little.
As to the marriage question, and the difficulty of recon-
ciling it to the prophecy that so long as the fell was
green and the moor purple, and the deer haunted the
woods and the seamew the rocks, as long as the secret
chamber at Hotspur Hall remained undiscovered, so long
would never a Hotspur wed a Blenkinsop, it might be
interesting to examine into this incongruity in a serious
psychological spirit. Such persons as are destitute of
any taste for serious psychology merely answer to any
objection of the kind, that the Honorable Cynthia Blen.
kinsop was possessed not merely of a charming person
but of sixty thousand a year; and that a secret chamber
inhabited by an unspecified horror, although a very de-
lightful heirloom in an ancient family, is not sufficient
capital in these days of ostentatious living and riotous
luxury. As regards Mr. Decimus Little, he is at present
in Turkey, on a trial trip with his cousin Gwendolen and
her mother, which will decide whether or not he shall
be married to her next January by the Reverend Esmé
St. John.


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
BY WILLIAM ARCHER.
We were sitting, Sir Marmaduke and I, at the Café
de la Régence, one sultry evening in early summer. We
had each a mazagran and a cigar. Sir Marmaduke was
reading the “Times," while I looked lazily through a veil
of smoke at the stars and the passers-by. In the white
front of the Théâtre-Français every window blazed with
light. The gas lamps of the Avenue de l'Opéra shone
like flakes of gold in contrast with the misty pallor of
electricity through which, at the end of the vista, the
facade of the opera-house could be dimly discerned.
The fountain of the Place du Théâtre-Français reflected
in shifting gleams the thousand lights around. In front
of the great theatre the red lamps of the orange-stalls,
shining on the pyramids of fruit, heightened harmonious-
ly the pale yellow of the prevailing light. The monoto-
nously strident cries of the orange-men and programme
sellers, together with the tinkle of the liquorice-water-
vendor's bell, mingled in my ears with the dull clap-clap
of the cab-horses' hoofs upon the asphalt. All sorts and


208
THE WITCHING TIME.
conditions of men and women filed past on the broad
pavement; and, watching them, I amused myself by
fancifully recognizing in the more noticeable figures this
'or that personage of Dumas fils, or Daudet, or Zola--a
Monsieur Alphonse or a Duc de Septmonts; a Risler
ainé, a Delobelle, or a Deschellettes; a Sidonie or a
Sapho; a Gervaise, a Lantier, a Zéphyrin, or a Satin.
But there were other types in the shifting scene be-
sides those of the French realists. Every now and then
there would pass a personage who had evidently walked
straight from the pages of Mr. Howells or Mr. James; and
the characters of Mr. Du Maurier (a realist, too, after his
kind) brought with them airs from Kensington and blasts
from Bayswater. Here, for instance, was an unmistak-
able Englishman crossing toward us from the Théâtre-
Français, whence issued two streams of men eager for a
breath of air between the acts. The Englishman was of
tallish figure, middle-aged, correct, commonplace. His
short brown whiskers were touched with gray; his upper
lip and chin were shaved; his mouth was firm, his nose
thin and well cut, his eyes small and unremarkable. His
eyebrows were the only striking feature of his face
long, bushy, and overhanging, like those which Darwin
developed, it is said, by continual concentration over his
microscope. On the whole, I took him for a barrister in
good practice, or a well-placed civil servant; and the lat-
ter hypothesis, as I afterward found, was correct.
He walked up to the Café de la Régence and


POT-HOORS AND HANGERS.
209
looked about for a seat in the open space in front.
To get at the only unoccupied table he had to pass
Sir Marmaduke, whose outspread “ Times” was block-
ing the way. Sir Marmaduke looked up absently at
the intruder, then sprang from his seat, almost knock-
ing over his water-carafe in his excitement, and seized
the astonished Englishman by the hand.
“Philips !” he cried, “where have you dropped
from? How glad I am to see you!”
“Ah, Middleton!” said the other, cordially, “I was
thinking of you the other day as I passed by Stresa,
on my way over the Simplon."
“We haven't met since that day on Maggiore-how
many years ago ?” said Sir Marmaduke.
“ Eight or nine," put in Mr. Philips, who had
meanwhile given the waiter his order.
“No; eleven," replied Sir Marmaduke, after a little.
thought. “What Horace says is-
" Eheu fugaces
Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume!'.
6 • Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me!'»
“I needn't ask whether you took my advice,” said
Philips, looking at him. Your hair is scarcely griz-
zled.”
This enigmatic remark excited my curiosity. Could
this friend of Sir Marmaduke's be an agent of the


210 - THE WITCHING TIME.
hyacinthine Mrs. Allen, or a traveler in “Balm of Co-
lumbia ” ?
“If I hadn't taken your advice, my dear fellow,"
said Sir Marmaduke, “I shouldn't be here at this mo-
ment."
“ You'd be settled in Italy ?” said the other, with
a curious smile.
“ Probably,” replied Sir Marmaduke, reflecting his
friend's smile, “settled for good.”
He now introduced me to Mr. Philips, and we
nodded to each other with the studied frigidity of
true-born Britons.
“And now tell me,” said Sir Marmaduke with in-
terest, “what became of you after we parted that morn-
ing. You vanished into thin air. Did you find your
hippogriff awaiting you when you landed at Pallanza ?
You must know," he added, turning to me, “that Phil-
ips is a necromancer, a Cagliostro, by Jove!”
“I didn't find a hippogriff,” said Philips, “but a
telegram from the Home Office. I took the first
steamer for Arona, and was in London two days later."
“Do you still practice the black art ?” asked Sir
Marmaduke.
“The black and white art, you mean," said the other,
laughing. “Oh, yes, in a small way. But now I must
be off-I don't want to miss the last act of 'Ruy Blas,'
and besides, I'm with some people.”
“But look here,” said Sir Marmaduke, “you mustn't


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
211
go and perform your great vanishing trick again, as
you did the other time. I've something to return you,
you know—with many thanks."
“Oh, that !” said the other. “Well, I shouldn't
mind having it again, especially as I don't suppose it
has any great sentimental value for you. Where are
you stopping ?”
“Meurice's."
6 And I at the Continental. Well, when I've seen
my people home, I'll stroll along if you like.”
“Do,” said Sir Marmaduke; "you'll find us in the
smoking-room.”
: “All right,” was the reply, “expect me about
twelve;” and, after paying for his black coffee, Mr.
Philips hurried back to the theatre.
“Who's your mysterious friend?” I asked Sir Mar-
maduke; “and what's all this stuff about the black art ?”
“No stuff at all,” said Sir Marmaduke with convic-
tion. “That's the most wonderful fellow I ever knew.
But for him, my boy, I should now have been married
and done for.”
“Did he cut you out ?" I asked. “He is a wonder-
ful fellow!”
“Obvious and gratuitous impertinence!” replied the
dear old boy, unruffled.
“Scusi, sa !” I said. “Tell me all about it. He
doesn't look like a magician.”
“By his works you shall know him," my friend an-


212
THE WITCHING TIME.
swered. “The proof of the magician is in his magic,
and I'm a living monument to his occult powers. Have
another weed ?”
We each lighted a cigar, and, that ceremony over,
Sir Marmaduke began :
“Before I settled in Venice, you know, I had a villa
for some time on the Lago Maggiore, at Stresa. It was
a pretty little châlet of a place, a good bit above the
level of the lake, with a charming outlook over the Bor-
romean Islands. It suited me down to the ground, and
I might have stopped there to this day but for the
"events I am about to narrate,' as the story-tellers have it.
“ Another villa, much larger than mine, stood on the
slope just above it, a narrow lane separating the two gar-
dens. It had long been unoccupied, much to my satis-
faction, for I did not care to be overlooked. At last,
one morning, my Italian valet brought me the news that
it had been taken, and taken by a lady. The Marchesa
Trabelli, he said, was her name, but he had been unable
to find out anything more about her, except that she was
evidently rich. The furnishings, which soon began to
arrive in cart-load upon cart-load, confirmed the latter in-
telligence. My man brought me glowing reports of the
Oriental splendor with which the place was being bediz-
ened. The furniture came, not from Milan, but from
Paris, and it was a Parisian decorator who was in charge.
“A few weeks sufficed to transform the house from
a barrack to a palace, and the garden from a wilderness


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
213
to a trim pleasance. Then came the lady herself, accom-
panied by only two servants, a maid and a steward ; the
other domestics were engaged in the neighborhood. She
remained a mystery to every one. She neither belonged
to the local nobility nor had any friends among them.
Her two French servants either knew nothing of her
antecedents, or kept what they knew carefully to them-
selves. On two points only all reports agreed: she was
a genuine Italian, and, so far as beauty was concerned,
she might well be not merely a marchesa but a princess
or a queen.
“On the latter point I was somewhat skeptical, for
the beauty which knocks the average Italian all of a heap
is apt to be too florid for my taste. But, by Jove, sir, I
was punished for my skepticism! The moment I saw
her I knew it was all up with me. She came, I saw, she
conquered. She wasn't very young-thirty at least—but
her beauty had just reached its maturity without losing
a jot of its freshness. She was tall and finely propor-
tioned, black-haired, olive-skinned, red-lipped, oval-faced ;
and, oh! if you could have seen how her head was set
on her shoulders, and with what a lovely motion of her
neck she would turn her face majestically toward you,
and let her two great eyes blaze upon you—positively
blaze-like-like do you know the way the new Calais
phare sends shaft on shaft of blinding light sweeping
slowly round the farthest horizon ?”
This burst of enthusiasm left my old friend out of
S


214
THE WITCHING TIME.
breath, and he came to a sudden pause, illustrating by a
rotund gesture the sweep of the Calais light and of the
Marchesa's eyes.
“You're getting quite Musset-ish,” 1 said:
"Avez-vous vu, dans Barcelone,
Une Andalouse au sein bruni,
Påle comme un beau soir d'automne?
C'est ma maîtresse, ma lionne !
La Marquesa d'Amaēgui.'”.
was
“That's about it,” said Sir Marmaduke. “And, now
I come to think of it, Musset was her favorite poet.
Well, I needn't tell you how we made acquaintance with
each other, or how our acquaintance ripened. She was
educated and accomplished far beyond the Italian aver-
age-spoke English and French almost as well as her
mother-tongue, had read much in these three languages,
sang with a splendid contralto voice, and dressed with
studied and sober simplicity. Indeed, she was still in
half-mourning for her husband, the departed Marchese,
at whose death one of the most ancient Neapolitan fami-
lies became extinct. Since then she had lived with rela-
tives in Paris; but, though her English accent was of
the utmost purity, she had never crossed the Channel.
Her Parisian friends had left for South America; and,
as the climate of Naples did not suit her, not to mention
the gloomy associations the place must ever have for her,


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
215
she had determined to settle in North Italy, and lead a
quiet life of study and beneficence.
“To say that I fell in love with her would be to
misstate the case. I was forty, she scarcely ten years
younger; and there was a self-reliance, not to say self-
sufficiency, in her character which put all tenderness out
of the question. She was a being to be worshiped, not
caressed. Even after she was my affianced wife, our
relations were courtly rather than cordial. She was not
precisely cold; but she seemed to feel, as I, too, felt, that
such beauty as hers must go hand in hand with perfect
dignity, and that playfulness would as ill beseem her as
it would the Agrippina of the Capitol. I felt toward
her as toward a unique thing of beauty. Have you
never thought, in presence of some supreme work of
art—the Sistine Madonna, for example, or the Venus of
Milo—that you would like to sell all you had and buy
that one thing, even though you should end, like Frank-
enstein, by becoming a slave to it? Well, that was
something like my feeling toward the Marchesa Lucre-
zia. I thought her, or rather I knew her, to be one of
the loveliest beings ever created ; and I had an insane
desire to call this phænix mine, as Faustus longed for-
"The face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium.'
You socialists may say what you like; but, as human
nature is constituted, there will always be a peculiar,


216
THE WITCHING TIME.
poignant pleasure in the sense of monopoly. Another
thing which determined me to affront what I could not
but recognize as the perils of matrimony, was the thought
of the long face my confounded cousin would pull when
he heard of my marriage; but that was a minor motive.
I was in reality under a spell, quite as completely as any
of those fellows in the mediæval ballads."
“Sir Marmaduke Tannhäuser," I put in-
16. Ich hab in meinem sinne:
fraw Venus, edle fraw so zart
ir seind aine teufelinne.?"
“Don't go too fast,” said Sir Marmaduke. “Wait
and see.”
“Well, the day fixed for our marriage drew near,"
he continued. “It was to be absolutely private. Lu-
crezia expressed a horror of festivities, especially at a
second marriage; and I chuckled at the idea of springing
the news on my friends and relations (including my heir-
presumptive) through the first column of the Times.'
Our wedding-tour was to be in the East. Lucrezia
dreaded the English climate; and, as Dr. Johnson said
of clean linen, 'I myself, sir, have no passion for it,' so
we looked forward to living permanently south of the
Alps.
“One day I happened to row across to the Isola de’
Pescatori on some charitable errand of the Marchesa's;
and there, strolling about in the one narrow street, I met


POT-HOOKS AND AANGERS.
217
Philips. I had known him intimately at Oxford, but we
had lost sight of each other for ten or fifteen years, and
we were both glad to meet again. He was stopping, he
told me, at Pallanza; so I made him dismiss his barca,
and promised to put him over to the mainland in my own
sailing-boat. There was very little wind, so on the way
we had a long talk over old times.
“ One fad of his remained implanted in my memory,
because I used sometimes to ruffle his otherwise imper-
turbable temper by chaffing him on the subject. He was
a devout believer in the possibility of reading character
in handwriting, and used to devote a great deal of time
and study to what I then regarded as a mere supersti-
tion. I asked him if he still kept up this craze, as I called
it, and he answered with a smile, and a shrug, that he did.
A sudden idea occurred to me. I found in my pocket a
note from the Marchesa—a mere business letter, conclud-
ing with an invitation to dinner, and written, moreover,
in Italian, which Philips had just been telling me that he
did not understand. She wrote a particularly masculine
hand; so, in the hope that he would not discover even the
sex of the writer, I tore off the signature—Lucrezia.'
Then I handed it to Philips and asked him for a diagno-
sis of the writer's character.
“I watched his expression as he examined the writ-
ing. At the first glance he raised his eyebrows and
compressed his lips with the air of a man who finds
himself face to face with an unexpected problem. Then


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
219
as
And I can tell you more—the hand that formed these
letters has clasped a stiletto—that is her weapon!”
«Pooh!' I said, beginning, in spite of myself, to
be somewhat impressed. Do you take me for a child ?
If she had been a poisoner, I suppose you could have
told from her handwriting whether she used antimony
or arsenic?'
«• That's as may be,' was his answer. What I do
see in the present case is that the hand which wrote this
has used cold iron. Do you know the lady's past
history?
- «I know she's a widow,' I replied.
“. That's not improbable,' said he.
66 And that her husband was a Neapolitan noble-
man,' I continued.
“Hum!' he said, and proceeded to cross-question
me in such a way as to show me, what had really never
occurred to me, that I had no one's evidence but her
own as to a single fact of her past life. At last, driven
into a corner, I exclaimed, impatiently, 'Then what do
you propose that I should do? I can't go to her and say,
“Marchesa, a necromancer of my acquaintance assures
me that you have assassinated some one-probably the
late lamented Marquis. Pray, is this true ?”
“Let me think,' Philips replied. Then, after a
pause, while he again looked at the letter, “Your plan
is to take her by surprise. She is evidently of a high-
strung, nervous temperament.'


220
THE WITCHING TIME.
“There you're wrong,' I interrupted.
“No, I'm not,' he replied, imperturbably. I'll
stake my reputation on it, that if you were suddenly to
show her this stiletto, she would say or do something
that would betray her secret;' and, to my astonishment,
he produced from under his coat a little dagger that
flashed in the sunlight.
“I burst out laughing. . “You come to Italy armed !!
I cried. “You think we are still in the Middle Ages !
That accounts for your absurd interpretation of the
handwriting
666 Not a bit of it," he replied. 'I always carry this
little bit of steel; it's useful in many ways, and it has
associations for me. I'm so far from imagining it
particularly necessary in Italy, that I dare say you,
who live here, haven't such a thing in your posses-
sion.'
“I admitted I hadn't. Well, then,' he said, un-
fastening the sheath which hung at his waistband, con-
cealed by his coat, “I'll make a sort of wager with you.
This is a very pretty little toy, you'll admit-an antique
Italian dagger, the haft and sheath of ivory inlaid with
gold; and here, you see, is a red amethyst set in the
butt of the handle, and another in the point of the
sheath. Well, I hand this over to you on condition
that you suddenly, and without any warning, produce
it and present it to the lady. If there is nothing un-
usual in her method of accepting it, the knife is hers,


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
221
and I have lost my wager. If you notice anything odd
in her behavior, come and tell me, and we will inquire
into the matter further.'
“Well, positively,' I said, “it is a sort of insult to
the Marchesa to consent to any such test. But you're
right, the dagger is a very beautiful piece of workman- .
ship, and—hang it !—I rather like the idea of making her
a handsome present at your expense, especially as I dare
say the lesson will do you good, and imprint on you the
maxim, "Put not your trust in pot-hooks."!!
“Pot-hooks are sometimes hangers as well,' he re-
plied. To this day I don't know what he meant by the
remark, for just then I laid the boat in to the steamboat
stage at Pallanza, and he stepped ashore. He gave me
the name of his hotel, and I promised to look him up the
next day and report. Then I sailed back to Stresa with
a fresher breeze, pondering on his curious mania and on
his last oracular remark.
“That afternoon I presented myself at the Villa Tra-
belli at my usual hour. I had carefully wrapped up the
dagger in white paper, tied it with a pink ribbon, and
sealed the packet. I found Lucrezia in a rocking-chair
on the veranda, looking superbly beautiful. She wore a
black summer dress, I remember, of some gauzy, diapha-
nous material, closed at the throat and at the wrists with
knots of red ribbon; and round the alabaster pillar of
her throat were three narrow circlets of blood-red coral.
666 Marchesa,' I said, as I kissed her hand, 'I have


222
THE WITCHING TIME.
here a small offering for you—a trifle, but I think
unique.
“She untied the ribbon and broke the seals. "Some
amiable surprise, I do not doubt,' she said, as she unrolled
the wrappings; but before she had finished doing so,
the dagger slipped out, sheath and all, and fell in her
lap.
“The instant she set eyes on it she raised her
hands in the air and sprang from her seat with a sort
of gurgling, stifled cry. The dagger dropped on the
matting at her feet, and for a moment she stared at it,
her eyes starting from their sockets, while her com-
plexion turned to livid green. Then she staggered
back a few paces, as though making for the salon, and
sank in a huddled heap on the floor.
“I did not do it! I did not do it!' she moaned.
It was she—the viper—the fiend! I was innocent!
innocent! innocent!' Her voice failed her, but she
continued to moan to herself in broken sentences, writh-
ing the while as though in physical agony.
• “I called to her maid, who quickly appeared. “Your
mistress is ill,' I said, and together we raised her from
the floor. This brought her in some degree to herself,
and when I attempted to help the servant in supporting
her into the house, she shrank from me with a gesture of
horror, leaned her whole weight on the sturdy French-
woman's arm, tottered into the salon, and disappeared.
“I was bewildered and benumbed. I picked up the


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
223
dagger, put it in my pocket, hurried down as fast as I
could to the lake, jumped into a skiff, and ordered two -
rowers to take me at racing speed to Pallanza, where I
went straight to Philips's hotel. He was gone !-to
Arona and Milan, the pórter believed, but after that
nothing was known of his destination. From that day
until this evening I saw and heard nothing of him. He
had left me no address, and I knew of none that would
find him. From something he said this evening, I pre-
sume he must have been in the Home Office, but he had
not mentioned the fact. I rather fancied he was an idle
globe-trotter like myself, and trusted to the fates, in this
little world of ours, to bring us together again. They
have done so, you see, though it has taken them eleven
years.
On returning to Stresa, I inquired at the Villa
Trabelli and learned that the Marchesa was ill and in
bed. Next morning I called again, when one of the
Italian servants handed me a note, and informed me that
the Marchesa and her maid had departed early that
morning, no one knew whither. The note was written
in English ; I can repeat it word for word:
“I imagined that Sir Marmaduke Middleton was a
gentleman ; is it the part of a gentleman brutally to
wrench and wring the nerves of a much-tried woman?
Whatever sins have been laid at my door, I have never
tortured a being weaker than myself—a friend, who had
done me no wrong. If you have a spark of chivalry


224
THE WITCHING TIME.
left, you will make no attempt to track me, and breathe
no word of my secret.-L. T.'
“You may imagine that when I read this I felt, as
the Yankees say, "almighty mean. I breathed no
word of her secret, for the very good reason that I knew
no word of it to breathe; but by way of a little penance,
I have mortified my curiosity and carefully refrained
from making any attempt to discover it. A month or
two later I learned that the Villa Trabelli, with all its
furnishings and appurtenances, just as it stood, had been
sold to a German banker. I soon sold my own chålet,
and set off for a three-years' ramble in China, Japan,
California, and so forth. Once, at a small station on
the Pacific Railroad, I fancied I caught a glimpse of my
enchantress's face. Her train was just moving off in the
direction of San Francisco, as mine was starting toward
Omaha. I felt a momentary impulse to jump out and
take the next train in pursuit; but I resisted it—and
here I am!”
Mr. Philips was as good as his word, and arrived at
Meurice's shortly before midnight. The more I studied
his solid, well-built, commonplace features, the less did I
believe in his clairvoyance, or whatever occult faculty
Sir Marmaduke credited him with. I was curious, con-
sequently, to hear their conversation.
Sir Marmaduke began by telling Mr. Philips the re-
sult of his experiment, just as he had related it to me.


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
225
He was describing the sudden collapse of the Marchesa
Lucrezia, when his hearer interrupted him.
“By Jove!” he said, “I gave her credit for more
nerve than that!”
“Then your black and white art can't quite rank
among the exact sciences ? ” said Sir Marmaduke.
« You can't measure nerve force to a millionth of a
grain ?"
. “The fact is,” said Philips, smiling, “I confess I was
trifling with you to a certain extent. You used to be so
obstinately skeptical of my power of reading character,
that I could not resist the temptation to pay you out a
bit. Handwriting is to a certain extent an index to
character, and by long and close study of it I developed
an abnormally keen sense for minute resemblances and
differences; in short, I made myself an expert. At the
Home Office my powers quickly became known, and I
was given frequent opportunities for exercising them.
Then I began to be called as a witness in courts of law,
though the impertinent incredulity with which the evi-
dence of experts is generally regarded made me detest
these cases. Don't you remember a murder trial four-
teen or fifteen years ago, in which an Italian lady (she
had been an opera singer) was accused of deliberately
stabbing her husband, an Englishman, and a man of
great wealth, either from jealousy, or from mere cupid-
ity, or perhaps from both combined ? She suspected him
of carrying on an intrigue with another woman, and she


226
THE WITCHING TIME.
forged a letter, purporting to be in that woman's hand-
writing, giving him an assignation, at the dead of night,
in some lonely corner of his own park. He fell into the
trap, came to the spot, and sat down on a log to await
the lady's arrival; whereupon his wife stole up behind
him and stabbed him in three places, killing him almost
before he could utter a cry. That, at any rate, was the
theory of the prosecution; but the whole case turned on
bringing home to her the forged letter. I was one of
the experts called, and I had not the slightest hesitation
in identifying the writing of the forged letter with the
prisoner's acknowledged hand. The other so-called ex-
perts, who were mere charlatans, expressed less confi-
dence; and the result was, that the murderess escaped.
The moment you showed me that letter, Middleton, I
recognized her handwriting. After the trial, I had se-
cured as a curiosity the little stiletto with which the
murder was committed; and in this I at once saw a
chance of mystifying you a bit, and saving you from the
lady's toils. I thought she would betray herself in some
way at sight of the weapon, or, at any rate, would take it
as a hint that you either knew, or were on the verge of
discovering, her secret; but, from her behavior during
the trial, I thought she would have brazened it out a
good deal better than she did. What you tell me
amounts to an absolute admission of guilt.”
“In the disguise of an assertion of innocence !” I
could not refrain from putting in. “That dagger would


POT-HOOKS AND HANGERS.
227
have quite sufficiently painful associations for her,
though she were as innocent as the day.”
“I believe I've been an even greater brute than I
thought,” said Sir Marmaduke. “It seems to me, Phil.
ips, that, by your own showing, you are the only witness
against her."
“It was her own hand that condemned her,” said the
expert.
“No, that's just what it didn't,” said Sir Marmaduke.
“In this case pot-hooks were not bangers. But why did
she take a bogus title? And why—? And why— 3
On the whole, Philips, I bear you no grudge for having
forbidden the banns.”


VINCENT HADDING.
By A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
I.
The last time that Colonel Cathcart went to India, he
left his wife and the two girls behind in Rome. It was
July weather, very hot and sultry. They, however,
were compelled to stay there, for Sophie had fallen ill of
the fever. If you knew Sophie Cathcart seven years
ago (she is Lady Lyndon now), you will admit that you
have seldom seen a sweeter girl. I always preferred her
to her cousin, Marian Bassett; but Marian was cer-
tainly the general favorite. She had such splendid
health and spirits, such a youthful and radiant air, that
her admirers forgot to notice the ominous contrast of her
black brows with her abundant reddish hair; and a cer-
tain chivalrous impatient expression redeemed the promi-
nence of her lower lip. Still I always found something
odd, some hint of discord in her charming face. And
she looked older than Sophie, although she was fully two
years younger. Indeed, she can have scarcely been six-
teen that summer when her cousin fell so ill in Rome.


VINCENT HADDING.
229
Sophie was a long time getting better; and it was
then that Marian became so intimate with Vincent Had-
ding. Mrs. Cathcart, as she sat in Sophie's room, was
sorry for her niece, left to herself the whole day long. I
think she encouraged Marian's friendship with Hadding,
who was quite forty then; he is growing an elderly man.
The Cathcarts had met him in June at one of Mrs. Pen-
nington's Thursdays; and their acquaintance had ripened
into intimacy now that they and he were the only En-
glish people left in Rome. Hadding had traveled too
often in the East to fear the heat of an Italian summer;
and he would not leave Rome until he had completed
his catalogue of Etruscan monuments. He used to take
Marian with him to draw the vases in the Museo Italico.
She had never heard before of Hadding's “ Archæology,"
or, indeed, of archæology at all; but she had read his
stories and his “ Arabian Letters," and was prepared to ac-
cept any of his theories. She was at the age, you know,
when discipleship is the most engrossing and the most
natural of pastimes. As for Hadding, I think he was in-
terested in the girl because of her melancholy history.
It was quite like his own novels. And he liked to
absorb this frank, girlish nature, so different from his
own strange and critical character. The reflection that
in another month they would be strangers, gave a charm
to the intimacy of their intercourse. The whole thing
seemed to Hadding an episode, bounded by the soft
landscape and melancholy atmosphere of Rome. But
11


230
THE WITCHING TIME.
if he found a pleasure in recognizing the evanescence of
their friendship, delicate and transitory as a flower, Ma-
rian naturally did not guess this state of mind. She was
young, romantic, quite fresh, and most confiding. Her
mind had never even touched the moods which after all
were nearest and dearest to Hadding: production, ex-
periment, the sense of humor, and of destiny. Life to
her meant warm affection and devoted impulses ...
affection and devotion, which, half unconsciously, she
began to consecrate to Hadding.
II.
From
Vincent Hadding to Marian Bassett.
Wednesday.
DEAR Miss BASSETT :—The Etruscan towns are, I
fear, impossible this weather; ten miles of the Campagna
would soon give your cousin a companion in misfortune.
But, if you will let me take you to the Gregorian Muse
um, I can show you there the yield of one of the finest
tombs at Cervetri. I will call to-morrow at five, to
await your pleasure. So you have been reading my
novels “ again” (that is a very flattering adverb), and
you wonder where I knew such wonderful men and
women. I have certainly had every chance of meeting
them in adventurous places; but, as a rule, the more in-
teresting are to be discovered nearer home. The year I
spent in Arabia was utterly barren in that kind; but last


VINCENT HADDING.
231
month I found the Via Nazionale a very happy hunting-
ground. I know you are burning to hear what I think
of the specimen; but, remember, listeners never hear
good of themselves.
Monday.
DEAR Miss BASSETT :—The little set of drawings is
very nicely done; but there are some vases in the
Museo Italico which you should study for your collec-
tion. ... No! I am not going to tell you any more
about my treasure trove in the Via Nazionale. For one
thing, I am not yet quite sure of the value of the speci-
men. You are angry, but, if you are to be a good ar-
chæologist, you must learn to suspect. Else you will
spend your fortune on a priceless collection of Brumma-
gem metal and nineteenth century potsherds. Experi-
entia docet !
Friday.
MARIANITA DE MI ALMA:—So, did we really live in
Grenada, I should address you. Have you forgiven
our fiery quarrel of last night ? As for me, I have
not yet conceived how to thank you for so new and so
stirring an excitement. There was a moment-do you
know ?—when with pleasure I could have dragged you
across the stage, like Desdemona, by your long red
hair. Imagine the surprise of the cabmen in Piazza di
Spagna! I can not account for the irritable violence
which is always excited in me by the display of strong
feeling in others; there is a mingling of dislike in it,


232
THE WITCHING TIME.
and a vague fear, and an intense revulsion. There, my
dear, is something for your note-book! ... I fear I
must have seemed unkind and harsh; but I was not
really angry with you, dear Miss Bassett. In the end,
I was glad of my little battle with you; for I believe
that, since you are so fantastically loyal to your cousin
Sophie, you will cherish the remembrance of your
friend. . . . Well, good-by. ... Remember, you must
rise early, since your aunt is resolved on the picnic to
Frascati ; for we ought to be in Rome again before they
sing the Ave Maria.
Friday.
Thank you, my dear playfellow, for your pleasant
behavior yesterday. I have enjoyed no picnic so much
for many a year as our little expedition to Frascati.
Your aunt is always charming, and pretty little Sophie
flirted less than usual with her Italian retainers. Do not
be angry, Marianita. Did I say that I objected to your
cousin's flirting? On the contrary, I think it a most
legitimate charm in woman; and if I am glad that she
did not dazzle us on Monday, it is only because I do not
like to see you in the shade. Why is it, I wonder, that
we take such pleasure in each other's society, we who are
always sparring, we that are so different in age and na-
ture? Of course, of this question there is only one half
that I can answer. But I imagine that I feel for you as
a man that has married late in life feels for the step-
daughter he has never known in childhood. There is


VINCENT HADDING.
233
much in you I do not understand; nothing that does not
interest me. You appeal to my paternal instincts. ..:
I see you as an eager young soul wrestling at every step
with invincible angels; and I long to protect you from
too many joints displaced. All this is very sentimental.
Are you satisfied to be my quasi step-child ?
Sunday.
So you are ill, poor little Minerva mine, and you tell
me that I excite you too much! Perhaps, indeed, I have
overworked you, and I am very sorry. ... Until to-day
I never knew you could spell that sad feminine substan-
tive, Reproaches. But if I have excited you, I am very
truly sorry. . . . It is as well, perhaps, that our little
holiday friendship is nearly at an end. You will not
have to suffer me much longer. It will all be as if it
had never been, and that is the best end that we can
wish to any pleasure. . . . I send you Gregorovius, and
a pot of rose-leaf jam from Chios. You sit on a terrace
in a muslin veil, and eat a little spoonful of the roses,
and sip a glass of water meanwhile. It is even more
Southern than your water-melons, and Firdusi, not Gre-
gorovius, ought to have gone to you along with it. But
I know you love your Rome as much, almost, as any
sweatmeat. . . . Have I studied your two passions suc-
cessfully?
Keep quiet, then, ma belle-fille (you may drop the
hyphen, if you like); keep quiet and get well for Sunday,


234
THE WITCHING TIME.
when we ought to visit the Gregoriano. Ars lunga, and
our time is short.
III.
At this time Mrs. Cathcart began to speak of going
home to England. Sophie was so much stronger that
she could travel by little stages; and every hour's jour.
ney would take them further from the suffocating heat
of Rome. Hadding made himself very useful to the
Cathcarts, and wrote lists of books for Marian. In any
difficulty, he said, she could always apply for his advice;
but he did not suggest that she should write him regu-
lar letters. For he dreaded lest this pleasant episode
should slip into a commonplace or a sentimental corre-
spondence.
Mrs. Cathcart and Sophie were full of the delights
of getting home again of cool English air, green leaves,
and temperate summer. Rome appeared to them but a
hot and desolate place, when one lay in a dark room
suffering fever-heats and chills, or sat, unoccupied and
stifling, keeping vigil by the sick. Marian's Rome was
a different city, an ancient and still glorious Elysium.
But she could not waste her time there in forestalling
her regrets. She was still bright and happy, still alert
and vigorous in the pursuit of archæology, until the very
eve of their departure came.
Hadding was to call that evening, and to take them


VINCENT HADDING.
235
all to drink of the magical Trevi water which insures
return to Rome. The day passed quickly, in the bustle
of departure; and soon the evening came, moonlit and
cool. The little party walked to the fountain along the
shadowy streets, strange exhalations poisoning the air,
evil smells of inhabited places, and whiffs of chill vapor
from the marsh beyond the wall, with, over all, a strange
sickly perfume of lemon-flowers and oleander.
“Oh,” cried Mrs. Cathcart, “how thankful I shall
be to take you two dear girls away from this dreadful
town!”
Poor Sophie pressed her mother's arm; but Marian
and Hadding turned to each other and smiled. They,
at least, had known how to make the best of Rome.
They stood by the fountain's edge. “I don't call
it pretty,” said Mrs. Cathcart.
“It has no need to be pretty," cried Marian, “if it
will bring us back to Rome!” She threw in a handful
of centesimi. Hadding followed snit; and Mrs. Cath-
cart meditatively let a soldo slip between her fingers.
“I am not quite sure,” she said, “that I want to
come back."
Sophie sat on the fountain's rim, clutching the for-
gotten pennies in her sallow little hands. She, certainly,
had no wish but to get away from Rome at once and
for ever. She began to shiver, and Mrs. Cathcart was
alarmed. In a moment Hadding had hailed a little
two-seated botta, and packed the two ladies into it.


236
THE WITCHING TIME.
“I will walk home with Miss Bassett," he said,
“ when she has tasted the waters of Trevi.”
The cab rumbled off, and Marian sat down where
Sophie had been on the stone rim of the basin. She,
too, began to feel sad and weary now; for this was
the last of Rome, and the last of the happiest summer
of her life. She looked round, as if she would fix
every line, every streak of light and shadow, in her
memory. It was the last of Rome. A strange and
painful compression of her heart made it difficult to
breathe. It was the last of Rome. The waters of the
fountain looked white in the moonlight; the fantastic
sculptures of Pietro Bracci stood out lividly against
their dusky background. Marian saw her face in the
smooth water. It looked drowned and mournful, with
wet eyes and swollen features.
“You are not drinking,” said Hadding, who was
standing up beside her, “and yet, you know, you must
come back to Rome.”
Marian did not answer. He was still there, and still
she was in Rome; and yet, since she must leave them
both, she wished it were well over. She was filled with
a sick exasperation against herself and against these be-
loved things; because, though they were present still,
she could not be happy with them. She stole a glance
at the ugly fountain, at the stooping figure of Hadding,
looking more grizzled in the moonlight, and wondered
why she should be so miserable to go away.


VINCENT HADDING.
237
Hadding stood up still, impatient to be gone. He
was not looking at Marian nor at the fountain. He
stared vacantly at the hideous façade of San Vincenzo.
He was wishing he had sent Marian home with her aunt;
angry at her evident misery, and at an odd reluctance of
his own to let her go. This reluctance made him harden
his heart.
But the silence was oppressive—the silence, the
moonlight, the flickering shadows, the smell of oleanders,
and lemons, and gardenia from the gardens near. Had-
ding felt he must say something.
“Who would have thought,” he began, twisting an-
other cigarette, “who would have thought, that evening
when I met you at Mrs. Pennington's in the stupid Via
Nazionale, that we should become such good compan-
ions? And now we must say good-by. Life has other
duties for either. But I shall always look back toward
our little friendship as to one of the happiest episodes
in my life."
“ An episode?” echoed Marian. These words
seemed to her of an outrageous cruelty.
“It seems hard to you, does it,” went on Hadding
meditatively, “to own that any beautiful thing is transi-
tory? But you would not have us swear an eternal
friendship, like two school children, we whose paths and
duties lie so far apart? We are like two travelers, each
in a different train, who wait opposite each other a few
minutes in a railway station. Puff, and the trains start,


238
THE WITCHING TIME.
unca
one to the north and one to the south, to the different
ends of the earth; but, perhaps, one or both of those
travelers may often recall the face he saw in passing, and
wish that he had known it better.”
Marian said nothing.
“ And at least,” went on Vincent Hadding, “ we
have had more profit than that out of our friendship
of nine weeks. I possess a pure and lasting memory;
and you, I hope, have learned a good deal of archæol-
ogy. By the way, in going north you must persuade
Mrs. Cathcart to take you to Volterra.”
Hadding stopped. There was something strange and
uncanny in this long monologue of his, standing in the
deserted square filled with the moonlight and the faint
plash of falling water, the strong sweet scent of the
first autumn flowers faint on the air, and, at his feet,
that crouching white figure of a beautiful woman, silent
---always silent—but whom he knew to be crying for
his sake.
Hadding was seized with the sudden vague timid-
ity of an imaginative man. He dared not stand there
longer, in that sweet, faint atmosphere, in that aban-
doned, ghostly place, with that woman still crying, so
decorously silent, by the water's edge. A certain fear
of himself, a certain fear of the past, a certain remorse
and impatience, possessed him. “Let us go home!” he
cried, and taking Marian's arm, he hurried her in
silence through the deserted streets of Rome in Au-


VINCENT HADDING.
239
gust, until they reached the house where Mrs. Cathcart
lodged. The great Roman staircase was pitch dark, and
they climbed with difficulty to the door of the apart-
ment. Hadding rang the bell. Some one within cried
“ Subito !” but no one came.
It was quite dark. Marian could only see the dim-
mest outline of Vincent Hadding's figure. He did not
speak: he seemed already to be gone away. Then the
conviction burst upon her that she would never see
him again. They were so close together in the dark-
ness; there was a moment to speak in and be heard,
and then they would be separate for ever.
“É sempre chiusa !” cried Hadding, and rapped
at the door with his cane.
There was only another moment now. A cold las-
situde and numbness stole over Marian. The hand that
she had already stretched out, to shake hands at part-
ing, felt like ice within its little glove. Her voice
seemed to perish in her throat—the voice that must say
good-by; the limbs to fail her, that must carry her
away for ever. And yet, while this terrible paralysis
seemed to invade all the centers and arteries of life,
at the same moment her will awoke with imperious
force. She must do something to prevent this utter
separation; she would not let it all come to nothing,
all be wasted—that treasure of devotion in her heart.
She would keep his friendship; oh, she must keep it !
Yet she did not know what she would say, or how she


240
THE WITCHING TIME.
4.
would act to this end. Just then they both heard Meni-
china's sturdy tramp along the passage. “At last ! ”
thought Hadding. “At last!” thought poor Marian,
but with how different an intonation. Suddenly, with-
out reflecting, she seized Hadding by the arm.
“I dreamed last night," she whispered very fast,
" that you said you would like me to be your friend for
always.” She broke down, expecting his kind answer.
But, though Hadding could not see her, he heard the
hysterical pathos in her voice. It revolted him. It
seemed to him that he had injured the girl—that if he
could leave her now she would recover. There would
be no danger for either. And Menichina opened the
door.
“That's all folly !” he exclaimed, as he loosened
Marian's hand from his coat. “A man and a woman
can never be friends. Good-by! Good-night!”
II
COV
V
.
MENICHINA was holding open the door; the signorina
was standing dazed upon the threshold. The little Ro
man shopkeeper's daughter, who never might go out
alone, and seldom, therefore, went out at all, was filled
with wonder that an English girl, with golden hair, and
freedom, and plenty of money, should look as sad as
Marian.
“Perhaps she does not want to marry that old man,”


VINCENT HADDING.
.
241
Menichina fancied; and those keen black eyes fixed on
Marian's face recalled the tired girl to a sense of reality.
She went in and said “Good-night” to Mrs. Cath-
cart, and kissed Sophie, warm in bed, envying her the
safe and comfortable shelter of her mother's love. Then
Marian went into her own little room, and packed her
trunks for the morrow. She had finished while still it
was quite early, and there was nothing left to do. She
looked round the emptied room bewildered. No, there
was nothing left to do; yet she would rather undo her
work, and do it all again, than sit unoccupied. But she
was strangely tired; she sat down on the edge of the
bed and began to think. Every moment now her
cheeks burned hotter, as though a lash had been struck
across them. Every moment she felt more strongly
wrought to a bitter and a savage sense of humiliation.
There was one instant when she would have chosen
to watch Hadding drown, and not have helped him;
80 that the same sun should never shine again upon
herself and him. While he was alive she felt dis-
graced.
In the middle of her passion, quite suddenly, she fell
asleep.
It was just beginning to grow light when Marian
awoke. She felt tired and shattered, and for one numb,
painful second she wondered dimly what had happened.
Then she turned on her side and began to cry; all her
fierce mortification of last night turned into a melancholy


242
THE WITCHING TIME.
SI
pity for herself. It seemed impossible that any one had
ever been so cruel to her, little Marian, whom every one
praised and loved. How could he do it! Oh, how
could he do it! And she had felt so sure that he had
liked her; for, indeed, although he was a great man, and
she a little girl, he had always seemed to care to have
her with him. Here Marian got up, and pulling one of
Hadding's novels out of her trunk, she took it to the
window and began to read. It was still so dark that she
saw the print with difficulty, but as she read on, half
guessing at the dear familiar lines, all the force of her
old admiration renewed itself in her heart. He was so
great, and she of no account.
“Could I have made him a little happier," said Mari-
an softly to herself, “it would not much matter what
became of me."
Marian stood still for a moment, and dropped her
book, though the gray light of the morning was every
moment growing whiter and clearer. She gazed vaguely
out of the window, while a new, faint feeling grew
stronger in her mind. The first sunbeam came now
across the house-roofs, slanting along the bare little room,
and across the white figure of the girl who, with all her
bright hair disheveled, stood barefoot at the open win-
dow. Peace, and a delicate glory, seemed to envelop
her; it appeared impossible to Marian herself that so
little while ago such a vindictive passion had torn her
miserable heart. She did not feel unhappy now. A


VINCENT HADDING.
243
man
great pity diffused itself sweetly through all her thoughts,
melting their anger.
There was no one who had taught him to trust and
to believe. Ah, could she have been his friend, and
really his friend, he should have known all that a woman
can be to a man! She would have been so patient, so
faithful, so trusting, so full of sympathy. It was a pity
that it had all come to nothing. A strange impersonal
compassion touched Marian almost to tears; it was as
though she stood by the coffin of a child whom she had
never seen. It had all come to an end so soon. It was
a pity.
By this time the sun was high. Mrs. Cathcart called
to Marian through the door. She must get ready now to
go away from Rome. But first of all, still in this
strange, exalted mood, she took a sheet of paper and
wrote a line upon it. “Good-by," she wrote, “good-
by, and God bless you! I am not angry any more.”
WHEN, next evening, Vincent Hadding received Ma-
rian's little note, he gave an irritated little laugh, and lit
his cigarette with it. Then he repented of this minia-
ture brutality, and it occurred to him that he had not
played the kindliest part in their adieus. “A woman is
sure to have the last word,” he cried, still thinking of
the note; but his mood had already so far developed


244
THE WITCHING TIME.
In
that he found himself wondering whether that word
need really be the last. If she had offended his discre-
tion the night before, the fault was certainly not entirely
Marian's. He had treated her very hardly. She must
be more generous than many women of her class ; for
Hadding inclined to believe that magnanimity ended
where respectability began. He recalled Marian's ripe
and slender figure, her odd beauty and pathetic eyes;
and then he remembered his own words about caring for
her as a stepfather. Yes, he would like to have her
just so near, if he could be quite sure of having her no
nearer.
Hadding was self-contained, independent, fastidious,
to the last degree. He could not be content to share his
life; it must be all for him. His room must be his
own, to bolt against the whole world when he wished it
so. He loved to dine when he chose, and wait on no
other person's hunger; to go to rest when he was tired,
and to rise at a different hour every day; to be free in
the smallest no less than in the greatest details of ex-
istence. The thought of marriage was abhorrent to
him—why should a free man put his feet into the
stocks? And yet he was sometimes dull, lonely, bored.
He would like to have a friend, a soul of his own to con-
fide in and direct. It would be a pleasure, he thought,
to have Marian's girlish letters to answer in the evenings.
He was too proud and too suspicious to make many
friends among his fellows. But a woman is an excuse


VINCENT HADDING.
245
for everything one says to her; one may condescend to
her weakness without derogation; and there are mo-
ments when tired shoulders are glad of an excuse to
stoop. Marian at a distance, Marian fixed in England,
seemed to Hadding more desirable than ever she had
been in Rome. There could be no danger of love-
making so far apart. Hadding did not want to make
love, but he wanted a woman to confide in, a soft and
sisterly relative who yet would have the sweet novelty
of a stranger. And he thought that to Marian also that
imaginary correspondence might have been a boon; for
Hadding, though an egoist, was not what people mean
by a selfish person. He thought of himself first, but he
thought a good deal of other people afterward ; and it
gave him pleasure to think of supporting Marian
through the mental trials of an intellectual girlhood.
He would be her guide, philosopher, and friend until
she married. Somehow, Hadding did not relish this
conclusion; it seemed to him a threat of being super-
seded; it made him no more than a stop-gap, a con-
venience.
Hadding almost resolved that he would not answer
Marian's note, and put his writing things aside again.
But that night, as he tossed awake, rebelling against
the irritating thrill of a mandoline in the street, a sud-
den memory darted through his mind. Of course,
Marian's mother had been mad for years! He had
not been thinking of Marian at all, when the mandoline


216
THE WITCHING TIME.
had somehow cast this drift of recollection across his
sleepless night. But it seemed to settle a good many
questions. Of course, the daughter of a mad woman
could never marry! A warm tide of commiseration
here conquered Hadding's last defences. No, poor
child ! she could never marry either him or any other
man. They were both so he said, predestined to celib-
acy. He did not question himself as to the exact
meaning of this satisfying phrase; but, though his own
parents had both been most respectably sane, it seemed
convincing to him. They were alike predestined to
celibacy; and friendship would be a safe, a natural
consolation.
VI.
A FEW days after this, Hadding's archæological re-
searches took him to Florence, where, as it happened,
Mrs. Cathcart and her party were staying. Hadding,
however, was not certain of this fact. He had not
answered Marian's note, and only knew that Mrs. Cath-
cart and her party were traveling slowly northward.
The reason of his journey was Etruscan art. . . . As
you know, one of the finest collections in Italy is housed
in the Florentine Crocetta Palace. In those days, I
remember, it was kept in dust and disorder in the
monastery of San Onofrio.
Thither Hadding bent his steps. There was a cer-
tain vase in Florence which it was imperative that he


VINCENT HADDING.
247
should see again. He did not hide from himself that,
should he meet Marian Bassett, it would please him
to point out to her the beauties of this treasure. He
owned that he was curious to see how she would receive
him after their abrupt and stormy parting. For Had-
ding, who feared nothing so greatly as to become the
dupe of a momentary passion, analyzed and labeled his
motives with a frankness strange to the inarticulate
majority of minds.
The weather was violently hot, and Hadding traveled
to Florence over night. The next day he spent in the
dark and desolate rooms of San Onofrio, which no splen-
dor of heat and light could warm for a moment into
radiance. He examined his vase minutely, drew it in
detail, and from every point of view. When he had fin-
ished he went to his hotel, feeling that he had earned a
holiday.
In the cool of the morrow morning he went out. He
wondered if Marian were in Florence, as he strolled
down Lung' Arno toward the Uffizj. He walked slowly
through the great galleries and along the bridge, pausing.
before the pictures that he most admired, conscious of a
vague, tingling expectation, and yet scarcely sorry if he
had missed her. His affection and interest with regard
to Lionardo's unfinished picture (or so, at least, he re-
peated to himself) were as poignant as his interest in
Marian. As he went along the bridge into the Pitti, he
did not feel that his time had been wasted ; and he
es


VINCENT HADDING.
249
“You are only just in time,” went on Marian, “ for
we are going to Parma to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” Hadding had not expected that he
should feel so much annoyed. “I should have liked to
show you San Onofrio.”
Marian said nothing, for Mrs. Cathcart and Sophie
were volubly catechizing Hadding about their journey,
about the more comfortable inns, and which towns in
Lombardy were most worthy of a visit. Marian stood
and looked on, feeling pleased when Hadding turned to
glance at her.
“We must be going now," said Mrs. Cathcart at last.
“I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness,
Mr. Hadding. We should all be very sorry, I'm sure, if
this were to be the end of so pleasant an acquaintance.
But perhaps you will be in London in the spring; and
you will come to see us then, in Kensington ?”.
“Thank you,” said Hadding. “Yes, perhaps I shall
be in England;" then, turning to Marian, he said,
“Good-by! Sometimes, when you are not too busy,
will you write to me, perhaps, and tell me about your
studies ?”
Marian blushed very red, and her under-lip assumed
its defiant and voluntary pout. But in a moment the
tears were in her eyes.
“If I may,” she murmured very softly, with the obe-
dient voice of a child.


250
• THE WITCHING TIME.
VII.
From
Vincent Hadding to Marian Bassett.
January.
MY DEAR Miss BASSETT:- I am very glad your Christ-
mas was so merry; mine, also, did not deserve the com-
miseration that you bestowed upon it. I am glad, how-
ever, that you did not know this at the time, or perhaps
you would not have written me so long a letter. How
did I spend my Christmas? Well, to your ears I fear it
will sound very dull, after all. First of all I read your
letter, and it was the echo of it, no doubt, which made
the rest of the day so pleasant. I spent the morning in
polishing and arranging some Eastern weapons on my
wall. I am very proud of my parlor, which has two
large southern windows, with plants on the balcony, and
it has pale blue walls and furniture covered in red Faen-
za cotton. If you saw it you would never dream it be-
longed to an old bachelor, because you are not yet a
woman of experience. So far, you see, there were no
events. In the afternoon I drove to Frascati, to dine
with the fat little priest there, with whom, if you re-
member, we both talked archæology in July. I spent
the night with this worthy old gentleman, and we dis-
cussed some recent excavations near Orvieto. If our re-
past was more modest than yours, you must remember
that even you will find your cake too sweet in another
twenty years, and reconcile yourself to a crust of bread.


VINCENT HADDING.
251
After a while you will prefer your crust to any cake, and
then you will know that you are growing old—like my-
self and like Don Eusebio.
W
January.
So you think it rather wicked on my part to spend
Christmas Day with a Roman Catholic. If you knew
all the strange company that I have mixed with in my
life, I fear, my dear child, that you would be indeed
afflicted! Don Eusebio is the best of men—the most
orderly and devoted and religious. I have a real affec-
tion for him, and he seems to me to belong to a fast
perishing race. He was born before earnestness came
into fashion, is tolerant, upright, and gentle. Here is a
catalogue of virtues sufficient, surely, for any man's
friend. I wonder if I appear to you as a Jesuit in dis-
guise! To me even a Jesuit occasions no shudder;
much bad company has long ago corrupted my opinions.
But, seriously, why should you think it right only to
associate with persons who reflect your own belief?
This is a form of vanity and cowardice unworthy of
your courage. To shut one's self into any corner, to im-
agine life as a triangular affair, sufficient to hold your
own opinions and, at most, one or two varying ex-
cellences, this is the surest way to blind, to paralyze
your faculties. After a little while you will try in vain
to stir from your corner; all the rest of the world will
have become invisible to you. In order to live well,


252
THE WITCHING TIME.
examine everything; take nothing on trust-not even
the faults of your enemies ! Life is an instrument with
many stops, and a good player will use them all.
February.
Why should you wish to know me better, my dear
Miss Bassett? And why, above all, should you want
to agree with me? Do you not know that a lesson
quickly learned is seldom long remembered ? As for
you, I think, with pleasure, that I scarcely know you
at all, and that I am aware of at least half a dozen faults
in your character. This seems to me an excellent basis
for friendship. I distrust all sudden adorations. There
are only two ends possible to such a state of mind, and
both of them are sufficiently dismal. In the one case,
the worshiper gradually discovers that, after all, his idol
is not so divine; he recognizes a certain touch to be
common, another grotesque, a third a sheer mistake;
while, as for the feet, . . . you know the feet of idols
are generally restored! In the second case, the poor
suppliant remains faithful to his worship, but only at
the cost of his finer sense, his judgment, his acuteness
of perception. He kneels still in a posture of adoration,
hiding his eyes in his hand. If he sees no fault in his
idol, it is because he is voluntarily blind. I am sure,
now, that you will say I am a cynic. But no; there is
no firmer believer in friendship than I. Only let us be
sane, equal, independent; neither kneeling before vain
SS


VINCENT HADDING.
253
images nor painfully trying to fuse two separate natures
into one. Do what you will, Marianita, one and one is
two, and always must be two. If you invariably agreed
with me, and if, as you wish, I could see into all the
recesses of your heart, why then, I fear, my dear child,
I should not greatly care for your friendship, nor think
you a refuge from my familiar self.
June.
After all, my dear friend, we are not to see each
other this summer, and this will be my second exposure
to dust and flies and fever in this dreary midsummer
Rome. I sprained my foot badly the other day in the
new excavations round the Forum. There will be no
traveling for me at present. I lie on the sofa with my
swollen foot foreshortened before me, and think how last
year at this time it was not so dull in Rome. Ah, no!
not so dull at all! Do you remember, Marianita ? Think
of me, then, with a little compassion.
September.
How short your letters are becoming, Mariana de mi
vida! This time last year, do you remember the sort of
letters that you used to write me? You were very anx-
ious then for my advice and my opinion. You studied
·archæology like any learned young lady at the New
Cambridge College. You read all my books, and used
· to quote them at every turn. And now (does not your


254
THE WITCHING TIME.
conscience reproach you ?) once a month or so you send
me a line, to say that you can not think of anything to
tell me. You give me to understand that I am your
dearest friend (of course), only you are too busy to re-
member me. Do you think that to-day you could tell
me the characteristics of the “Vase François”? or what
was the yield of the great tomb at Cervetri? No, it is
of Wagner's music that you write at present, although
you know I far prefer the melancholy trill of the frogs
in the Campagna. . . . Yet you fill your letters with
“Lohengrin,” and “Parzival,” and “ Tristan and Isolde."
There is only one thing about your music that I really
care to know. ... Tell me, Marianita, who is your pro-
fessor
January
It is Epiphany to-night. The people are all out in
the streets despite the bitter wind. You would like to
see them, in their plaited cloaks, blowing the long frail
glass trumpets which seem as if they had been stolen
from some paradise of Fra Angelico's. A hideous
screech from scores of these fragile instruments rends
the air. My head aches, and I wish they had all
but one trumpet, that I might shatter it. ... The
night is cold and draughty; the wood fire gives out
no heat. I wonder why the people outside are so
merry ?
This year, Marianita, you made one little letter serve


VINCENT HADDING.
255
for Christmas and New Year. Yet I was more in need
of your consolations than before. My old friend, Don
Eusebio, is dead, and my little blue Salotto seemed
lonely, for once, on Christmas Day. I have had also a
slight attack of fever. . . . When I was young the fever
only stayed in Rome when we were out of it in the sum-
mer and the autumn, but now it seems one may catch it
in December. Decidedly the world does not improve.
Sometimes the nearing prospect of old age looks melan-
choly to me, and colorless. Sometimes—will you believe
it, Marianita ?—sometimes I wish that I had married.
But I soon recover of this insanity; I am too much a
bachelor at heart. What woman would not make a sense-
less litter of flower-pots and cotton reels in my tidy rooms?
Besides, as you know, I am not naturally placid, although
so fervent a votary of peace. The friction of an exist-
ence à deux would often wear me to that irritable excita-
bility of impulse which once or twice already I have
expiated in disgust and remorse. No; decidedly the
ideal life for me is to live alone, but to hear every
week or two from a kind and happy little friend in
London.
March.
This year really and truly I may hope to shake hands
with you again. I am to come to England early in May.
My opinion is wanted on a Roman villa newly excavated
at Brightlingham, in Sussex. I might take you down


256
THE WITCHING TIME.
there, one day, to see it, since, after all, I never showed
you your Etruscan cities.
VIII.
Early in May Vincent Hadding arrived in London.
It was three years now since he had been in England,
and many old ties claimed his consideration. He did
not tell Marian that he was in London until he had satis-
fied all these elder friends; nevertheless it was with a .
new feeling of curiosity and pleasant impatience that
Hadding started at last, one sunny afternoon, to visit
her.
He walked down Piccadilly and on past Kensington
Gore. It was a brilliant day. The light-green haze of
the new-fledged trees in the park, the carriages full of
women in delicate spring dresses, the gay spots of their
white and crimson parasols, all these things seemed to
Vincent Hadding a fresh and varied symbol of the
strange young pleasure at his heart. There was some-
thing very elating in this English spring. He walked
on, along the crowded road, until at last he reached an
old-fashioned terrace of houses which stood back behind
some trees, opposite Kensington Gardens. At the door
of No. 16 several carriages were ranged. It was Mrs.
Cathcart's reception-day.
Hadding walked up-stairs after the servant; and as
he went he had an odd impression that all this had hap-


VINCENT HADDING.
257
pened once before. He felt as one feels who revisits a
favorite child, out of whose little memory one's presence
may have slipped. Hadding now was following the man
into the drawing-room, where Marian, in a blue dress,
was making tea and talking to half-a-dozen visitors.
Suddenly she saw Hadding, and advanced quickly and
lightly to meet him. It was like the Boboli Gar-
dens!
The day was warm, and the French windows were
wide open. Over the balcony a striped awning had
been spread: seats were placed under it among the tall
palms and India-rubber plants. Here and there a shaft
of sunlight struck into the reddish shade. “Come out
here," said Marian, “and we will think we are in
Rome!”
Hadding followed her, noticing with surprise her
altered bearing, no longer childish but almost imperial.
He had always fancied that he should find her just the
same—a child of sixteen. She had grown a very beauti-
ful young woman, with a dazzling Venetian air. But
the old strange contrast of the brows and hair, the old
half-chivalrous, half-defiant look, reconciled Hadding to
this new Marian.'
He glanced at her, perceiving the difference. He
found it difficult to think of anything to say, oppressed
by that cold intimacy which surrounds a person with
whose mind alone we are familiar. It took him some
time to realize that this proud and brilliant creature was


258
THE WITCHING TIME.
his little customary friend. But Marian-who only
thought how ill and short and grizzled Hadding looked
- Marian was free from any such shyness.
“Have you been to Brightlingham yet?" she began.
“No," he answered. “I start to-morrow.”
“Will you take me, as you promised ?” laughed
Marian. “I should like to go!"
“I can not take you to Brightlingham, of course," went
on Hadding; “but, if you like, when I return we will
go to the British Museum. It is as quiet and as dusty
there as Rome. Perhaps we shall meet our old selves,
meeting there."
“I like our new selves better!” put in Marian,
quickly, with a flash of her light-gray eyes.
“Do you?” said Hadding, and wondered what
she meant. A sudden gentleness softened Marian's
glance.
“If I am happier now," she went on, “it is greatly
owing to you, Mr. Hadding. I was such a stupid and
ignorant little girl; you taught me and helped me when
I was very lonely, and showed me a whole world of
things outside myself. I often think how patient you
were with all my childishness. And now that I am
happy I shall never forget it.”
Hadding glanced at her again and said nothing.
Her face looked beautiful and earnest. Her hands were
loosely clasped and hanging down. He could see that
she was trying to beat down those barriers of coldness


11
259
VINCENT HADDING.
and shyness which so swiftly hedge us in from the absent.
But he noticed, with a sad curiosity, that she spoke of
her old self, of the Marian whose memory he loved, as of
a faulty creature, long since perished and buried out of
sight.
“No, you must not forget me,” he said, at last.
“ We must always continue friends. We must each en-
deavor to adapt ourself to what has altered in the
other.”
“Yes,” said Marian. There was a sudden flicker of
light in her eyes, a hesitation in her voice, a movement
in her throat, which showed Hadding that she was about
to make some further avowal. Suddenly he remem
bered that last night in Rome, the dark staircase, and
Marian's hand laid suddenly on his arm. She had looked
then like this, no doubt, only he had not seen her. She
was still, he thought, with a smile, the same impulsive,
vehement nature. But he had no blame for her to-day.
"No," he said, looking kindly at her; "you have
not really altered.”
At this moment Mrs. Cathcart, who had been in the
garden when Hadding first appeared, hurried out on to
the balcony, full of welcoming exclamations. Sophie
would be so pleased ! Sophie would not be in till seven!
And Sophie would be so sorry to have missed him! Mr.
Hadding must stay and dine. But Hadding could not
stay. He promised, however, to become a constant vis-
itor on his return from Sussex.


260
THE WITCHING TIME.
Su
“We must take up our studies again in earnest,” he
said to Marian at parting.
“Yes,” she answered, “if I have time;" and then,
with a glance of radiant and confiding softness, “I want
to talk to you about so many things."
Hadding went out, delighted with his visit.
IX.
HADDING was only three days away from London.
When he returned he felt a great desire to go and re-
ceive the confidence of Marian, to make her confess her
backslidings in archæology. But his fastidious respect
for the conventional determined him to wait for Mrs.
Cathcart's Wednesday. As it happened, he had to pass
the door; but none the less he preserved his resolution,
making a sort of pleasure out of his self-denial, as people
do who keep in check an impulse of which they are
afraid. Hadding was a little afraid of his interest in
Marian. But this only gave a keener edge to the pleas-
ure of looking up at her window from outside. Behind
the trees in the terrace, behind the tall plants in the bal-
cony, he could see a blue dress moving to and fro. He
liked to think that he was so close to Marian, and that
she did not know it. Then he smiled at himself for
standing there, like an Italian serenader, and walked
quickly on toward town.
In Piccadilly a tall, florid man came up to Hadding


VINCENT HADDING.
263
night his splendid paradoxes still kept the guests to-
gether. This gayety came without any effort; for Had-
ding felt the strongest impulse to stave off the moment
of deep and sour disgust which was lying already at the
bottom of his heart. But the moment came at last when
all his friends dispersed. Hadding went home, then,
bitter and outraged, to his London lodgings.
He turned up the gas, and drew up a chair; leaning
his arms on the table he tried to be calm. Why should
he trouble himself because this little girl who called her-
self his friend had secretly engaged herself and kept him
in the dark? All women were like that-heartless, in-
satiable of coquetry, vain. He remembered, what he
had quite forgotten, how, long ago, before he had
learned to be wary and suspicious, he had been be-
trayed by a light woman whom he loved. Marian, at
that moment, seemed to him no better than this name-
less creature, and the sting, the ignominy of being twice
deceived stung his too-sensitive vanity to madness.
With this there mingled the obscure agonies of jeal-
ousy, of thwarted possession; for he had half-begun to
love the girl. Then with a sudden swing, his fancy
turned to that night in Rome when Marian had prom-
ised to love him for ever. He had not wished it then.
She had revenged herself. She had made him rue it
now. He had seen her three days ago, and she had
never told him of her marriage. She had let him think
himself her only friend. Ah, that very afternoon how


264
THE WITCHING TIME.
good a right he seemed to have to watch her windows.
She had meant to deceive him! She had meant to de
lude him! She had meant that he should suffer. She
had found him a ridiculous amusement. With a sudden
shock, Hadding's disgust turned into anger-into a ful-
gent and terrible anger bent on destroying the wicked.
Marian mast feel it and learn to respect it: Marian, who
seemed to him no longer like her fellows, but a monster
of heartless vanity, of infamous feminine treachery.
There was no excuse, no pardon possible. Of course he
had no objection to her marrying, notwithstanding the
madness of her mother; but he would not suffer the
ignominy of a woman's triumph. She must know that
he rejected her. Hadding sat up for a moment, pen in
hand, rigid with a sort of savage quietness, a concen-
trated fury such as he had not felt for many years, and
which, with a strange pleasure, he allowed to overpower
him now. Then he began to write:
“I congratulate you on your approaching marriage.
I only heard the news this afternoon, and from a
stranger. At this moment my one desire is that you
may reward your husband's devotion as you have re-
warded mine. It is two years now since you declared
your friendship for me in Rome. At the end of another
two years, I trust that your husband may feel as con-
vinced of your confidence and of your loyalty as I.
These are good wishes. Let them end our friend-
ship.”
are


VINCENT HADDING.
265
Hadding read over the letter twice. It was not the
thing that he had meant to say, this clumsy irony, this
melodrama. But, with a choking desire to say some-
thing, to let her hear by any means his anger and con-
tempt, he went out and posted the letter.
In the middle of the morrow morning Hadding's
letter was brought to Marian. She was sitting in her
dressing-room sorting the papers in her desk. A large
bundle of Hadding's letters took up the greater part of
it; on the other side were a few notes from Sophie, and
a little packet of letters still fresh in date, but more worn
than any of the others.
Marian stopped her business to take the note from
the maid, and opened it with a look of pleased expect-
ance. The sight of Hadding had reawakened her
friendship for him, which lately had begun to feel
the strain of too long an absence. The smile of pleasure
suddenly faded from her mouth, and her whole face
blanched.
She sat quite still for a time, but at last she rallied
and began to excuse herself. Oh, she had not dreamed
of any deceit; she had always meant to tell Mr. Hadding.
But she had only been engaged three weeks; she was
shy, and had seen him so little. Still, to the tension of


266
THE WITCHING TIME.
poor Marian's mind, these excuses seemed feeble and in-
sufficient.
Marian was of an enthusiastic, a chivalrous tempera-
ment. The tragic, the heroic, the outrageous even,
allured her. She did not resent the violence of Had-
ding's letter; she did not question its justice. She looked
back to those days when you declared your friendship
for me in Rome.” How much she had meant then, how
little she had done, and oh, how deeply she had changed !
A hot wave of shame overspread her face and shoulders
as she thought of her affection for Hadding, so warm
then, so living and full of emotion; so merely grateful
and cut-and-dried to-day. And he, no doubt, had be-
lieved in her. Alas! he had done more, he had loved
her. Hadding's letter could bear only one interpretation
to Marian's simple mind. The friend she had won
against his will had fallen in passionate love with her.
And she had forgotten him! And she loved Lewis
Banbury! Marian sat still a long time trying to
think.
When at last she got up she was crying, but she
dried her tears. She had found a way at last; difficult
and thorny though it was, it would reconcile her life
with a high ideal. She would go to Hadding and tell
him that, if he chose, she would break off her engage-
ment. She would do now even more than she had
meant to do in Rome. She would think only of friend-
ship, for she had not meant to love Mr. Hadding even


VINCENT HADDING.
267
then ; but, since he loved her, if he thought it right, she
would marry him. She would consecrate her life to
make him happy and keep him great. That she had
meant; and she must keep her word.
Thus, with a mind incoherent but resolved, Marian
got up and dried her tears. She remembered that Had-
ding was lodging in Arlington Street. In a few hours it
would all be over. Perhaps he might forgive her—she
might still be happy; but Marian put this thought behind
her. She would not ask to be happy, she would only
ask to be honorable and good.
She tied the strings of her bonnet and went out, a
very childish, inexperienced soul concealed under the
stately and fashionable disguise of her appearance. She
walked quickly, strung up to a definite purpose, and
almost insensible to pain. She did not once remember
that Hadding had no right to command the issues of her
life. For, you see, she was very young, very sensitive.
And she was conscious, too, of that change in her own
constancy which is so terrible a revelation to the young.
She went on, almost happy that she could expiate
her fickleness at once, until she reached Arlington Street.
But the maid who answered her summons informed her
that, early in the morning, the gentleman, though usu-
ally so considerate, had rung them from their beds and
told them he must take the morning mail to Rome.
He had gone, and left no address, said the girl, divin-
ing a tragedy in Marian's swollen eyes. But Marian,


268
THE WITCHING TIME.
of course, knew very well where Hadding lived in
Rome.
She left the door, and hurried home again. At
lunch she pleaded a headache in answer to Mrs. Cath-
cart's anxieties. Indeed she felt very ill; impatient,
too, that she could not wipe away at once the stain of
Hadding's reproaches. After luncheon, scarcely know-
ing why, she went up-stairs and counted her money.
She had five-and-twenty pounds in her desk.
Then her desperate resolution strengthened in Mari-
an's mind. She would prove herself sincere; she would
make ample atonement. If, by her own act, she had led
Vincent Hadding to love her, if her ignorant wish for
his friendship had produced this dire result, she would
take the blame and the suffering herself. She was, you
see, convinced that he passionately loved her. Well
she would make amends. She would go to Rome at
once and let him marry her!
She sat down on her bed, sobbing silently and
heavily. She thought of Lewis Banbury, and, strangely
enough, that thought gave her courage to go on. It
was better Lewis should suffer now than that he should
marry a tarnished woman; and, to herself, Marian ap-
peared no less. A flirt, a jilt, a tarnished woman-it
was all the same. No, the woman Lewis loved should
never submit to being that. She did not see that, in
breaking her own heart, she was difficultly committing
the very fault she would avoid.


VINCENT HADDING.
269
What though it broke her heart ? She would be
doing right, and Marian measured right and followed it
according to the terrible ideal of youth. The very pain-
fulness of this sacrifice had the attraction of martyrdom.
She was giving up everything-happiness, and love, and
home, and peace to do the right thing. Marian's lips
grew thin and white, but her eyes shone.
Then she locked up her little desk and slung the key
on a ribbon round her throat. She put a few things—a
very few-into a little bag she had. “They will not
miss me,” she said, “ till dinner at eight.” She wrote a
line to her aunt, another to her lover, and, with the
bitterness of death in her throat, she slipped from the
house unobserved.
XII.
It was a warm and sunny May morning when Had-
ding awoke and found himself in his own house in
Rome. For some moments he remained confused,
wondering why he was back again already. Then he
was invaded by an immense impatience against the bitter
spleen which had driven him there. Already his own
violence appeared to him inexplicable and shocking, as
remote as the madness of another man. He resolved to
write that very day to Marian and humbly to sue for
pardon. He wondered whether it would be possible for
her to forgive him. “Yes, perhaps, if she thinks I am


270
THE WITCHING TIME.
in love with her,” he said aloud. But he felt he owed
her the less dignified, the infinitely difficult explanation
of the truth.
Then he pondered how he best could patch together
those plans which he had shattered in a moment of mad-
ness degrading to remember. He could not afford to go
north again for the summer. Why, in the name of
Heaven, had he rushed back to Rome in May? Hadding
was not rich, and was not strong. Although he could not
now return to England, he dared not remain a third
summer in Rome. “I should die of fever, and perhaps
that would be best,” he said grimly to himself. Never-
theless, he resolved to start at once for Rocca di Papa;
he could live cheaply there, and the air was cool and
healthy.
He rose early, and began to pack away in an iron
chest some treasures he had bought in London. He was
standing by the table, dusting and sorting some broken
fragments of a Roman urn, when his man appeared at
the door and told him that a signora wished to speak
with him. Hadding thought, “Some message from the
tradespeople, no doubt,” and was preparing to go and
speak to the woman at the door, when Pasquale sud-
denly retreated with a look of tragic amazement, and
Marian Bassett entered the Salotto.
It was certainly Marian Bassett; but so pale, so
changed, só travel-stained and careworn, that, for a
moment, Hadding thought the vision some disordered


VINCENT HADDING.
271
fancy of his brain. He was still disinclined to believe
his senses when she came forward, saying, in a flat and
tired voice, “I have come here to ask you to marry
me!”
“Marian!” cried Hadding, pale with horror. All
the consequences of her flight were immediately ap-
parent to him. Certainly he must marry her, and that
at once. He deserved even this, he thought to himself,
with a grim bracing of the heart to duty. Yes, his
irritable and violent vanity deserved it. He looked at
the pale face, with all its radiance gone; at the strange,
dull eyes, and disordered hair; and he remembered the
madness of her mother. They would be poor, too-very
poor. Then it rushed back on his mind that Marian was
an heiress. He recalled Mr. Pennington's speech about
the broken stick. Surely these were the dregs of his
cup!
“You don't welcome me,” said Marian, with a wan
smile. She was so convinced of Hadding's passion for
her that she believed him speechless for wonder and
delight. “You don't welcome me," she said, smiling.
Then Hadding remembered Sir Lewis Banbury: "young,
handsome, her equal in position." He looked again at
Marian, leaning wearily against the window-frame, her
face turned toward him with a pale, uncertain smile.
She seemed very young and helpless.
“Oh, my poor child ! my poor Marian !” he ex-
claimed, as he fell on his knees at her feet. " Ah,


- VINCENT HADDING.
273
Hadding has not written anything lately. His time
is largely occupied in witnessing the different triumphs
of Marian's career. She always tells him that he might
stay at home and study. But not for all the laurels on
Parnassus would Hadding leave his wife to run the
dangerous gauntlet of an unescorted beauty.


TWO OF A KIND.
BY HENRY NORMAN.
It had been a dull Wednesday afternoon session at
the House of Commons, and Arthur Galton had spent
most of it in the under-ground smoking-room, discussing
the Irish question with dull people. Since he had
shaken himself free several months before from the
cliques that dogged his steps all over the House, and
had said a final “Yes” to one of the wire-pullers that
used to button-hole him in the lobby two or three times
a day for permission to “put you down on my list," and
a final “No” to all the others, this question had seemed
clear enough to him. The decision had been rather dif-
ficult to reach, and the cabals into which every independ-
ent member was irresistibly drawn at that time, had
gone far to disgust him with political life; but he had
reached firm ground at last, and since his North of Eng.
land constituency had returned him again with a scarcely
decreased majority, all remnants of doubt on the subject
had vanished. He was disappointed, therefore, and even


TWO OF A KIND.
275
irritated, that so many of these men with whom he had
spent the afternoon should still be veering about in their
opinions. Galton had fancied himself a promising meta-
physician while a student at Leipzig, and enough of this
conceit had remained to make him believe that he had
settled the question in a philosophical manner. But the
members in the smoking - room this afternoon would
neither convince themselves nor let him convince them;
and to add to his annoyance, the distinguished leader of
the section which he had not joined had turned his back
upon him as they stood near each other in the lobby,
although during the period of Galton's indecision they
had been on almost affectionate terms. Politics was no
career for a man with earnest aims and any sense of per-
sonal independence, Galton reflected as he turned into
St. James's Street, and by the time he reached the steps
of his club he had almost decided to withdraw from it.
At the club there happened to be nobody whom he
knew, so he had to dine alone; and as the fish and the
claret were both cold, and the waiter finally set down
before him a plateful of damson tart, a fruit for which
he had a positive loathing, he was even less amiable after
dinner than before. The cigar that he had in his case,
however, was a good one, so he climbed to the smoking-
room and sat down before his coffee in the easiest chair
he could find, determined, like the philosopher he used
to be, to make the best of a bad day.
Galton had been steadily smoking for some time, and


276
THE WITCHING TIME.
vas
his gloomy mood was yielding, as such moods will, to
the impalpable caress of good tobacco, when he became
conscious that somebody was looking at him rather curi-
ously.
“Why, yes, it's Galton all over!” said a pleasant
voice. “How are you, old fellow ?”
“My dear Hughes,” exclaimed Galton, rising quickly
as he recognized an old friend and chum, “I am glad to
see you! When did you get back?”
“ Late last night; we had a splendid passage.”
“ You have dined? Well, then, sit down and have a
cigar. I've had a beastly day, and you are welcome as a
thaw at Melton. What have you been doing all this
time in America-nearly a year, isn't it?”
“Yes,” replied Hughes, taking the proffered cigar
and sinking back into his chair with the air of a traveler.
“Well, I've done what most people do over there, and,
luckily for me, a few things that most people don't do.
In New York, lots of going about-dinners at Del-
monico's, dances with the Seventh Regiment, several
capital evenings at a riding-school which is the thing
there, the best balls in the world, and some wonderful
trotting. In Boston, a great deal of Beacon Street, and
tip-top fun at what they call 'Commencement' at Har-
vard—the University there, you know. In Washington,
I shook hands with the President. I hadn't time to go
West. Altogether, a first-rate time among thoroughly
intelligent, independent, amusing, hospitable people.


TWO OF A KIND.
277
There--you have my budget now. I suppose it's very
much like your own first trip to the States. I've brought
back food for years of reflection, and a small case of
green cigars.”
“Well,” said Galton, as he looked at his friend's full
round face, which the sea air had made brown in com-
parison with the light wavy hair and mustache, “ you've
brought back what you went for-a new stock of
health.”
“Yes, and I've brought something else, too, that
you'll be glad to see."
“A wife?"
“No, worse luck, but I asked her to be."
“But she — you admit the pronoun- she must
have consented, or she wouldn't be with you, I sup-
pose.”
“Not even that. It is a cousin of mine whose ex-
istence I hardly suspected a year ago. You know my
father's half-brother wanted to marry his deceased wife's
sister, and as the law wouldn't let him do so here, he just
went to America, and has lived there ever since. So
Miss Ayrton is really an English girl brought up in the
States."
“ Ayrton; it's a pretty name,” remarked Galton.
“Yes, and she's a pretty girl,” replied Hughes, warm-
ly. “In fact, she's the prettiest girl I ever set eyes on,
or expect to. Pretty, though, is not the word-she's
really a splendid woman.”


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THE WITCHING TIME.
“Poor fellow!” said Galton, in the same reflective
tone. "Receive my sympathy."
“Hang your sympathy!” retorted Hughes, with a
laugh. “I tell you seriously, Miss Ayrton is the most
perfect creature I ever saw. That's the general opinion
over there, too, I can tell you, for every man in her set
has proposed to her, or meant to before she left. I
never saw such a sorrowful crew in my life as they are.
Two men whom she refused have buried themselves in
Mexico, another threw up everything in New York, went
West, and is now driving a coach in Texas, and people
say there was a suicide, too, but that I doubt. She keeps
the names in a book.”
“Including your own?”
“I dare say," returned Hughes, in a more serious
tone, knocking the ash from his cigar. “I did fall in
love with her, and I asked her to marry me, and I am
not ashamed to confess it. You would have done the
same thing."
“Oh, of course," replied Galton blandly. He was
finding an antidote for his melancholy in returning to
the old habit of teasing his younger and more impulsive
friend, as he had done ever since they were schoolboys
together.
“It's all very well for you to sit there, Galton,” re-
torted the young man with some warmth, “and chaff
me, and say smart things, but I tell you that if you had
known her as long as I have ”


TWO OF A KIND.
279
“Six months ? "
“Never mind how long-you would have proposed
to her, too."
“My dear boy,” said Galton, with assumed delibera--
tion," your enthusiasm is very pretty and very natural,
and I wouldn't throw cold water on it for the world, but
you forget that you are addressing a wizened old politi-
cian. Such things are not for me.”'
- “Bosh !” exclaimed Hughes. “I should like to have
a wager with you on it.”
“I don't bet, either,” said Galton solemnly.
“Well, then, my Dutch uncle," replied the other,
rising and stretching himself like a man who knows that
what he is going to say must necessarily conclude the
argument, “I'll tell you something else that I've learned
in America, and that is, when an offer is made to me
such as I've made to you, either to put up or shut up.'
Excuse the vulgarity.”
“Oh, if that's your view," laughed Galton, rising too,
6 let's hear the wager.”
“ I'll bet you a level hundred," replied Hughes, “ that
if I introduce you to my cousin, within six months you'll
ask her to marry you. And I'll even give you a good
start by telling her that you are the best fellow I've ever
known. There's nothing mean about me – another
Americanism."
“All right," said Galton, laughing, “done with you!
It will be fun, at any rate, and I had just come to the


280
THE WITCHING TIME.
conclusion that I should never have any more. But I
give you fair and deliberate warning that I shall not ask
her to marry me, even if she proved to be Venus and
Minerva rolled into one, and that you'll lose your
money."
“I'll risk it,” returned the young man; “rira bien
qui rira le dernier.' It will stop your chaff, at any rate.
But now tell me all about yourself. You must have
been having exciting times in politics here."
Little was needed to induce Galton to talk about his
work and his interests, and for a long time he spoke al-
most without stopping, interweaving with the narrative of
his own intellectual life during his friend's absence all
the anecdotes of public men, the jokes, and epigrams
that lay so plentifully about the arena of the great Par-
liamentary struggle. The lighter side of life was not
less interesting to him than the serious one, for he was a
man prematurely old. A clever school-boy, an able but
restless student at Cambridge, he had passed through all
his educational experiences two or three years ahead of
most men; and as his father had died while he was at
school, and his mother immediately after he left college,
he had had both the means and the freedom to indulge
his taste for travel and quiet adventures. He was thirty-
two, but passed for much more among people who knew
him only slightly. He had a broad, fine forehead, above
which the hair was getting thinner every year; his eyes
were of the blue which is called steely, probably because


TWO OF A KIND.
281
it seems a surface color only, and tells nothing of the
temperament behind it; and his thick but carefully
trimmed light-brown beard gave him almost a foreign
air. In his time he had been a moderate athlete, had
played cricket and rowed and sparred and fenced a little,
and ridden a great deal, so that his tall figure was supple ·
and well-proportioned, and his skin had a pleasant,
healthy look. All his life his two tastes had been for
study and the open air; one or two of his years on the
Continent had been what is called rather “wild," but he
had spent them so chiefly because the men with whom
he lived had professed to know no pleasures except in
bright eyes that easily reflected an easy affection, in long
nights at the card-table, and in all the associations that
are symbolized by the kiss, the wine-glass, and the song.
If he did not regret these years for ethical reasons, it was
only because of the experience they left, which is not
otherwise easily obtained, and which had, as he knew,
this particular value, that if one is without it one is quite
sure to be ceaselessly fidgeting after it. On his return
to England he had fallen among politicians, and being a
good-looking man, of a certain social position, a fluent
speaker, and able to pay his own election expenses and a
little besides, he had found himself in Parliament almost
before he had made up his mind to settle down any-
where. Now he felt as if he had been cheated, as it
were, out of some of his youth; he had always meant to
be a boy again for a while after he had been a man for a


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THE WITCHING TIME.
few years, and politics threatened to put an extinguisher
on that light-hearted intention. He always welcomed,
therefore, such a talk with a younger man, and he was
by no means averse from playing the fool a little now
and then—that was why he had made the bet with
Hughes. Of course, he did not in the least mean to take
his friend's money, but it would be fun, and would ren-
der his relations with the wonderful Miss Ayrton highly
amusing.
The talk about politics lasted till Hughes began to
feel tired, and at last he took advantage of the clock
striking eleven to rise and plead fatigue from his recent
voyage, make an appointment for the next evening, and
go home. Galton said "good-night” to him at the door
of the club, and then strolled slowly down the street to
his chambers, absorbed in the solution of the knotty
questions he had himself raised. He had still a couple
of hours' work to do before he went to bed, to finish an
article on “The Sphere of Sentiment in Economics,"
which he had promised to the editor of the Fortnightly
for the next day; so he lighted a pipe and the candles
at his writing-table, put on his slippers and velvet coat,
and settled down over the last pages of his manuscript.
Once he rose to refill his pipe, once to drag a big blue-
book from under the table, and once to take down a
volume of Mill from the shelf. Occasionally the clatter
of a rickety hansom disturbed him for a moment, but
his pen went steadily on as the candles burned nearer


TWO OF A KIND.
283
and nearer to their sockets, and it was almost one
o'clock before he dashed his pen across the foot of a
page in the welcome scrawl which means “ Finis” in
the compositor's hieroglyphics. Then he flung down his
pen and rose with a fervent " Thank goodness, that's
done!”
His room was lighted by a large copper lamp hang-
ing from an iron chain stretched from wall to wall. The
flame itself was hidden in a copper bowl, and only the
warm reflected light was thrown down, filling the lower
part of the room with a peculiar soft shimmer, which
Galton's friends chaffingly called his “dim agnostic
light." The furniture was of dull green stained wood, in
old plain shapes which he had mostly designed himself;
for a dado the walls were covered with wine-red Bengal
matting up to the book-case, which ran all round the
room, and above there was a tint just the color of the
beams that fell from the copper lamp. Without being
æsthetic, he had discovered the beauty of some of. Mr.
Morris's designs, and his easy-chair and sofa were of sap-
green chintz, and the curtains that covered his windows
were of the same wild-tulip pattern, but blue. In niches
in the book-case little Tanagra statuettes lounged grace-
fully, and sat reading in their exquisite drapery ; a few
water-colors, in broad gilt frames, stood about; a couple
of old brass lamps that he had picked up in the Borgo
Vecchio hung on each side of the fireplace, and over
it a tall Venus of Milo, with a little silver crucifix


284
THE WITCHING TIME.
hanging upon her perfect breast, was half hidden in
gray velvet folds. The whole room bespoke the trav.
eler who has kept the best place in his heart for his
home, and who has affectionately and almost selfishly
brought back to his hearth the things that have given
him happy hours abroad ; and Galton, standing upon
his big iron fender and leaning back upon the low
mantel, smiled quietly to himself as he saw how good
it was, and recalled one by one the associations of the
things that surrounded him. The red-and-white cap and
long pipe of his German student-days, the bust of Kant
above his philosophical books, the two big beer-mugs
with the inevitable “ 2. fr. Erg.” round their rims, the
hunting-crop which hung across the lamp-chain, on the
top of a book-case, the big nickel-plated stirrups with
their india-rubber bottoms which he had bought in
Denver, the tomahawk which an old “forty-niner" had
given him; and more than all, the rows of books, old
and new, in dirty paper and rusty cloth and pompous
leather and gold, picked up here and there and every-
where, and at last united in one family. “The dear
old things,” thought Galton, as his eyes ranged slowly
over his surroundings ; “how like old friends they are,
or brothers, or even like a wife, they rest so cosily at
one's fireside !” And then suddenly he remembered
Hughes, Miss Ayrton, and his bet.
The recollection startled him not a little, and gradu-
ally, as his imagination clothed the skeleton of a few


TWO OF A KIND.
285
minutes' careless talk, it became irritating to him, and at
last even repulsive. Why should the thought obtrude
itself like a falling shadow at such a moment? His
home was his own, sacred to him by its associations and
by the hopes which cling around them—who was this
woman, that her name should spring up to dissipate his
happy memories ? It seemed to him as if the mere
thought robbed him of half his claim on these old
friends and companions. The irritation, however,
passed away in a moment, but it left behind a calm dis-
dain of its train of reflections. No, he would not place
his peace of mind in any woman's keeping; the years
that were gone had given him a fair share of profitless
excitement, and all the shallow satisfactions of "love";
that was all past, and now his work, and even his own
personal independence, barred the way to its renewal.
His habits and his ambitions were peculiarly his own,
and they must be kept as inviolable as his fireside itself;
no rustling skirt should quicken his pulse there, and as
for the others, they should be securely preserved from
all fickleness and petty interests, from all the passing
joys which make such permanent inroads upon character
and work. In a minute or two Galton had recovered
from his false alarm, and as he caught sight of a flower
on the wall opposite him he laughed softly. It was a
crushed and faded yellow rose, fastened to the wall by a
nail through its heart, just out of reach. How well he
remembered putting it there! A woman who had prom-


286
TIE WITCHING TIME.
ised to be his wife had worn it on her bosomat a ball,
and had given it to him with her pledge. In those days
he had believed in immortality, at least for such lovers as
they were, but he would not have given that rose for the
hopes of all the everlasting years. She was false; her
pledge had proved less enduring than the pale petals
that symbolized it; and when he came back from his
long journey he had taken the flower, all bruised and
broken with his kisses, and had glued it together and
nailed it up for a witness before his eyes. Now his
langh might be bitter when his eye fell upon it, but at
any rate he would be pretty certain not to give it a
companion upon his wall. “Needles and pins,'" he
hummed to himself as he blew out the candle, and wrote
down at the corner of his blotting-pad the hour at which
his servant should call him in the morning—-.needles
and pins, when a man's married his trouble begins.”
II.
Two days later, when Arthur Galton reached Mrs.
Hughes's evening party, he had completely forgotten
the talk with her son at the club. The storm of politics
which had threatened for so long was breaking now, and
few men in the House of Commons had thoughts for any
of their ordinary interests or hobbies. Every young man,
at any rate, was wholly absorbed by the consciousness of
being a maker of history, and sweethearts and wives had


TWO OF A KIND.
287
fared badly of late. Galton was not so far from the
center of the whirl that he could keep cooler than the
others, and his head ached and rang with the echoes of
the cheers and laughter and yells of the debate he had
just left behind. It was quite late when he reached Bel-
grave Square, and two streams of men and women were
passing each other on the stairs, some of them cool as
they hurried to or from the momentary appearance which
satisfied the claims of convention, others hot and flushed
from the dance, the women clinging tight to the arms of
their partners, the men looking down at their compan-
ions with eagerness or tolerance, according as they were
pretty or not. It was a chaos formed of chatter and
quick laughter, of trampling feet and rustling dresses,
and of a hot perfume-laden air, while above the mono-
tone of noise came the scraping of the musicians tuning
their fiddles up-stairs, and the popping of corks below.
The whole scene jarred upon Galton's over - wrought
nerves, as he wearily made his way up-stairs, and half-
unconsciously he wondered that people should be so gay
and should chatter and laugh and long for the glance of
an eye or the pressure of a hand, while the fate of a
nation, aye, of an empire, was hanging in the balance,
and no two wise men could agree upon a course of ac-
tion. He was thoroughly at home in the house, so with
a word to the servants he escaped being announced and
turned into a small room, between the front rooms where
dancing had begun again and a series of rooms at the


288
THE WITCHING TIME.
back where people were talking and resting in couples
_and groups.
For a few minutes he watched them mechanically,
half rising every now and then to bow to some passing
pair, his thoughts still at Westminster. Then suddenly
he became conscious that the crowd had rearranged it-
self in such a way as to leave a lane open between him
and a group of four or five persons in a corner of the
room beyond him, and that his eyes were fixed intently
upon the central figure of the group. Four of the per-
sons were men, but the other was a tall girl with black
hair, in a pale yellow gown trimmed with old lace. Her
back was toward him, and he was struck with the thickness
and gloss of her hair, and the yellow roses that seemed to
have been twisted up with it. From the faces of the
men he knew that she was beautiful; and he saw with
the thrill that comes at the sight of any beautiful animal
life, that her whole figure moved with each gesture, as
she threw back her head, or swung open her fan, or
raised her hand and arm in a curiously foreign manner.
Three of the men were laughing and all talking to her at
once, while the fourth appeared to be saying nothing,
but never took his eyes from her face, and smiled only
when she looked directly at him. The more Galton
looked at her the more the charm of her mere physical
well-being affected him—the tall figure, slender and
rounded and strong, swaying slightly as she turned from
one of her listeners to another, the poise of her head and


TWO OF A KIND.
291
magnetic needle to each passing current of thought.
Galton was extremely angry with Hughes for his fatuous
introduction, but he still examined the woman before
him as if she had been a chiseled thing on a pedestal.
Looked at from his new point of view she was just as
strong and fine as she had seemed to him before, but he
thought he detected a mocking light in her eyes, and the
corners of her mouth quivered as she tried to repress too
obvious a smile at his expense. Then her eyes partly
closed, the quivering of her lips passed into a set expres-
sion which just showed the tips of her delicate white
teeth, and with a shyness which seemed deliberate she
put out her hand and said simply, “How do you do?”,
Galton took it and bowed rather lower than was quite
sincere. « Elle pose," he said to himself.
“Galton's the best dancer I ever saw," put in
Hughes. “I shall come back for my own turn by and
by," he added as he left the room.
It was true that Galton was a good dancer, but he
was very fastidious about his partners, and he had not
meant to dance that evening. These parting words,
however, left him no choice, as the speaker of them
had intended. “Mr. Hughes is an untrustworthy per-
son, Miss Ayrton," he said, “but I shall be grateful if
you have a dance left that I may have."
“I think I'm not engaged for the next waltz,” re-
plied Miss Ayrton, looking over her programme. “No
-with pleasure."


292
THE WITCHING TIME.
“Excuse me," said the quietest of the men standing
by, “but I think this is my dance-unless I've made a
mistake.”
The girl drew up her programme again, glanced
calmly at it, and then said slowly, “No, I've had this
dance open ever since I came-nobody would have it!
I'm awfully sorry if you've lost a dance by the mistake,
Mr. Spokes."
The man bowed rather stiffly, and murmured some
thing in an apologetic tone. He knew perfectly well
that the next waltz had been promised to him, but he
was not sufficiently a man of the world quite to conceal
his knowledge. Men read men's faces and movements
with tolerable certainty, and Galton understood perfectly
the man's disappointment and the girl's little deceit.
“I have every dance—” he began, without stopping
to consider the inference she would draw. from his re-
mark if it were completed.
“This is my only one, Mr. Galton," she interrupted
him, with a trifle less calmness in her tone. “If you
wish it"
“Oh-if you please," stammered Galton, as he of-
fered her his arm, thankful for the opportunity to repair
his blunder in time. But again his voice and his action
were much more deferential than his thought. -
During the waltz, like all good dancers, they hardly
spoke, and when it was over they found a quiet corner,
and Galton set himself to detect in the manner and con-


TWO OF A KIND.
293
versation of Miss Ayrton the qualities which had placed
her so high in the imagination of many men, including
his friend Hughes. It was a task congenial to his meta-
physical habit, and soon he had come to the conclusion
that he had seldom undertaken an easier one. Isabel
Ayrton was evidently accustomed to talk freely, so be
contented himself with a polite accompaniment of mur-
murs of assent, broken every now and then by some sug-
gested paradox of opinion which piqued her to find its
solution. And he could see that she, on her part,
watched discreetly but sharply the effect upon him of
her conversation. He turned it gradually toward sub-
jects common only between persons fairly intimate with
each other, and she did not attempt to check him. She
even made him little confidences upon her past life, its
limits and its ambitions; upon the elderly titled diplomat
in Washington, who had offered her his hand, his rank,
and half of his million of francs a year, and upon the
poor medical student who had been the pride of her
brother's university, and who had besought her to wait
till he returned from his studies in Europe with a reputa-
tion to lay at her feet. Galton ventured a distant allusion
to his friend Hughes. She responded instantly with more
confidences. “Charming fellow, isn't he? We were all
very fond of him in New York—so enthusiastic and
good-natured, and devoted to his friends. Particularly
devoted to me, you know—quite a romance, in fact.
But of course he's told you all about it.” And she


294
THE WITCHING TIME.
stopped with a burst of frank and half-embarrassed
laughter, and the first shade of a blush that Galton had
seen upon her expressive face. Extremely becoming it
was, too, as he recognized, with mixed feelings. Then,
as the musicians began a new dance, she snatched up her
programme and exclaimed, “Dear me, I've sat out three
dances! Whatever will my partners think? I must
dance this one, because it's the Highland Schottische,
and I particularly begged Lord Walter to teach it me.
Will you please take me back?” And, as they returned
slowly to the front room, she added, in a lower tone,
“I'm afraid I've been terribly indiscreet in talking to
you as if we had known each other for years."
“I've known you for ever,” said Galton, in the same
tone.
Miss Ayrton looked up at him quickly for a moment
to make sure that he was serious. “If that's a compli-
ment,” she said, “it's the nicest one I was ever paid.
Anyhow, I couldn't help it. You're very different from
most men, you know; one can never talk seriously with
them, and they don't seem to understand that a woman
loves frankness in them above all things."
“I trust I've been frank,” Galton almost whispered,
releasing her arm as Lord Walter came hurrying up to
claim his dance.
“ Very. Au revoir !”
When she had quite disappeared among the dancers,
Galton gave way to the smile which he had been sup-


296
THE WITCHING TIME.
charming person, after all, and he had reason to know
how weak men are before a pink-and-white face and a
few flattering words. It was not enough, therefore, he
speedily determined, to be upon his guard; he must not
merely parry, but also thrust back; he must not only
avoid the contest with this modern Atalanta, which
would bring his neck under the flower-trimmed sword,
but he must also devise a scheme which should cause her
own pitiless heart to feel its sharp point. That was the
explanation of his compliment—that was why he had
already begun to flatter her with his deference. “I have
pleased women before,” he thought, “and every quality
that I have, and every art that I can compass, shall be
made to do service now. If I succeed—well, the suicide
will be avenged, at any rate.” And Galton edged away
from among the circling couples, and staid long in the
supper-room before he left to go home.
In the days and weeks that followed the dance, Ar-
thur Galton and Isabel Ayrton saw a great deal of each
other. A calm followed the political storm, and Galton,
like his fellow-members, turned with relief to society
and its distractions. The receptions of Mayfair took on
a new charm when they followed the debates of West-
minster, and lingering memories of the peremptory di
vision-bell made the strains of Strauss only more bewitch-
ing. Galton found himself with an unwonted amount
of time at his own disposal, and Hughes seemed bent
upon making up in a few weeks all they had missed of


TWO OF A KIND.
297
each other's companionship during his long absence in
America. But the company of Hughes no longer meant
the old bachelor habits : Miss Ayrton was now the in-
variable third. London life was fascinating to her, and
she seemed to grow more vigorous under its ceaseless
demands. And Galton yielded himself freely to the
charm of her fresh young nature. At the back of his
mind there was the consciousness that he had chosen a
definite line of action, and protected himself in advance
from the danger which she personified. For a time he
kept clearly in mind the recollection that he was thwart-
ing the design upon him which he had detected in her
mind, by a counter-attack of his own; that he was mak-
ing an aggressive defence, as it were, and it was with
perfect deliberation that he made himself as attractive to
her as he possibly could, and paid her that unvarying
and unquestioning service which is a man's surest road
to a woman's good-will. Little by little, however, the
determining cause passed out of his mind, while the re-
sulting behavior remained unchanged. It was in itself
so pleasant a thing to be gradually growing more inti-
mate with this beautiful girl; to be entering day by day
more closely into the enthusiasms and ambitions of her
young heart; to be seeing the old things of life, the
baseless beliefs, the exploded trusts, the unveiled deceits,
through her idealizing and glamour-casting eyes, that
Galton let himself drift along the stream of natural
inclination, without a trace of his original determination


298
THE WITCHING TIME.
beyond the vague hovering consciousness that his pre-
cautions were taken, and that he had nothing to fear.
He was like a knight of old who forgot danger so far
as even not to recognize it as such, when once the
trusted talisman was hung about his neck. Isabel Ayr-
ton, on her part, did nothing to raise in Galton's mind
a moment's doubt of the accuracy of his judgment of
her character. To all his suggestions for her entertain-
ment she agreed instantly; she accepted all his invita-
tions, and even anticipated him when, as often happened,
he hesitated on the verge of some proposal too American
in its scope for the personified chaperon who regulates
the intercourse of young people in England. Her pro-
gramme was freely offered to him when they met at a
dance, she was always by his side at Mrs. Hughes's din.
ner-table, and in the Row their horses almost grew to
recognize each other. Several times Mrs. Hughes al-
lowed Galton to organize little riding-parties like those
to which Miss Ayrton was accustomed in America.
Horses for half a dozen young people, one older couple,
and a groom, would be sent to some Kentish or Essex
village, and next day the riders would meet at Charing
Cross or Liverpool Street, find their mounts waiting for
them in an old inn yard, and ride for a conple of days
before returning to town. On these occasions Galton
and Miss Ayrton were always either before or behind
the rest, and many an hour's delightful talk they had,
riding alone through quiet English lanes. Of course,


TWO OF A KIND.
299
too, Galton frequently invited his friends to the House
of Commons, after which he carried them off to supper
in his rooms, and these occasions Isabel Ayrton seemed
to enjoy most of all. It was a time full of pleasure for
them both, and one of those times in which intimacy
makes such unsuspected strides.
The autumn had been unusually fine, and one morn-
ing when Galton looked out of his window he found St.
James's Street filled with warm red sunshine, and even
its dull pavement covered with the brilliance of autumn
leaves. It seemed almost a sin to spend such days in a
great city, and he asked himself what proposal he could
make that would best employ such rare last summer-
time. “What shall we do?” was really the form in
which the thought occurred to him, and suddenly the in-
spiration came. The river! Of all the pleasures that he
knew near London, the “sweet Themmes” was the only
one he had not now shared with Isabel Ayrton, and the
Thames is in its perfection only when Cliveden Woods
are on fire with red and gold, and when the fast waning
summer urges to a double enjoyment of the hours that
remain before the bare, blank winter comes. A couple
of hours later he had persuaded Mrs. Hughes to ask the
customary little band to make up a river-party for the
next day, although it was both Sunday and too late in
the season for most people to regard the Thames as a
possible place for a holiday. Miss Ayrton had seconded
Galton's arguments with her own appeals, and Hughes,


300
THE WITCHING TIME.
of course, had supported his friend. So next morning,
at a quarter to nine, several carriages and hansoms came
dashing down the long slope into Paddington Station,
and a party gathered on the platform, all the merrier for
the rather extraordinary character of their excursion.
Galton fell naturally into the position of leader, and
when he had taken the tickets he was struck by a large
and unusually luxurious saloon-carriage attached to the
train. The guard noticed his curiosity, and after passing
a few remarks about the weather and the fine season, he
volunteered the information that the carriage was put on,
according to the company's contract, to take any mem-
bers of the Guards' Club to their country house at Maid-
enhead. “But it only wants a few minutes, now, sir,"
he added, "and it's pretty certain there'll be none of 'em
coming this morning. So if you'd like to take your
party down in it-" Galton closed with the suggestion
without waiting for the end of the sentence, and half a
minute before the station-clock marked the quarter, they
all scrambled hastily in, and the guard, with one anxious
look down the platform to make sure no belated Guards-
man was running up, whistled them away.
Two hours later, Galton was rowing Isabel Ayrton
slowly down from Marlow in a light skiff which had
fallen to their share in the distribution of the party.
Others had found the river attractive on such a day, and
there would not have been boats enough for them unless
some lady had ventured into a narrow outrigger. Isabel


TWO OF A KIND.
301
had instantly volunteered, and Galton had responded by
drawing the frail craft up to the landing. The lunch.
basket was placed in the stern, Isabel took the tiller-ropes,
and Galton soon pulled out of the others in their heavily-
laden boats. After rowing a mile with a strong, easy
stroke, he began to let his sculls drag lazily over the sur-
face of the water. She had been lost in reverie for some
time, but the musical ripple aroused her, and she looked
up with a smile. Galton, on his part, had hardly taken
his eyes from her face since they left Marlow, and her
smile faded slowly away before the strange intimacy with
which their eyes met. The current carried them along
without a stroke of the oars; there was not another boat
in sight, and only the great white swans moved silently
upon the surface; upon their left the red cattle were
grazing peacefully in the meadows, over which came the
sound of far-off church bells, and upon their right the
blaze of autumn lay upon the cloud-like masses of foli-
age. As the boat drifted into the reflection of the woods,
it seemed to them as if the river were turning to gold as
they approached. The perfect pastoral beauty of the
scene, and the subtle sense of sympathetic companion-
ship, fascinated them, and seemed to awe them into
silence. At last Galton exclaimed in a low tone, “Let
us get on—this is too much," and Isabel whispered
“Yes.” He seized the oars and neither spoke again till
the boat shot into Cookham Lock. Then Isabel said,
“Shall we not wait here for Mrs. Hughes and the others."
- 14
Je of te
Lerestin
2020,
Goondise
ich had
e parti
Mas, and
a moles
Isabel


TWO OF A KIND. ·
303
didn't publish it, for he knew that people would only
laugh at the idea of his turning poet at seventy, but he
gave me all his manuscripts, and I compiled this little
volume from them. This is the proof-sheets bound to-
gether, which he corrected just before he died. I don't
often show them to anybody, but I have brought them
to read to you now, if you care to hear them.”
There was a ring of sadness in Galton's tone that the
girl had never noticed before. “I care very much," she
said, wondering what they might prove to be.
For more than an hour Galton read. His voice was
low and musical, and it blended with the sounds around
them—the bubbling of the water at the bows, the rust-
ling of the willow overhead, and the distant bells, and
the faint rumble of the weir. The verses were all sad-
some passionately so, some tender, some resigned, but all
the outcome of a life-long attempt to reach by any path
the ultimate and unattainable satisfaction of the soul.
One called “The Glass-Blower” told how “with crea-
tive hand and fiery breath and magic wand” an artisan
succeeded in molding a microcosmic crystal earth-
sor
пе
“Where trees spring up, whose foliage, dyed
Unfadingly in Summer's pride,
Rude Autumn's withering breath defied,
And Winter's icy blasts;
And ships, becalmed on wrinkled seas,
Though full their sails, felt not the breeze
That bent their tapering masts."


306
THE WITCHING TIME.
Which seemed to say, “A desert at the best
Is life, o'er which the floating mirago-gleams
Incite our paces until we find rest
Beside some angel of our better dreams." !
“Did he ever find the angel of his better dreams,
and was it worth while to find her like this when he was
at the edge of the grave? And how could he distin-
guish between the angel at last and all the mirages which
had preceded her? Is there any hope of such peace at
last for other men ?-these are the questions every one
must feel—where shall I find her, how shall I know her,
what can I say to her that she will be sure to under-
stand? Life would be wholly another thing if we had
only some such confident hope—if we could only believe
that in spite of all deceit and disenchantment and sham,
after all pains and all struggles, one will some day be
right and safe in saying, 'The angel of my dreams is
here, she is beside me, she is listening to me, I may
touch her, my life to all eternity is in her hands to be ex-
alted or shattered at her will; I can not tell her what my
longing means, or what is the service I would offer her-
I can only beseech her and cry, “Speak, speak!"""
Galton was carried away by the mingled flood of
memories and hopes that the familiar verses had let loose
upon him. The words came passionately from his lips,
and his eyes were fixed upon some point far away from
the quiet, pastoral Thames landscape. But as he


308
THE WITCHING TIME.
tance from Maidenhead they overtook the rest of the
party.
IV.
WHEN Galton reached his chambers that night, and
locked himself in, he had hardly recovered from the
shock of the afternoon. How the party had reached
home, and how he had escaped from Mrs. Hughes's
house at last, he did not know. He had not spoken to
Isabel again, except to say good-night, and not much
more to any one else. One thing only was in his mind,
overwhelming and obscuring every other thought and in-
terest—the consciousness that he had committed a delib-
erate, stupendous, and probably fatal folly. And as he
paced up and down his room, that one fact seemed to
surround and choke him like a fog.
An hour passed before his conduct appeared to
him in any new light, and the clearer it became to him
the worse it looked. Led away by a foolish joke of a
man much his junior, he had let himself drift into a
course of action of the most dishonorable kind. He
had systematically exhibited an affection he did not
feel; and though it was true that, after the first few
days, he had done this unconsciously, that did not make
it any the less deceptive to others. On the basis of
some probably absurd analysis of a woman's character,
he had allowed himself practically to make love to her;
he, a man of knowledge and experience, of position and
man


TWO OF A KIND.
309
fortune, had played upon the mind of this high-spirited,
innocent girl as one might play upon a fife. He had
flattered her, he had entertained her, he had instructed
her, he had opened up to her new ideas of life, and had
inspired in her a wider ethical faith. And he had done
this without real affection for her, and even any of those
subtle suggestions which constitute the foredawn of love.
Now, at last, the natural result had come. She had
judged his character according to bis own professed
standard, she had taken him at his word, she had fallen
deeply in love with him, she had believed him to be
thinking of herself when he was addressing some ab-
stract ideal of his own; she had betrayed her love for
him in return, as clearly as if she had said, “ Yes, I will
marry you.” Fool that he was !
For hours Galton continued to pace his room in a
state of mind bordering on despair. All the familiar
objects which generally gave him such satisfaction only
deepened his anger and alarm now. As he looked at
them they seemed to recede from him—they seemed to
be no longer his old friends, the landmarks of his travels,
the remnants of his adventures. He felt as if he were
becoming another person, to whom they were all strange:
the old Galton had given himself to other associations.
Then his room seemed to be invaded by strange figures,
the old furniture to disappear, the very faces in his pict-
ure-frames to change-he himself seemed on the point
of expulsion. At last he stopped short in the middle of


310
THE WITCHING TIME.
the room, and dispelled these wandering fancies by an
effort of will. “What's done is done,” he said to him-
self. “Now the only question is, what remains to do.”
He reflected that he was an honorable man, and that all
his life his strongest views of personal honor had been
those which insisted upon the absolutely straightforward
and chivalrous relations of a man with a woman. Only
once had he given up a friend, and him he had deliber-
ately and even insultingly sent adrift because he was, to
Galton's certain knowledge, trifling with the love of an
innocent and unsuspicious girl. Now he himself had
sunk to what had always been the level of his own su-
preme condemnation.
At last he blew out his lamp and drew back the cur-
tains, for the day was breaking, and, as the clear white
daylight flooded his room, a light entered his troubled
mind. “Yes,” he said aloud, “I must do it.” His duty
had grown clear-it was to become the thing he had
pretended to be. To go to this girl and say, “I have
been playing with you, deceiving you—flirting,” would
subject him for ever, and properly, to his own contempt.
He had been a lover in jest, he would become one in
earnest; he had practically pretended an offer of mar-
riage, he would make one. He did not love Isabel Ayr-
ton, that was true—but he had learned to admire her
and to respect her. She loved him, and he could insure
her happiness; and he knew himself well enough to be
sure that he would always act with scrupulous fidelity to


TWO OF A KIND.
311
the decision he was now making. He would have pre-
ferred to remain single, unless the angel of his better
dreams had unmistakably appeared, for he had planned
many other things to do with his life. All this, how-
ever, was as nothing when compared with the reten-
tion of his self-respect—with the consciousness of hav-
ing acted honorably at the supreme trial of his char-
acter.
This decision once reached, the instincts of human
nature began to assert themselves, and Galton reflected
that, after all, his was not a very hard fate. He thought
of Isabel Ayrton as he had first seen her—of her beauti-
ful hair, of her olive-tinted eyes, of her strong, youthful
figure, and of the grace which always seemed to be flow-
ing over her. “A man may well be thankful for such a
wife, and proud to serve her," he thought; "perhaps,
after all, this is the kindred chord' in me responding to
some note struck by one in the shadowy army of the
dead.'»
He was already back again in his metaphysics.
At eleven o'clock Galton knocked at the door of Mrs.
Hughes's house. “Miss Ayrton, if you please,” he said
with emphasis, to the man who showed him in. And
he sat down in the library with something of his old
calmness.


TWO OF A KIND.
313
respect you as much. And I think I could never respect
you more than I do at this moment. But I will not
marry you, and for two very good reasons: first, that I
do not love you; and, second, that you do not love me.
Hush !” she added quickly, as Galton was about to speak;
“I will show you.” And disengaging one of her hands
she put it behind her into her pocket and produced a
scrap of paper, the half of a single sheet of note-paper,
torn diagonally across and evidently trampled upon.
“Read this,” she said, and she held it on a level with
his eyes. And Galton read it—an incomplete sentence
in Hughes's large handwriting—“ as well send me that
hundred at once; I saw you and the fair cousin cooing
away this afternoon. I shall win that bet like old ”
“I think you will know me even better now."
“But—Isabel-yesterday—” Galton stammered.
“I know what you are thinking of,” she interrupted.
Then with a shy smile she added, while a blush crept
over her face, “Why did I cry while you were talking
to me? Well, to be frank, I wasn't thinking of you at
all just then!”
As Galton entered his club that night he caught sight
of a man just going up-stairs.
“ Hughes !” he called after him. “Wait a moment,
will you? Here—" and he produced an envelope from
his pocket—"I have something for you. That check,
you know.”


314
THE WITCHING TIME.
“My dear fellow, how glad am I !” exclaimed
Hughes, suddenly seizing his friend's hand; “I knew
how it would be, and I do congratulate you both with all
my heart !"
“Shut up! Let us go and dine."


316
THE WITCHING TIME.
And love on her lips has been playing since sighs in
her bosom were born. .
Yet never for me is the glamor that makes your pulse
hurriedly beat-
Though planets re-echoed her praises, and the world
were a slave at her feet,
I never could look on your Juliet-your homage could
never be mine,
For there lives a dead face in my memory that holds
all my soul in its shrine.
The years have slipped by—nearly twenty-since I saw
in the spring of success
My Juliet, happy and peerless, whose whisper was like
a caress;
Her hair took its hue from the woodlands, when their
auburn was glinted with gold;
Her eyes stole the dew from the violets, as they slept
in the moss on the wold;
And even the veriest dullard on whom fell that raptur-
ous glance
Has felt all his spirit transfigured by love and the
glow of romance.
“ Ali, Romeo, envied of mortals, leave idle lamenting
and sighs!
Away from this cruel Verona you should bear so pre-
cious a prize!”


JULIET.
319
The dew had gone back to the violets—that voice so
caressing was dumb!
And only the light of the woodlands still clung to that
delicate head,
Like rays of the bounteous sunshine that play on the
vaults of the dead.
W
The Morgue! How I reached it I know not, but I
broke through the curious crowd,
Who shrank from me, pallid and startled, as if from a
ghost in a shroud !
And I found her, so fair and so dainty, surrounded by
horrible clay-
The ghastly account of self-slaughter, the victims of
feud and affray;
And here was the clutch of the river, and there was
the hideous stab!
Ah, tragedies never were written like those on that sor-
rowful slab!
But oh, for the spirit so tender that never again would
illume
The form that lay solemn and silent, for ever bereft of
its bloom!
Midst aliens mortally stricken, just Heaven, 'twas cruel
to die
No friend her last look to remember, to catch her last
shuddering sigh!


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NEW FICTION.
Pepita Ximenez.
A NOVEL. From the Spanish of JUAN VALERA. With an Intro-
duction by the author written specially for this edition. 12mo,
paper cover. Price, 50 cents; half bound, 75 cents.
Señor Don Juan Valera, recently Spanish minister to our government, is recog-
nized as the most prominent literary man of the time in Spain. He is the author
of some eight or ten novels, the most recent and successful of which is “ Pepita
Ximenez," which has appeared in eight editions in Spain, and been translated
into German, French, Italian, and Bohemian. Nothing more chaming has ap-
peared in recent literature.
A Politician's Daughter.
A NOVEL. By Myra SAWYER HAMLIN. 12mo, half bound.
Price, 75 cents.
" A Politician's Daughter" is a bright, vivacious novel, based on a more than
usual knowledge of American social and political life.
Double Cunning.
THE TALE OF A TRANSPARENT MYSTERY. By GEORGE
MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, paper cover. Price, 50 cents.
"We heartily recommend · Double Cunning' to readers of fiction as a good,
stirring, exciting story, with plenty of 'go' and incident."-Spectator.
"More exciting than anything of the kind that has been written since" The
Woman in White of Wilkie Collins. 'Double Cunning' is one of those books
which, once taken up, no one can put down until the last chapter is reached.”—
London Post.
Aliette (La Morte).
A NOVEL. From the French of OOTAVE FEUILLET, author of
“The Romance of a Poor Young Man," etc., etc. 12mo, paper
cover. Price, 50 cents; half bound, 75 cents.
"La Morte,” which we publish under the name of " Aliette," has been the
great success of the season in France, fifty thousand copies having been sold
within a few weeks of publication. It is a novel bearing upon certain vital ques-
tions of the hour, especially as regards the radical results of the differences between
religious and agnostic training.
“M. Feuillet has made a very strong hit in ‘La Morte.'"- London Saturday
Review.
“Merit of a most unusual kind.”—London Athendum.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.