The maker of moonsRobert William Chambers


From the Library of Edmund Lester Pearson

To THE .MEMORY OF
Up john Shaw Billings
.head first Director of The New York Public Library
WHO BY HLS FORESIGHT energy AND
ADMINISTRATIVE BUILT MADE EFFECTIVE ".
ITS PAR-KEACHING INFLUENCE
"He is not dead who giveth Lire to knowledge"
John Shaw Billings Memorial Fund
Founded by Anna Palmer Draper
IV.V.VWVWWVVWA
13 ZJ IS























1





By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
I. The Red Republic.—A Romance of the
Commune. Fourth Edition. Large 120, $1.25
"With all its rush and excitement there is a solid basis of
painstaking and thoughtfulness in * The Red Republic' Mr.
Chambers is wholly free from self-consciousness; indeed, his
gifts seem to be little short of genius. Wonderfully vivid
and graphic A^. Press.
"Mr. Chambers shows great familiarity with the many
dreadful days of '87', and Mr. Thiers' policy is critically ex-
amined. *The Red Republic* abounds in action."—N. Y.
Times.
"'The Red Republic' has the healthy ring of a young
man's book. Mr. Chambers can do what few men can do—he
can tell a story."—N. Y. Journal.
"I do not think that one need hesitate to call' The Red
Republic' the best American novel of the year."—Vance Thompson in N. Y. MorningAdvertiser."The book will commend itself not only for its strength
and vividness, but for imagination and fancy. . . . Glow
with gentle beauty and romancCj putting in striking contrast
the barbarity of war Droch in N. Y. Life.
II. A King and a Few Dukes. A Romance.
Second edition. Large 120 . . $1 25
"No superior fiction has appeared in months. ... It
is a charming love story, attractively told in a way that is es-
sentially Mr. Chambers' own."— N. Y. Times.
"A more charming, wholly delightful story, it would be
difficult to name in the whole range of English fiction. That
is sayingmuch. but not one bit more than the book deserves.
. . . The characters are wonderfully well drawn,"- N. Y.
World.
"This latest of Mr. Chambers' stories is written in a very
charming manner, and with all the grace and finish that have
made the writings of the author so popular during the past."
—Albany Union.
III. The Maker of Moons. With frontispiece.
Large 120.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.
27 West 231* Street, New York


''n



IT IS YUE-LAOU, THE MAKER OF MOONS!


THE MAKER OF MOONS
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Author of " The King in Yellow," "The Red Republic"
"A King and a Few Dukes," etc.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
27 WEST BRAD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND
TIbc ImiclscrboCRcr press
1896


THE NEW YOHk
PUBLIC LIBRARY
958837A
ACTOR, LENOX AND
nUDBN FurNUATlOin
K IMS L
COPYRIGHT, 1896
BY
G. f. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London



TO MY FATHER





CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE MAKER OF MOONS i
THE SILENT LAND 83
THE BLACK WATER 129
IN THE NAME OF THE MOST HIGH . .197
THE RE SISTER 229
THE CRIME 265
A PLEASANT EVENING 305
THE MAN AT THE NEXT TABLE .... 347





THE MAKER OF MOONS


'I am myself just as much evil as good, and my nation
is—And I say there is in fact no evil;
(Or if there is, I say it is just as important to you, to
the land, or to me, as anything else.
******
Each is not for its own sake;
I say the whole earth, and all the stars in the sky, are
for Religion's sake.
I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough;
None has ever yet adored or worshipped half enough;
None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and
how certain the future is."
WALT WHITMAN.


THE MAKER OF MOONS.
"I have heard what the Talkers were talking,—the talk
Of the beginning and the end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end."
ONCERNING Yue-Laou and the Xin I
know nothing more than you shall know.
I am miserably anxious to clear the mat-
ter up. Perhaps what I write may save the
United States Government money and lives, per-
haps it may arouse the scientific world to action;
at any rate it will put an end to the terrible sus-
pense of two people. Certainty is better than
suspense.
If the Government dares to disregard this warn-
ing and refuses to send a thoroughly equipped
expedition at once, the people of the State may
take swift vengeance on the whole region and
leave a blackened devastated waste where to-day
forest and flowering meadow land border the lake
in the Cardinal Woods.
I.

i


2 The Maker of Moons.
You already know part of the story; the New
York papers have been full of alleged details.
This much is true: Barriscaught the "Shiner,"
red handed, or rather yellow handed, for his
pockets and boots and dirty fists were stuffed
with lumps of gold. I say gold, advisedly. You
may call it what you please. You also know how
Barris was—but unless I begin at the beginning
of my own experiences you will be none the wiser
after all.
On the third of August of this present year I
was standing in Tiffany's, chatting with George
Godfrey of the designing department. On the
glass counter between us lay a coiled serpent, an
exquisite specimen of chiselled gold.
"No," replied Godfrey to my question, "it
is n't my work; I wish it was. Why, man, it's a
masterpiece!''
"Whose?" Tasked. "Now I should be very glad to know also,"
said Godfrey. '' We bought it from an old jay
who says he lives in the country somewhere about
the Cardinal Woods. That's near Starlit Lake,
I believe"
"Lake of the Stars?" I suggested.
"Some call it Starlit Lake,—it's all the same.
Well, my rustic Reuben says that he represents
the sculptor of this snake for all practical and
business purposes. He got his price too. We
hope he 'll bring us something more. We have
sold this already to the Metropolitan Museum."


The Maker of Moons. 3
I was leaning idly on the glass case, watching
the keen eyes of the artist in precious metals as
he stooped over the gold serpent.
"A masterpiece!" he muttered to himself,
fondling the glittering coil; '' look at the texture!
whew I" But I was not looking at the serpent.
Something was moving,—crawling out of God-
frey's coat pocket,—the pocket nearest to me,—
something soft and yellow with crab-like legs all
covered with coarse yellow hair.
"What in Heaven's name," said I, "have you
got in your pocket? It's crawling out—it's
trying to creep up your coat, Godfrey!"
He turned quickly and dragged the creature
out with his left hand.
I shrank back as he held the repulsive object
dangling before me, and he laughed and placed it
on the counter.
"Did you ever see anything like that?" he
demanded.
"No," said I truthfully, "and I hope I never
shall again. What is it?"
"I don't know. Ask them at the Natural
History Museum—they can't tell you. The
Smithsonian is all at sea too. It is, I believe,
the connecting link between a sea-urchin, a spider,
and the devil. It looks venomous but I can't
find either fangs or mouth. Is it blind? These
things may be eyes but they look as if they
were painted. A Japanese sculptor might have
produced such an impossible beast, but it is hard


4 The Maker of Moons.
to believe that God did. It looks unfinished too.
I have a mad idea that this creature is only one
of the parts of some larger and more grotesque
organism,—it looks so lonely, so hopelessly
dependent, so cursedly unfinished. I 'm going
to use it as a model. If I don't out-Japanese
the Japs my name is n't Godfrey."
The creature was moving slowly across the
glass case towards me. I drew back.
"Godfrey," I said, "I would execute a man
who executed any such work as you propose.
What do you want to perpetuate such a reptile
for? I can stand the Japanese grotesque but I
can't stand that—spider—"
"It's a crab."
"Crab or spider or blind-worm—ugh! What
do you want to do it for? It's a nightmare—it's
unclean !''
I hated the thing. It was the first living
creature that I had ever hated.
For some time I had noticed a damp acrid odour
in the air, andGodfreysaid it came from the reptile.
"Then kill it and bury it," I said; "and by
the way, where did it come from?"
"I don't know that either," laughed Godfrey;
"I found it clinging to the box that this gold ser-
pent was brought in. I suppose my old Reuben
is responsible."
"If the Cardinal Woods are the lurking places
for things like this," said I, "I am sorry that I
am going to the Cardinal Woods."


The Maker of Moons. 5
"Are you?" asked Godfrey; "for the shoot-
ing?"
"Yes, with Barris and Pierpont. Why don't
you kill that creature?"
"Go off on your shooting trip, and let me
alone," laughed Godfrey.
I shuddered at the "crab," and bade Godfrey
good-bye until December.
That night, Pierpont, Barris, and I sat chatting
in the smoking-car of the Quebec Express when
the long train pulled out of the Grand Central
Depot. Old David had gone forward with the
dogs; poor things, they hated to ride in the bag-
gage car, but the Quebec and Northern road
provides no sportsman's cars, and David and
the three Gordon setters were in for an uncom-
fortable night.
Except for Pierpont, Barris, and myself, the
car was empty. Barris, trim, stout, ruddy, and
bronzed, sat drumming on the window ledge,
puffing a short fragrant pipe. His gun-case lay
beside him on the floor.
"When / have white hair and years of discre-
tion," said Pierpont languidly, "I'll not flirt
with pretty serving-maids; will you, Roy?"
"No," said I, looking at Barris.
"You mean the maid with the cap in the Pull-
man car?" asked Barris.
"Yes," said Pierpont.
I smiled, for I had seen it also.
Barris twisted his crisp grey moustache, and
yawned.


6
The Maker of Moons.
"You children had better be toddling off to
bed," he said. "That lady's-maid is a member
of the Secret Service."
"Oh," said Pierpont, "one of your col-
leagues?"
"You might present us, you know," I said;
"the journey is monotonous."
Barris had drawn a telegram from his pocket,
and as he sat turning it over and over between
his fingers he smiled. After a moment or two he
handed it to Pierpont who read it with slightly
raised eyebrows.
"It's rot,—I suppose it's cipher," he said;
"I see it's signed by General Drummond"
'' Drummond, Chief of the Government Secret
Service," said Barris.
"Something interesting?" I enquired, lighting
a cigarette.
"Something so interesting," replied Barris,
"that I 'm going to look into it myself"
"And break up our shooting trio"
'' No. Do you want to hear about it? Do
you Billy Pierpont ?''
"Yes," replied that immaculate young man.
Barris rubbed the amber mouth-piece of his
pipe on his handkerchief, cleared the stem with a
bit of wire, puffed once or twice, and leaned back
in his chair.
"Pierpont," he said, "do you remember that
evening at the United States Club when General
Miles, General Drummond, and I were examining


TheMaker of Moons. 7
that gold nugget that Captain Mahan had? You
examined it also, I believe."
"I did," said Pierpont.
"Was it gold?" asked Barris, drumming on
the window.
"It was," replied Pierpont.
"I saw it too," said I; "of course, it was
gold."
'' Professor La Grange saw it also,'' said Barris;
"he said it was gold."
"Well?" said Pierpont.
"Well," said Barris, "it was not gold."
After a silence Pierpont asked what tests had
been made.
"The usual tests," replied Barris. "The
United States Mint is satisfied that it is gold, so
is every jeweller who has seen it. But it is not
gold,—and yet—it is gold."
Pierpont and I exchanged glances.
"Now," said I, "for Barris' usual coup-de-
theatre: what was the nugget?"
"Practically it was pure gold; but," said
Barris, enjoying the situation intensely, "really
it was not gold. Pierpont, what is gold?"
"Gold's an element, a metal"
"Wrong! Billy Pierpont." said Barris coolly.
"Gold was an element when I went to school,"
said I.
"It has not been an element for two weeks,"
said Barris; "and, except General Drummond,
Professor La Grange, and myself, you two young-


8
Hie Maker of Moons.
sters are the only people, except one, in the world
who know it,—or have known it."
"Do you mean to say that gold is a composite
metal ?'' said Pierpont slowly.
"I do. La Grange has made it. He produced
a scale of pure gold day before yesterday. That
nugget was manufactured gold."
Could Barris be joking? Was this a colossal
hoax? I looked at Pierpont. He muttered
something about that settling the silver question,
and turned his head to Barris, but there was that
in Barris' face which forbade jesting, and Pier-
pont and I sat silently pondering.
"Don't ask me how it's made," said Barris,
quietly; "I don't know. But I do know that
somewhere in the region of the Cardinal Woods
there is a gang of people who do know how gold
is made, and who make it. You understand the
danger this is to every civilized nation. It's got
to be stopped of course. Drummond and I have
decided that I am the man to stop it. Wherever
and whoever these people are—these gold makers,
—they must be caught, every one of them,—
caught or shot."
"Or shot," repeated Pierpont, who was owner
of the Cross-Cut Gold Mine and found his income
too small; "Professor La Grange will of course
be prudent;—science need not know things that
would upset the world!"
"Little Willy," said Barris laughing, "your
income is safe."


The Maker of Moons. 9
"I suppose," said I, "some flaw in the nugget
gave Professor La Grange the tip.''
"Exactly. He cut the flaw out before sending
the nugget to be tested. He worked on the flaw
and separated gold into its three elements."
"He is a great man," said Pierpont, "but he
will be the greatest man in the world if he can
keep his discovery to himself."
"Who?" said Barris.
"Professor La Grange."
"Professor La Grange was shot through the
heart two hours ago," replied Barris slowly.


II.
WE had been at the shooting box in the
Cardinal Woods five days when a tele-
gram was brought to Barris by a
mounted messenger from the nearest telegraph
station, Cardinal Springs, a hamlet on the lumber
railroad which joins the Quebec and Northern at
Three Rivers Junction, thirty miles below.
Pierpont and I were sitting out under the trees,
loading some special shells as experiments; Earns
stood beside us, bronzed, erect, holding his pipe
carefully so that no sparks should drift into our
powder box. The beat of hoofs over the grass
aroused us, and when the lank messenger drew
bridle before the door, Barris stepped forward and
took the sealed telegram. When he had torn it
open he went into the house and presently re-
appeared, reading something that he had written.
"This should go at once," he said, looking the
messenger full in the face.
"At once, Colonel Barris," replied the shabby
countryman.
Pierpont glanced up and I smiled at the mes-
senger who was gathering his bridle and settling


The Maker of Moons. 11
himself in his stirrups. Barris handed him the
written reply and nodded good-bye: there was a
thud of hoofs on the greensward, a jingle of bit
and spur across the gravel, and the messenger
was gone. Barris' pipe went out and he stepped
to windward to relight it.
"It is queer," said I, "that your messenger—
a battered native,—should speak like a Harvard
man."
"He is a Harvard man," said Barris.
"And the plot thickens," said Pierpont; "are
the Cardinal Woods full of your Secret Service
men, Barris?"
"No," replied Barris, "but the telegraph sta-
tions are. How many ounces of shot are you
using, Roy?"
I told him, holding up the adjustable steel
measuring cup. He nodded. After a moment
or two he sat down on a camp-stool beside us and
picked up a crimper.
"That telegram was from Drummond," he
said; "the messenger was one of my men as you
two bright little boys divined. Pooh! If he had
spoken the Cardinal County dialect you would n't
have known."
"His make-up was good," said Pierpont.
Barris twirled the crimper and looked at the
pile of loaded shells. Then he picked up one and
crimped it.
"let'em alone," said Pierpont, "you crimp
too tight."


12 The Maker of Moons.
"Does his little gun kick when the shells are
crimped too tight ?'' enquired Barris tenderly;
"well, he shall crimp his own shells then,—
where 's his little man?"
"His little man," was a weird English impor-
tation, stiff, very carefully scrubbed, tangled in
his aspirates, named Howlett. As valet, gilly,
gun-bearer, and crimper, he aided Pierpont to
endure the ennui of existence, by doing for him
everything except breathing. Lately, however,
Barris' taunts had driven Pierpont to do a few
things for himself. To his astonishment he found
that cleaning his own gun was not a bore, so he
timidly loaded a shell or two, was much pleased
with himself, loaded some more, crimped them,
and went to breakfast with an appetite. So when
Barris asked where "his little man" was, Pier-
pont did not reply but dug a cupful of shot from
the bag and poured it solemnly into the half
filled shell.
Old David came out with the dogs and of course
there was a pow-wow when "Voyou," my Gor-
don, wagged his splendid tail across the loading
table and sent a dozen unstopped cartridges roll-
ing over the grass, vomiting powder and shot.
"Give the dogs a mile or two," said I; "we
will shoot over the Sweet Fern Covert about
four o'clock, David."
"Two guns, David," added Barris.
"Are you not going?" asked Pierpont, look-
ing up, as David disappeared with the dogs.


The Maker of Moons. 13
"Bigger game," said Barris shortly. He
picked up a mug of ale from the tray which
Howlett had just set down beside us and took a
long pull. We did the same, silently. Pierpont
set his mug on the turf beside him and returned
to his loading.
We spoke of the murder of Professor La Grange,
of how it had been concealed by the authorities
in New York at Drummond's request, of the cer-
tainty that it was one of the gang of gold-makers
who had done it, and of the possible alertness of
the gang.
"Oh, they know that Drummond will be after
them sooner or later," said Barris, "but they
don't know that the mills of the gods have already
begun to grind. Those smart New York papers
builded better than they knew when their ferret-
eyed reporter poked his red nose into the house
on 58th Street and sneaked off with a column on
his cuffs about the 'suicide' of Professor La
Grange. Billy Pierpont, my revolver is hanging
in your room; I 'll take yours too"
"Help yourself," said Pierpont.
"I shall be gone over night," continued Barris;
"my poncho and some bread and meat are all I
shall take except the 'barkers.'"
"Will they bark to-night?" I asked.
"No, I trust not for several weeks yet. I shall
nose about a bit. Roy, did it ever strike you how
queer it is that this wonderfully beautiful country
should contain no inhabitants?"


14 The Maker of Moons.
"It's like those splendid stretches of pools and rapids which one finds on every trout river and
in which one never finds a fish," suggested
Pierpont.
"Exactly,—and Heaven alone knows why,"
said Barris; "I suppose this country is shunned by
human beings for the same mysterious reasons."
"The shooting is the better for it," I observed.
"The shooting is good," said Barris, "have
you noticed the snipe on the meadow by the lake?
Why it's brown with them ! That's a wonderful
meadow.''
"It's a natural one," said Pierpont, "no
human being ever cleared that land."
"Then it's supernatural," said Barris; "Pier-
pout, do you want to come with me ?''
Pierpont's handsome face flushed as he an-
swered slowly, "It's awfully good of you,—if I
may."
"Bosh," said I, piqued because he had asked
Pierpont, '' what use is little Willy without his
man?"
"True," said Barris gravely, "you can't take
Howlett you know."
Pierpont muttered something which ended in
"d-- n."
"Then," said I, "there will be but one gun
on the Sweet Fern Covert this afternoon. Very
well, I wish you joy of your cold supper and
colder bed. Take your night-gown, Willy, and
don't sleep on the damp ground."


The Maker of Moons.
15
"Let Pierpont alone," retorted Bands, "you
shall go next time, Roy."
"Oh, all right,—you mean when there 's shoot-
ing going on?"
"And I?" demanded Pierpont, grieved.
"You too, my son; stop quarelling! Will you
ask Howlett to pack our kits—lightly mind you,
—no bottles,—they clink."
"My flask does n't," said Pierpont, and went
off to get ready for a night's stalking of dan-
gerous men.
"It is strange," said I, "that nobody ever
settles in this region. How many people live in
Cardinal Springs, Barris?"
"Twenty counting the telegraph operator and
not counting the lumbermen; they are always
changing and shifting. I have six men among
them."
"Where have you no men? In the Four
Hundred?"
"I have men there also,—chums of Billy's
only he doesn't know it. David tells me that
there was a strong flight of woodcock last night.
You ought to pick up some this afternoon."
Then we chatted about alder-cover and swamp
until Pierpont came out of the house and it was
time to part.
"Au revoir," said Barris, buckling on his kit,
"come along, Pierpont, and don't walk in the
damp grass."
"If you are not back by to-morrow noon," said


16 The Maker of Moons.
I, "I will take Hovvlett and David and hunt you
up. You say your course is due north ?''
"Due north," replied Barris, consulting his
compass.
"There is a trail for two miles and a spotted
lead for two more," said Pierpont.
"Which we won't use for various reasons,"
added Barris pleasantly ; " don't worry, Roy, and
keep your confounded expedition out of the way;
there's no danger."
He knew, of course, what he was talking about
and I held my peace.
When the tip end of Pierpont's shooting coat
had disappeared in the Long Covert, I found my-
self standing alone with Howlett. He bore my
gaze for a moment and then politely lowered his
eyes.
"Howlett," said I, "take these shells and im-
plements to the gun room, and drop nothing.
Did Voyou come to any harm in the briers this
morning?"
"No 'arm, Mr. Cardenhe, sir," said Howlett.
"Then be careful not to drop anything else,"
said I, and walked away leaving him decorously
puzzled. For he had dropped no cartridges.
Poor Howlett!


III.
ABOUT four o'clock that afternoon I met
David and the dogs at the spinney which
leads into the Sweet Fern Covert. The
three setters, Voyou, Gamin, and Mioche were in
fine feather,—David had killed a woodcock and a
brace of grouse over them that morning,—and
they were thrashing about the spinney at short
range when I came up, gun under arm and pipe
lighted.
"What's the prospect, David," I asked, try-
ing to keep my feet in the tangle of wagging,
whining dogs; "hello, what's amiss with
Mioche?"
"A brier in his foot sir; I drew it and stopped
the wound but I guess the gravel's got in. If
you have no objection, sir, I might take him back
with me."
"It's safer," I said; "take Gamin too, I only
want one dog this afternoon. What is the situa-
tion?"
"Fair sir; the grouse lie within a quarter of
a mile of the oak second-growth. The woodcock
are mostly on the alders. I saw any number of


18 The Maker of Moons.
snipe on the meadows. There's something else
in by the lake,—I can't just tell what, but the
wood-duck set up a clatter when I was in the
thicket and they come dashing through the
wood as if a dozen foxes was snappin' at their
tail feathers."
"Probably a fox," I said; "leash those dogs,
—they must learn to stand it. I 'll be back by
dinner time."
"There is one more thing sir," said David,
lingering with his gun under his arm.
"Well," said I.
"I saw a man in the woods by the Oak Covert,
—at least I think I did."
"A lumberman?"
'' I think not sir—at least,—do they have
Chinamen among them?"
"Chinese? No. You did n't see a Chinaman
in the woods here?"
"I—I think I did sir,—I can't say positively.
He was gone when I ran into the covert."
'' Did the dogs notice it?"
'' I can't say—exactly. They acted queer like.
Gamin here lay down an whined—it may have
been colic—and Mioche whimpered,—perhaps it
was the brier."
"And Voyou?"
"Voyou, he was most remarkable sir, and the
hair on his back stood up. I did see a ground-
hog makin' for a tree near by."
"Then no wonder Voyou bristled. David,


The Maker of Moons. 19
your Chinaman was a stump or tussock. Take
the dogs now."
"I guess it was sir; good afternoon sir," said
David, and walked away with the Gordons leav-
ing me alone with Voyou in the spinney.
I looked at the dog and he looked at me.
"Voyou!"
The dog sat down and danced with his fore
feet, his beautiful brown eyes sparkling.
"You 're a fraud," I said; "which shall it be,
the alders or the upland? Upland? Good !—
now for the grouse,—heel, my friend, and show
your miraculous self-restraint."
Voyou wheeled into my tracks and followed
close, nobly refusing to notice the impudent chip-
munks and the thousand and one alluring and
important smells which an ordinary dog would
have lost no time in investigating.
The brown and yellow autumn woods were
crisp with drifting heaps of leaves and twigs that
crackled under foot as we turned from the spinney
into the forest. Every silent little stream, hurry-
ing toward the lake was gay with painted leaves
afloat, scarlet maple or yellow oak. Spots of sun-
light fell upon the pools, searching the brown
depths, illuminating the gravel bottom where
shoals of minnows swam to and fro, and to and
fro again, busy with the purpose of their little
lives. The crickets were chirping in the long
brittle grass on the edge of the woods, but we left
them far behind in the silence of the deeper forest.


2O TheMaker of Moons.
"Now !" said I to Voyou.
The dog sprang to the front, circled once, zig-
zagged through the ferns around us and, all in a
moment, stiffened stock still, rigid as sculptured
bronze. I stepped forward, raising my gun, two
paces, three paces, ten perhaps, before a great
cock-grouse blundered up from the brake and
burst through the thicket fringe toward the
deeper growth. There was a flash and puff from
my gun, a crash of echoes among the low wooded
cliffs, and through the faint veil of smoke some-
thing dark dropped from mid-air amid a cloud of
feathers, brown as the brown leaves under foot.
"Fetch!"
Up from the ground sprang Voyou, and in a
moment he came galloping back, neck arched,
tail stiff but waving, holding tenderly in his pink
mouth a mass of mottled bronzed feathers.
Very gravely he laid the bird at my feet and
crouched close beside it, his silky ears across his
paws, his muzzle on the ground.
I dropped the grouse into my pocket, held for
a moment a silent caressing communion with
Voyou, then swung my gun under my arm and
motioned the dog on.
It must have been five o'clock when I walked
into a little opening in the woods and sat down to
breathe. Voyou came and sat down in front of me.
"Well?" I enquired.
Voyou gravely presented one paw which I
took.


TaMaker of Moons. 21
"We will never get back in time for dinner,"
said I, "so we might as well take it easy. It's
all your fault, you know. Is there a brier in your
foot?—let's see,—there! it's out my friend and
you are free to nose about and lick it. If you loll
your tongue out you'll get it all over twigs and
moss. Can't you lie down and try to pant less?
No, there is no use in sniffing and looking at that
fern patch, for we are going to smoke a little,
doze a little, and go home by moonlight. Think
what a big dinner we will have! Think of How-
lett's despair when we are not in time! Think
of all the stories you will have to tell to Gamin
and Mioche! Think what a good dog you have
been! There—you are tired old chap; take
forty winks with me."
Voyou was a little tired. He stretched out on
the leaves at my feet but whether or not he really
slept I could not be certain, until his hind legs
twitched and I knew he was dreaming of mighty
deeds.
Now I may have taken forty winks, but the
sun seemed to be no lower when I sat up and un-
closed my lids. Voyou raised his head, saw in
my eyes that I was not going yet, thumped his
tail half a dozen times on the dried leaves, and
settled back with a sigh.
I looked lazily around, and for the first time
noticed what a wonderfully beautiful spot I had
chosen for a nap. It was an oval glade in the
heart of the forest, level and carpeted with green


22 The Maker of Moons.
grass. The trees that surrounded it were gigan-
tic; they formed one towering circular wall of
verdure, blotting out all except the turquoise blue
of the sky-oval above. And now I noticed that
in the centre of the greensward lay a pool of
water, crystal clear, glimmering like a mirror in
the meadow grass, beside a block of granite. It
scarcely seemed possible that the symmetry of
tree and lawn and lucent pool could have been
one of nature's accidents. I had never before
seen this glade nor had I ever heard it spoken of
by either Pierpont or Barris. It was a marvel,
this diamond clear basin, regular and graceful as
a Roman fountain, set in the gem of turf. And
these great trees,—they also belonged, not in
America but in some legend-haunted forest of
France, where moss-grown marbles stand neg-
lected in dim glades, and the twilight of the
forest shelters fairies and slender shapes from
shadow-land.
I lay and watched the sunlight showering the
tangled thicket where masses of crimson Cardinal-
flowers glowed, or where one long dusty sunbeam
tipped the edge of the floating leaves in the pool,
turning them to palest gilt. There were birds
too, passing through the dim avenues of trees like
jets of flame,—the gorgeous Cardinal-Bird in his
deep stained crimson robe,—the bird that gave to
the woods, to the village fifteen miles away, to
the whole county, the name of Cardinal.
I rolled over on my back and looked up at the


The Maker of Moons. 23
sky. How pale,—paler than a robin's egg,—it
was. I seemed to be lying at the bottom of a
well, walled with verdure, high towering on every
side. And, as I lay, all about me the air became
sweet scented. Sweeter and sweeter and more
penetrating grew the perfume, and I wondered
what stray breeze, blowing over acres of lilies
could have brought it. But there was no breeze;
the air was still. A gilded fly alighted on my
hand,—a honey-fly. It was as troubled as I by
the scented silence. . ".
Then, behind me, my dog growled.
I sat quite still at first, hardly breathing, but
my eyes were fixed on a shape that moved along
the edge of the pool among the meadow grasses.
The dog had ceased growling and was now star-
ing, alert and trembling.
At last I rose and walked rapidly down to the
pool, my dog following close to heel.
The figure, a woman's, turned slowly toward
us.


IV.
SHE was standing still when I approached the
pool. The forest around us was so silent
that when I spoke the sound of my own
voice startled me.
"No," she said,—and her voice was smooth
as flowing water, '' I have not lost my way. Will
he come to me, your beautiful dog?"
Before I could speak, Voyou crept to her and
laid his silky head against her knees.
"But surely," said I, "you did not come here
alone."
"Alone? I did come alone."
'' But the nearest settlement is Cardinal, prob-
ably nineteen miles from where we are standing."
"I do not know Cardinal," she said.
"Ste. Croix in Canada is forty miles at least,—
how did you come into the Cardinal Woods?" I
asked amazed.
"Into the woods?" she repeated a little im-
patiently.
"Yes."
She did not answer at first but stood caressing
Voyou with gentle phrase and gesture.
24


The Maker of Moons. 25
"Your beautiful dog I am fond of, but I am not
fond of being questioned," she said quietly. '' My
name is Ysonde and I came to the fountain here
to see your dog."
I was properly quenched. After a moment or
two I did say that in another hour it would be
growing dusky, but she neither replied nor looked
at me.
"This," I ventured, "is a beautiful pool,—
you call it a fountain,—a delicious fountain: I
have never before seen it. It is hard to imagine
that nature did all this."
"Is it?" she said.
"Don't you think so?" I asked.
"I have n't thought; I wish when you go you
would leave me your dog."
"My—my dog?"
"If you don't mind," she said sweetly, and
looked at me for the first time in the face.
For an instant our glances met, then she grew
grave, and I saw that her eyes were fixed on my
forehead. Suddenly she rose and drew nearer,
looking intently at my forehead. There was a
faint mark there, a tiny crescent, just over my
eyebrow. It was a birthmark.
"Is that a scar?" she demanded drawing
nearer.
"That crescent shaped mark? No.''
'' No? Are you sure ?'' she insisted.
"Perfectly," I replied, astonished.
"A—a birthmark?"


26 The Maker of Moons,
"Yes,—may I ask why?"
As she drew away from me, I saw that the
color had fled from her cheeks. For a second
she clasped both hands over her eyes as if to shut
out my face, then slowly dropping her hands, she
sat down on a long square block of stone which
half encircled the basin, and on which to my
amazement I saw carving. Voyou went to her
again and laid his head in her lap.
'' What is your name ?'' she asked at length.
"Roy Cardenhe."
"Mine is Ysonde. I carved these dragon-flies
on the stone, these fishes and shells and butterflies
you see."
"You! They are wonderfully delicate,—but
those are not American dragon-flies—''
"No—they are more beautiful. See, I have my
hammer and chisel with me."
She drew from a queer pouch at her side a
small hammer and chisel and held them toward
me.
"You are very talented," I said, "where did
you study ?''
"I? I never studied,—I knew how. I saw
things and cut them out of stone. Do you like
them? Some time I will show you other things
that I have done. If I had a great lump of
bronze I could make your dog, beautiful as he is."
Her hammer fell into the fountain and I leaned
over and plunged my arm into the water to
find it.


The Maker of Moons.
27
"Itis there, shining on the sand," she said,
leaning over the pool with me.
"Where," said I, looking at our reflected faces
in the water. For it was only in the water that
I had dared, as yet, to look her long in the face.
The pool mirrored the exquisite oval of her
head, the heavy hair, the eyes. I heard the
silken rustle of her girdle, I caught the flash of a
white arm, and the hammer was drawn up drip-
ping with spray.
The troubled surface of the pool grew calm and
again I saw her eyes reflected.
"Listen," she said in a low voice, "do you
think you will come again to my fountain?"
"I will come," I said. My voice was dull;
the noise of water filled my ears.
Then a swift shadow sped across the pool; I
rubbed my eyes. Where her reflected face had
bent beside mine there was nothing mirrored but
the rosy evening sky with one pale star glimmer-
ing. I drew myself up and turned. She was
gone. I saw the faint star twinkling above me in
the afterglow, I saw the tall trees motionless in
the still evening air, I saw my dog slumbering at
my feet.
The sweet scent in the air had faded, leaving
in my nostrils the heavy odor of fern and forest
mould. A blind fear seized me, and I caught up
my gun and and sprang into the darkening woods.
The dog followed me, crashing through the under-
growth at my side. duller and duller grew the


28 The Maker of Moons.
light, but I strode on, the sweat pouring from my
face and hair, my mind a chaos. How I reached
the spinney I can hardly tell. As I turned up
the path I caught a glimpse of a human face peer-
ing at me from the darkening thicket,—a horrible
human face, yellow and drawn with high-boned
cheeks and narrow eyes.
Involuntarily I halted; the dog at my heels
snarled. Then I sprang straight at it, flounder-
ing blindly through the thicket, but the night
had fallen swiftly and I found myself panting and
struggling in a maze of twisted shrubbery and
twining vines, unable to see the very undergrowth
that ensnared me.
It was a pale face, and a scratched one that I
carried to a late dinner that night. Howlett
served me, dumb reproach in his eyes, for the soup
had been standing and the grouse was juiceless.
David brought the dogs in after they had had
their supper, and I drew my chair before the
blaze and set my ale on a table beside me. The
dogs curled up at my feet, blinking gravely at the
sparks that snapped and flew in eddying showers
from the heavy birch logs.
'David," said I, "did you say you saw a
Chinaman today?"
"I did sir."
"What do you think about it now?"
"I may have been mistaken sir"
"But you think not. What sort of whiskey
did you put in my flask today?"


The Maker of Moons. 29
"The usual sir."
"Is there much gone?"
"About three swallows sir, as usual."
"You don't suppose there could have been any
mistake about that whiskey,—no medicine could
have gotten into it for instance."
David smiled and said, "No sir."
"Well," said I, "I have had an extraordinary
dream."
When I said "dream," I felt comforted and
reassured. I had scarcely dared to say it before,
even to myself.
"An extraordinary dream," I repeated; "I fell
asleep in the woods about five o'clock, in that
pretty glade where the fountain—I mean the pool
is. You know the place?"
"I do not sir."
I described it minutely, twice, but David shook
his head.
"Carved stone did you say sir? I never
chanced on it. You don't mean the New
Spring"
"No, no! This glade is way beyond that. Is
it possible that any people inhabit the forest be-
tween here and the Canada line?"
"Nobody short of Ste. Croix; at least I have
no knowledge of any."
"Of course," said I, "when I thought I saw a
Chinaman, it was imagination. Of course I had
been more impressed than I was aware of by your
adventure. Of course you saw no Chinaman,
David."


30 The Maker of Moons.
"Probably not sir," replied David dubiously.
I sent him off to bed, saying I should keep the
dogs with me all night; and when he was gone,
I took a good long draught of ale, "just to shame
the devil,'' as Pierpont said, and lighted a cigar.
Then I thought of Barris and Pierpont, and their
cold bed, for I knew they would not dare build a
fire, and, in spite of the hot chimney corner and
the crackling blaze, I shivered in sympathy.
"I 'll tell Barris and Pierpont the whole story
and take them to see the carved stone and the
fountain," I thought to myself; what a marvel-
lous dream it was—Ysonde,—if it was a dream."
Then I went to the mirror and examined the
faint white mark above my eyebrow.


V.
BOUT eight o'clock next morning, as I sat
listlessly eyeing my coffee cup which How-
lett was filling, Gamin and Mioche set up
a howl, and in a moment more I heard Barris'
step on the porch.
"Hello, Roy," said Pierpont, stamping into
the dining room, '' I want my breakfast by jingo!
Where 's Howlett,—none of your cafeau lait for
me,—I want a chop and some eggs. Look at
that dog, he 'll wag the hinge off his tail in a
moment"
"Pierpont," said I, "this loquacity is astonish-
ing but welcome. Where 's Barris? You are
soaked from neck to ankle."
Pierpont sat down and tore off his stiff muddy
leggings.
"Barris is telephoning to Cardinal Springs,—I
believe he wants some of his men, — down!
Gamin, you idiot! Howlett, three eggs poached
and more toast,—what was I saying? Oh, about
Barris; he's struck something or other which he
hopes will locate these gold-making fellows. I
had a jolly time,—he 'll tell you about it."


32
The Maker of Moons.
"Billy! Billy!" I said in pleased amaze-
ment, "you are learning to talk! Dear me!
You load your own shells and you carry your
own gun and you fire it yourself—hello! here 's
Barris all over mud. You fellows really ought to
change your rig—whew! what a frightful odor!"
"It 's probably this," said Barris tossing
something onto the hearth where it shuddered
for a moment and then began to writhe; "I
found it in the woods by the lake. Do you know
what it can be, Roy?"
To my disgust I saw it was another of those
spidery wormy crablike creatures that Godfrey
had in Tiffany's.
"I thought I recognized that acrid odor," I
said; "for the love of the Saints take it away
from the breakfast table, Barris !''
"But what is it?" he persisted, unslinging
his field-glass and revolver.
"I 'll tell you what I know after breakfast," I
replied firmly, "Howlett, get a broom and sweep
that thing into the road.—what are you laughing
at, Pierpont?"
Howlett swept the repulsive creature out and
Barris and Pierpont went to change their dew-
soaked clothes for dryer raiment. David came
to take the dogs for an airing and in a few min-
utes Barris reappeared and sat down in his place
at the head of the table.
"Well," said I, "is there a story to tell?"
"Yes, not much. They are near the lake on


The Maker of Moons. 33
the other side of the woods,—I mean these gold-
makers. I shall collar one of them this evening.
I haven't located the main gang with any cer-
tainty,—shove the toast rack this way will you,
Roy,—no, I am not at all certain, but I've nailed
one anyway. Pierpont was a great help, really,
—and, what do you think, Roy? He wants to
join the Secret Service!"
"Little Willy!"
"Exactly. Oh I'll dissuade him. What sort
of a reptile was that I brought in? Did Howlett
sweep it away ?''
"He can sweep it back again for all I care,"
I said indifferently, "I 've finished my break-
fast."
"No," said Barris, hastily swallowing his
coffee, "it's of no importance; you can tell me
about the beast"
"Serve you right if I had it brought in on
toast," I returned.
Pierpont came in radiant, fresh from the bath.
"Go on with your story, Roy," he said; and I
told them about Godfrey and his reptile pet.
"Now what in the name of common sense can
Godfrey find interesting in that creature?" I
ended, tossing my cigarette into the fireplace.
"It's Japanese, don't you think?" said Pier-
pont.
"No," said Barris, "it is not artistically gro-
tesque, it's vulgar and horrible,—it looks cheap
and unfinished"
3


34
The Maker of Moons.
"Unfinished,—exactly," said I, "like an
American humorist"
"Yes," said Pierpont, "cheap. What about
that gold serpent ?''
"Oh, the Metropolitan Museum bought it; you
must see it, it 's marvellous."
Barris and Pierpont had lighted their cigarettes
and, after a moment, we all rose and strolled out
to the lawn, where chairs and hammocks were
placed under the maple trees.
David passed, gun under arm, dogs heeling.
"Three guns on the meadows at four this
afternoon," said Pierpont.
"Roy," said Barris as David bowed and started
on, "what did you do yesterday?"
This was the question that I had been expect-
ing. All night long I had dreamed of Ysonde
and the glade in the woods, where, at the bottom
of the crystal fountain, I saw the reflection of
her eyes. All the morning while bathing and
dressing I had been persuading myself that the
dream was not worth recounting and that a search
for the glade and the imaginary stone carving
would be ridiculous. But now, as Barris asked
the question, I suddenly decided to tell him the
whole story.
"See here, you fellows," I said abruptly, "I
am going to tell you something queer. You can
laugh as much as you please too, but first I want
to ask Barris a question or two. You have been
in China, Barris?"


The Maker of Moons.
35
"Yes," said Barris, looking straight into my
eyes.
"Would a Chinaman be likely to turn lumber-
man ?''
"Have you seen a Chinaman?" he asked in a
quiet voice.
"I don't know; David and I both imagined
we did."
Barris and Pierpont exchanged glances.
"Have you seen one also?" I demanded, turn-
ing to include Pierpont.
"No," said Barris slowly; "but I know that
there is, or has been, a Chinaman in these
woods."
"The devil !" said I.
"Yes," said Barris gravely; "the devil, if
you like,—a devil,—a member of the Kuen-
Yuin."
I drew my chair close to the hammock where
Pierpont lay at full length, holding out to me a
ball of pure gold.
"Well?" said I, examining the engraving on
its surface, which represented a mass of twisted
creatures,—dragons, I supposed.
"Well," repeated Barris, extending his hand
to take the golden ball, "this globe of gold en-
graved with reptiles and Chinese hieroglyphics is
the symbol of the Kuen-Yuin."
"Where did you get it?" I asked, feeling that
something startling was impending.
"Pierpont found it by the lake at sunrise this


36 TheMaker of Moons.
morning. It is the symbol of the Kuen-Yuin,"
he repeated, "the terrible Kuen-Yuin, the sorcer-
ers of China, and the most murderously diabolical
sect on earth."
We puffed our cigarettes in silence until Barris
rose, and began to pace backward and forward
among the trees, twisting his grey moustache.
"The Kuen-Yuin are sorcerers," he said,
pausing before the hammock where Pierpont lay
watching him; "I mean exactly what I say,—
sorcerers. I 've seen them,—I 've seen them at
their devilish business, and I repeat to you sol-
emnly, that as there are angels above, there is a
race of devils on earth, and they are sorcerers.
Bah!" he cried, "talk to me of Indian magic
and Yogis and all that clap-trap! Why, Roy, I
tell you that the Kuen-Yuin have absolute control
of a hundred millions of people, mind and body,
body and soul. Do you know what goes on in
the interior of China? Does Europe know,—
could any human being conceive of the condition
of that gigantic hell-pit? You read the papers,
you hear diplomatic twaddle about Li Hung
Chang and the Emperor, you see accounts of
battles on sea and land, and you know that Japan
has raised a toy tempest along the jagged edge of
the great unknown. But you never before heard
of the Kuen-Yuin; no, nor has any European ex-
cept a stray missionary or two, and yet I tell you
that when the fires from this pit of hell have
eaten through the continent to the coast, the ex-


The Maker of Moons. 3 7
plosion will inundate half a world,—and God help
the other half."
Pierpont's cigarette went out; he lighted
another, and looked hard at Barris.
"But," resumed Barris quietly, '"sufficient
unto the day,' you know,—I did n't intend to say
as much as I did,—it would do no good,—even
you and Pierpont will forget it,—it seems so im-
possible and so far away,—like the burning out
of the sun. What I want to discuss is the possi-
bility or probability of a Chinaman,—a member
of the Kuen-Yuin, being here, at this moment, in
the forest."
"If he is," said Pierpont, "possibly the gold-
makers owe their discovery to him."
"I do not doubt it for a second," said Barris
earnestly.
I took the little golden globe in my hand, and
examined the characters engraved upon it.
"Barris," said Pierpont, "I can't believe in
sorcery while I am wearing one of Sanford's
shooting suits in the pocket of which rests an un-
cut volume of the ' Duchess.'"
"Neither can I," I said, "for I read the
Evening Post, and I know Mr. Godkin would not
allow it. Hello! What's the matter with this
gold ball?"
"What is the matter?" said Barris grimly.
"Why—why—it's changing color—purple, no,
crimson—no, it's green I mean—good Heavens!
these dragons are twisting under my fingers"


38 The Maker of Moons.
"Impossible!" muttered Pierpont, leaning
over me; "those are not dragons"
"No!" I cried excitedly; "they are pictures
of that reptile that Barris brought back—see—see
how they crawl and turn"
"Drop it!" commanded Barris; and I threw
the ball on the turf. In an instant we had all
knelt down on the grass beside it, but the globe
was again golden, grotesquely wrought with dra-
gons and strange signs.
Pierpont, a little red in the face, picked it up,
and handed it to Barris. He placed it on a chair,
and sat down beside me.
"Whew!" said I, wiping the perspiration
from my face, "how did you play us that trick,
Barris?"
"Trick?" said Barris contemptuously.
I looked at Pierpont, and my heart sank. If
this was not a trick, what was it? Pierpont re-
turned my glance and colored, but all he said
was, "It's devilish queer," and Barris an-
swered, "Yes, devilish." Then Barris asked me
again to tell my story, and I did, beginning from
the time I met David in the spinney to the mo-
ment when I sprang into the darkening thicket
where that yellow mask had grinned like a phan-
tom skull.
"Shall we try to find the fountain?" I asked
after a pause.
"Yes,—and—er—the lady," suggested Pier-
pont vaguely.


The Maker of Moons. 39
"Don't bean ass," I said a little impatiently,
"you need not come, you know."
"Oh, I 'll come," said Pierpont, "unless you
think I am indiscreet ''
"Shut up, Pierpont," said Barris, "this thing
is serious; I never heard of such a glade or such
a fountain, but it's true that nobody knows this
forest thoroughly. It's worth while trying for;
Roy, can you find your way back to it?"
"Easily, " I answered; "when shall we go?"
"It will knock our snipe shooting on the
head," said Pierpont, "but then when one has
the opportunity of finding a live dream-lady ''
I rose, deeply offended, but Pierpont was not
very penitent and his laughter was irresistible.
"The lady's yours by right of discovery,"
he said, "I'll promise not to infringe on your
dreams,—I 'll dream about other ladies"
"Come, come," said I, "I 'll have Howlettput
you to bed in a minute. Barris, if you are ready,
—we can get back to dinner ''
Barris had risen and was gazing at me ear-
nestly.
"What's the matter? " I asked nervously, for
I saw that his eyes were fixed on my forehead,
and I thought of Ysonde and the white crescent
scar.
"Is that a birthmark ?" said Barris.
"Yes—why, Barris?"
"Nothing,—an interesting coincidence"
"What !—for Heaven's sake!"


40 The Maker of Moons.
"The scar,—or rather the birthmark. It is the
print of the dragon's claw,—the crescent symbol
of Yue-Laou ''
"And who the devil is Yue-Laou?" I said
crossly.
'' Yue-Laou,—the Moon Maker, Dzil-Nbu of
the Kuen-Yuin ;—it's Chinese Mythology, but it
is believed that Yue-Laou has returned to rule
the Kuen-Yuin"
"The conversation," interrupted Pierpont,
"smacks of peacocks feathers and yellow-jackets.
The chicken-pox has left its card on Roy, and
Barris is guying us. Come on, you fellows, and
make your call on the dream-lady. Barris, I hear
galloping; here come your men."
Two mud splashed riders clattered up to the
porch and dismounted at a motion from Barris.
I noticed that both of them carried repeating
rifles and heavy Colt's revolvers.
They followed Barris, deferentially, into the
dining-room, and presently we heard the tinkle
of plates and bottles and the low hum of Barris'
musical voice.
Half an hour later they came out again, saluted
Pierpont and me, and galloped away in the direc-
tion of the Canadian frontier. Ten minutes
passed, and, as Barris did not appear, we rose
and went into the house, to find him. He was
sitting silently before the table, watching the
small golden globe, now glowing with scarlet and
orange fire, brilliant as a live coal. Howlett,


The Maker of Moons. 41
mouth ajar, and eyes starting from the sockets,
stood petrified behind him.
"Are you coming," asked Pierpont, a little
startled. Barris did not answer. The globe
slowly turned to pale gold again,—but the face
that Barris raised to ours was white as a sheet. Then he stood up, and smiled with an effort which
was painful to us all.
"Give me a pencil and a bit of paper," he said.
Howlett brought it. Barris went to the window
and wrote rapidly. He folded the paper, placed
it in the top drawer of his desk, locked the
drawer, handed me the key, and motioned us to
precede him.
When again we stood under the maples, he
turned to me with an impenetrable expression.
"You will know when to use the key," he said:
"Come, Pierpont, we must try to find Roy's
fountain."


VI.
AT two o'clock that afternoon, at Barns'
suggestion, we gave up the search for
the fountain in the glade and cut across
the forest to the spinney where David and How-
lett were waiting with our guns and the three
dogs.
Pierpont guyed me unmercifully about the
'' dream-lady" as he called her, and, but for
the significant coincidence of Ysonde's and Bar-
ris* questions concerning the white scar on my
forehead, I should long ago have been perfectly
persuaded that I had dreamed the whole thing.
As it was, I had no explanation to offer. We had
not been able to find the glade although fifty
times I came to landmarks which convinced me
that we were just about to enter it. Barris was
quiet, scarcely uttering a word to either of us dur-
ing the entire search. I had never before seen
him depressed in spirits. However, when we
came in sight of the spinney where a cold bit of
grouse and a bottle of Burgundy awaited each,
Barris seemed to recover his habitual good humor.
"Here 's to the dream-lady!" said Pierpont,
raising his glass and standing up.
42


The Maker of Moons. 43
I did not like it. Even if she was only a dream,
it irritated me to hear Pierpont's mocking voice.
Perhaps Barris understood,—I don't know, but
he bade Pierpont drink his wine without further
noise, and that young man obeyed with a child-
like confidence which almost made Barris smile.
"What about the snipe, David," I asked;
'' the meadows should be in good condition.''
"There is not a snipe on the meadows, sir,"
said David solemnly.
"Impossible," exclaimed Barris, "they can't
have left."
"They have, sir," said David in a sepulchral
voice which I hardly recognized.
We all three looked at the old man curiously,
waiting for his explanation of this disappointing
but sensational report.
David looked at Howlett and Howlett examined
the sky.
"I was going," began the old man, with his
eyes fastened on Howlett, '' I was going along by
the spinney with the dogs when I heard a noise in
the covert and I seen Howlett come walkin' very
fast toward me. In fact," continued David, "I
may say he was runnin'. Was you runnin',
Howlett?"
Howlett said " Yes," with a decorous cough.
"I beg pardon," said David, "but I 'd rather
Howlett told the rest. He saw things which I
did not."
"Go on, Howlett," commanded Pierpont, much
interested.


44 The Maker of Moons.
Howlett coughed again behind his large red
hand.
"What David says is true sir," he began; "I
h'observed the dogs at a distance 'ow they was a
workin' sir, and David stood a lightin' of 's pipe
be'ind the spotted beech when I see a 'ead pop
up in the covert 'oldin a stick like 'e was h'aimin'
at the dogs sir "—
"A head holding a stick?" said Pierpont
severely.
"The 'ead 'ad 'ands, sir," explained Howlett,
"'ands that 'eld a painted stick,—like that, sir.
'Owlett, thinks I to meself, this 'ere 's queer, so
I jumps in an' runs, but the beggar 'e seen me
an' w'en I comes alongside of David, 'e was gone.
''Ello 'Owlett,' sez David, 'what the 'ell '—I beg
pardon, sir,—'' 'ow did you come 'ere,' sez 'e very
loud. 'Run!' sez I, 'the Chinaman is harryin'
the dawgs!' 'For Gawd's sake wot Chinaman?'
sez David, h'aimin' 'is gun at every bush. Then
I thinks I see 'itn an' we run an' run, the dawgs a
boundin' close to heel sir, but we don't see no
Chinaman."
"I 'll tell the rest," said David, as Howlett
coughed and stepped in a modest corner behind
the dogs.
"Go on," said Barris in a strange voice.
'' Well sir, when Howlett and I stopped chasin',
we was on the cliff overlooking the south meadow.
I noticed that there was hundreds of birds there,
mostly yellow-legs and plover, and Howlett seen


The Maker of Moons. 45
them too. Then before I could say a word to
Howlett, something out in the lake gave a splash
—a splash as if the whole cliff had fallen into the
water. I was that scared that I jumped straight
into the bush and Howlett he sat down quick,
and all those snipe wheeled up—there was hun-
dreds,—all a squeelin' with fright, and the wood-
duck came bowlin' over the meadows as if the old
Nick was behind."
David paused and glanced meditatively at the
dogs.
'' Go on,' 'said Barris in the same strained voice.
'' Nothing more sir. The snipe did not come
back."
"But that splash in the lake?"
"I don't know what it was sir."
"A salmon? A salmon could n't have fright-
ened the duck and the snipe that way?"
"No—oh no, sir. If fifty salmon had jumped
they could n't have made that splash. Could n't
they, Howlett?"
"No 'ow," said Howlett.
"Roy," said Barris at length, "what David
tells us settles the snipe shooting for to-day. I
am going to take Pierpont up to the house.
Howlett and David will follow with the dogs,—I
have something to say to them. If you care to
come, come along; if not, go and shoot a brace
of grouse for dinner and be back by eight if 3-ou
want to see what Pierpont and I discovered last
night."


46 The Maker of Moons.
David whistled Gamin and Mioche to heel and
followed Howlett and his hamper toward the
house. I called Voyou to my side, picked up my
gun and turned to Barris.
"I will be back by eight," I said; "you are
expecting to catch one of the gold-makers are
you not ?''
"Yes," said Barris listlessly.
Pierpont began to speak about the Chinaman
but Barris motioned him to follow, and, nodding
to me, took the path that Howlett and David had
followed toward the house. When they disap-
peared I tucked my gun under my arm and turned
sharply into the forest, Voyou trotting close to
my heels.
In spite of myself the continued apparition of
the Chinaman made me nervous. If he troubled
me again I had fully decided to get the drop on
him and find out what he was doing in the
Cardinal Woods. If he could give no satisfactory
account of himself I would march him in to Barris
as a gold-making suspect,—I would march him
in anyway, I thought, and rid the forest of his
ugly face. I wondered what it was that David
had heard in the lake. It must have been a big
fish, a salmon, I thought; probably David's and
Howlett's nerves were overwrought after their
Celestial chase.
A whine from the dog broke the thread of my
meditation and I raised my head. Then I stopped
short in my tracks.


The Maker of Moons. 47
The lost glade lay straight before me.
Already the dog had bounded into it, across
the velvet turf to the carved stone where a slim
figure sat. I saw my dog lay his silky head
lovingly against her silken kirtle; I saw her
face bend above him, and I caught my breath
and slowly entered the sun-lit glade.
Half timidly she held out one white hand.
"Now that you have come," she said, "I can
show you more of my work. I told you that I
could do other things besides these dragon-flies
and moths carved here in stone. Why do you
stare at me so? Are you ill?"
"Ysonde," I stammered.
"Yes," she said, with a faint color under her
eyes.
"I—I never expected to see you again," I
blurted out, "— you — I — I — thought I had
dreamed ''
"Dreamed, of me? Perhaps you did, is that
strange?"
"Strange? N—no—but—where did you go
when—when we were leaning over the fountain
together? I saw your face,—your face reflected
beside mine and then—then suddenly I saw the
blue sky and only a star twinkling."
"It was because you fell asleep," she said,
"was it not?"
"I—asleep?"
"You slept—I thought you were very tired and
I went back"


48 The Maker of Moons.
"Back?—where?"
"Back to my home where I carve my beauti-
ful images; see, here is one I brought to show you
to-day."
I took the sculptured creature that she held to-
ward me, a massive golden lizard with frail claw-
spread wings of gold so thin that the sunlight
burned through and fell on the ground in flam-
ing gilded patches.
'' Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, '' this is as-
tounding! Where did you learn to do such work?
Ysonde, such a thing is beyond price!"
"Oh, I hope so," she said earnestly, " I can't
bear to sell my work, but my step-father takes it
and sends it away. This is the second thing I
have done and yesterday he said I must give it to
him. I suppose he is poor."
"I don't see how he can be poor if he gives
you gold to model in," I said, astonished.
"Gold!" she exclaimed, "gold! He has a
room full of gold! He makes it."
I sat down on the turf at her feet completely
unnerved.
"Why do you look at me so?" she asked, a
little troubled.
"Where does your step-father live?" I said at
last.
"Here."
"Here!"
"In the woods near the lake. You could
never find our house."


TheMaker of Moons.
49
"A house!"
'' Of course. Did you think I lived in a tree?
How silly. I live with my step-father in a
beautiful house,—a small house, but very beauti-
ful. He makes his gold there but the men who
carry it away never come to the house, for they
don't know where it is and if they did they could
not get in. My step-father carries the gold in
lumps to a canvas satchel. When the satchel is
full he takes it out into the woods where the men
live and I don't know what they do with it. I
wish he could sell the gold and become rich for
then I could go back to Yian where all the gardens
are sweet and the river flows under the thousand
bridges."
"Where is this city?" I asked faintly.
"Yian? I don't know. It is sweet with per-
fume and the sound of silver bells all day long.
Yesterday I carried a blossom of dried lotus buds
from Yian, in my breast, and all the woods were
fragrant. Did you smell it?"
"Yes."
"I wondered, last night, whether you did.
How beautiful your dog is; I love him. Yester-
day I thought most about your dog but last
night"
"Last night," I repeated below my breath.
"I thought of you. Why do you wear the
dragon-claw?"
I raised my hand impulsively to my forehead,
covering the scar.
4


50 The Maker of Moons.
"What do you know of the dragon-daw?" I
muttered.
"It is the symbol of Yue-Laou, and Yue-Laou
rules the Kuen-Yuin, my step-father says. My
step-father tells me everything that I know. We
lived in Yiau until I was sixteen years old. I am
eighteen now; that is two years we have lived
in the forest. Look !—see those scarlet birds!
What are they? There are birds of the same
color in Yian."
"Where is Yian, Ysonde?" I asked with
deadly calmness.
"Yian? I don't know."
"But you have lived there?"
"Yes, a very long time."
"Is it across the ocean, Ysonde?"
"It is across seven oceans and the great river
which is longer than from the earth to the moon."
"Who told you that?"
'' Who? My step-father; he tells me every-
thing."
"Will you tell me his name, Ysonde?"
"I don't know it, he is my step-father, that is
all."
"And what is your name?"
"You know it, Ysonde."
"Yes, but what other name."
"That is all, Ysonde. Have you two names?
Why do you look at me so impatiently?"
"Does your step-father make gold? Have you
seen him make it?"


The Maker of Moons. 51
'' Oh yes. He made it also in Yian and I loved
to watch the sparks at night whirling like golden
bees. Yian is lovely,—if it is all like our garden
and the gardens around. I can see the thousand
bridges from my garden and the white mountain
beyond—"
"And the people — tell me of the people,
Ysonde !" I urged gently.
"The people of Yian? I could see them in
swarms like ants—oh! many, many millions
crossing and recrossing the thousand bridges."
"But how did they look? Did they dress as
I do?"
"I don't know. They were very far away,
moving specks on the thousand bridges. For'
sixteen years I saw them every day from my gar-
den but I never went out of my garden into the
streets of Yian, for my step-father forbade me."
"You never saw a living creature near by in
Yian?" I asked in despair.
"My birds, oh such tall, wise-looking birds, all
over grey and rose color."
She leaned over the gleaming water and drew
her polished hand across the surface.
"Why do you ask me these questions," she
murmured; "are you displeased?"
"Tell me about your step-father," I insisted.
"Does he look as I do? Does he dress, does he
speak as I do? Is he American?"
"American? I don't know. He does not
dress as you do and he does not look as you do.


5 2 The Maker of Moons.
He is old, very, very old. He speaks sometimes
as you do, sometimes as they do in Yian. I speak
also in both manners."
"Then speak as they do in Yian," I urged im-
patiently, "speak as—why, Ysonde I why are
you crying? Have I hurt you ?—I did not in-
tend,—I did not dream of your caring! There
Ysonde, forgive me,—see, I beg you on my knees
here at your feet."
I stopped, my eyes fastened on a small golden
ball which hung from her waist by a golden chain.
I saw it trembling against her thigh, I saw it
change color, now crimson, now purple, now
flaming scarlet. It was the symbol of the Kuen-
Yuin.
She bent over me and laid her fingers gently
on my arm.
"Why do you ask me such things ?'' she said,
while the tears glistened on her lashes. "It
hurts me here,—" she pressed her hand to her
breast,—"it pains.—I don't know why. Ah,
now your eyes are hard and cold again; You are
looking at the golden globe which hangs from
my waist. Do you wish to know also what that
is?"
"Yes," I muttered, my eyes fixed on the in-
fernal color flames which subsided as I spoke,
leaving the ball a pale gilt again.
"It is the symbol of the Kuen-Yuin," she said
in a trembing voice; '' why do you ask ?''
"Is it yours?"


The Maker of Moons.
53
"Y—yes."
"Where did you get it?" I cried harshly.
"My—my step-fa"
Then she pushed me away from her with all
the strength of her slender wrists and covered her
face.
If I slipped my arm about her and drew her to
me,—if I kissed away the tears that fell slowly be-
tween her fingers,—if I told her how I loved her
—how it cut me to the heart to see her unhappy,
—after all that is my own business. When she
smiled through her tears, the pure love and
sweetness in her eyes lifted my soul higher than
the high moon vaguely glimmering through the
sun-lit blue above. My happiness was so sudden,
so fierce and overwhelming that I only knelt
there, her fingers clasped in mine, my eyes raised
to the blue vault and the glimmering moon.
Then something in the long grass beside me
moved close to my knees and a damp acrid odor
filled my nostrils.
"Ysonde!" I cried, but the touch of her hand
was already gone and my two clenched fists were
cold and damp with dew.
"Ysonde!" I called again, my tongue stiff
with fright;—but I called as one awaking from a
dream—a horrid dream, for my nostrils quivered
with the damp acrid odor and I felt the crab-rep-
tile clinging to my knee. Why had the night
fallen so swiftly,—and where was I—where?—stiff,
chilled, torn, and bleeding, lying flung like a


54 TheMaker of Moons.
corpse over my own threshold with Voyou licking
my face and Barris stooping above me in the light
of a lamp that flared and smoked in the night
breeze like a torch. Faugh ! the choking stench
of the lamp aroused me and I cried out:
"Ysonde!"
"What the devil 's the matter with him?"
muttered Pierpont, lifting me in his arms like a
child, " has he been stabbed, Barris?"


VII.
IN a few minutes I was able to stand and walk
stiffly into my bedroom where Howlett had
a hot bath ready and a hotter tumbler of
Scotch. Pierpont sponged the blood from my
throat where it had coagulated. The cut was
slight, almost invisible, a mere puncture from a
thorn. A shampoo cleared my mind, and a cold
plunge and alcohol friction did the rest.
"Now," said Pierpont, "swallow your hot
Scotch and lie down. Do you want a broiled
woodcock? Good, I fancy you are coming
about."
Barris and Pierpont watched me as I sat on the
edge of the bed, solemnly chewing on the wood-
cock's wishbone and sipping my Bordeaux, very
much at my ease.
Pierpont sighed his relief.
"So," he said pleasantly, "it was a mere case
of ten dollars or ten days. I thought you had
been stabbed"
"I was not intoxicated," I replied, serenely
picking up a bit of celery.
"Only jagged?" enquired Pierpont, full of
sympathy.
55


56 The Maker of Moons.
"Nonsense," said Barris, "let him alone.
Want some more celery, Roy ?—it will make you
sleep."
"I don't want to sleep," I answered; "when
are you and Pierpont going to catch your Gold-
maker?"
Barris looked at his watch and closed it with a
snap.
"In an hour; you don't propose to go with
us?"
"But I do,—toss me a cup of coffee, Pierpont,
will you,—that 's just what I propose to do.
Howlett, bring the new box of Panatella's,—the
mild imported ;—and leave the decanter. Now
Barris, I 'll be dressing, and you and Pierpont
keep still and listen to what I have to say. Is
that door shut tight?"
Barris locked it and sat down.
"Thanks," said I, "Barris, where is the city
ofYian?"
An expression akin to terror flashed into Bar-
ris' eyes and I saw him stop breathing for a
moment.
"There is no such city," he said at length,
"have I been talking in my sleep?"
"It is a city," I continued, calmly, "where
the river winds under the thousand bridges,
where the gardens are sweet scented and the air
is filled with the music of silver bells"
"Stop!" gasped Barris, and rose trembling
from his chair. He had grown ten years elder.


The Maker of Moons. 5 7
"Roy," interposed Pierpontcoolly, "what the
deuce are you harrying Barris for?"
I looked at Barris and he looked at me. After
a second or two he sat down again.
"Go on, Roy," he said.
"I must," I answered, "for now I am certain
that I have not dreamed."
I told them everything; but, even as I told it,
the whole thing seemed so vague, so unreal, that
at times I stopped with the hot blood tingling in
my ears, for it seemed impossible that sensible
men, in the year of our Lord 1896 could seriously
discuss such matters.
I feared Pierpont, but he did not even smile.
As for Barris, he sat with his handsome head
sunk on his breast, his unlighted pipe clasped
tight in both hands.
When I had finished, Pierpont turned slowly
and looked at Barris. Twice he moved his lips
as if about to ask something and then remained
mute.
"Yian is a city," said Barris, speaking dream-
ily; "was that what you wished to know, Pier-
pont?"
We nodded silently.
"Yian is a city," repeated Barris, "where the
great river winds under the thousand bridges,
—where the gardens are sweet scented, and the
air is filled with the music of silver bells."
My lips formed the question, "Where is this
city?"


5 8 The Maker of Moons,
"It lies," said Barris, almost querulously,
"across the seven oceans and the river which is
longer than from the earth to the moon."
"What do you mean?" said Pierpont.
"Ah," said Barris, rousing himself with an
effort and raising his sunken eyes, "I am using
the allegories of another land; let it pass. Have
I not told you of the Kueu-Yuin? Yian is the
centre of the Kuen-Yuin. It lies hidden in that
gigantic shadow called China, vague and vast as
the midnight Heavens,—a continent unknown,
impenetrable."
"Impenetrable," repeated Pierpont below his
breath.
"I have seen it," said Barris dreamily. "I
have seen the dead plains of Black Cathay and I
have crossed the mountains of Death, whose
summits are above the atmosphere. I have seen
the shadow of Xangi cast across Abaddon. Bet-
ter to die a million miles from Yezd and Ater
Quedah than to have seen the white water-lotus
close in the shadow of Xangi! I have slept
among the ruins of Xaindu where the winds
never cease and the Wulwulleh is wailed by the
dead."
"And Yian," I urged gently.
There was an unearthly look on his face as he
turned slowly toward me.
"Yian,—I have lived there—and loved there.
When the breath of my body shall cease, when
the dragon's claw shall fade from my arm,"—he


The Maker of Moons. 59
tore up his sleeve, and we saw a white crescent
shining above his elbow,—"when the light of
my eyes has faded forever, then, even then I shall
not forget the city of Yian. Why, it is my home,
—mine! The river and the thousand bridges,
the white peak beyond, the sweet-scented gar-
dens, the lilies, the pleasant noise of the summer
wind laden with bee music and the music of bells,
—all these are mine. Do you think because the
Kuen-Yuin feared the dragon's claw on my arm
that my work with them is ended? Do you
think that because Yue-Laou could give, that I
acknowledge his right to take away? Is he
Xangi in whose shadow the white water-lotus
dares not raise its head? No! No!" he cried
violently, "it was not from Yue-Laou, the sor-
cerer, the Maker of Moons, that my happiness
came! It was real, it was not a shadow to vanish
like a tinted bubble! Can a sorcerer create and
give a man the woman he loves? Is Yue-Laou
as great as Xangi then? Xangi is God. In His
own time, in His infinite goodness and mercy He
will bring me again to the woman I love. And I
know she waits for me at God's feet."
In the strained silence that followed I could
hear my heart's double beat and I saw Pierpont's
face, blanched and pitiful. Barris shook himself
and raised his head. The change in his ruddy
face frightened me.
"Heed !" he said, with a terrible glance at me;
"the print of the dragon's claw is on your fore-


60 The Maker of Moons.
head and Yue-Laou knows it. If you must
love, then love like a man, for you will suffer
like a soul in hell, in the end. What is her name
again ?''
"Ysonde," I answered simply.


VIII.
AT nine o'clock that night we caught one of
the Goldmakers. I do not know how
Barris had laid his trap; all I saw of the
affair can be told in a minute or two.
We were posted on the Cardinal road about a
mile below the house, Pierpont and I with drawn
revolvers on one side, under a butternut tree,
Barris on the other, a Winchester across his
knees.
I had just asked Pierpont the hour, and he was
feeling for his watch when far up the road we
heard the sound of a galloping horse, nearer,
nearer, clattering, thundering past. Then Barris'
rifle spat flame and the dark mass, horse and
rider, crashed into the dust. Pierpont had the
half stunned horseman by the collar in a second,
—the horse was stone dead,—and, as we lighted
a pine knot to examine the fellow, Barris' two
riders galloped up and drew bridle beside us.
"Hm!" said Barris with a scowl, "it's the
'Shiner,' or I'm a moonshiner."
We crowded curiously around to see the
"Shiner." He was red-headed, fat and filthy,
61


62 The Maker of Moons.
and his little red eyes burned in his head like
the eyes of an angry pig.
Barris went through his pockets methodically
while Pierpont held him and I held the torch.
The Shiner was a gold mine; pockets, shirt, boot-
legs, hat, even his dirty fists, clutched tight and
bleeding, were bursting with lumps of soft yellow
gold. Barris dropped this " moonshine gold," as
we had come to call it, into the pockets of his
shooting-coat, and withdrew to question the
prisoner. He came back again in a few minutes
and motioned his mounted men to take the
Shiner in charge. We watched them, rifle on
thigh, walking their horses slowly away into the
darkness, the Shiner, tightly bound, shuffling
sullenly between them.
"Who is the Shiner?" asked Pierpont, slip-
ping the revolver into his pocket again.
"A moonshiner, counterfeiter, forger, and
highwayman," said Barris, "and probably a
murderer. Drummond will be glad to see him,
and I think it likely he will be persuaded to con-
fess to him what he refuses to confess to me."
"Would n't he talk?" I asked.
"Not a syllable. Pierpont, there is nothing
more for you to do."
"For me to do? Are you not coming back
with us, Barris?"
"No," said Barris.
We walked along the dark road in silence for a
while, I wondering what Barris intended to do,


The Maker of Moons. 63
but he said nothing more until we reached our
own verandah. Here he held out his hand, first
to Pierpont, then to me, saying good-bye as
though he were going on a long journey.
"How soon will you be back?" I called out to
him as he turned away toward the gate. He
came across the lawn again and again took our
hands with a quiet affection that I had never
imagined him capable of.
"I am going," he said, "to put an end to his
gold-making to-night. I know that you fellows
have never suspected what I was about on my
little solitary evening strolls after dinner. I will
tell you. Already I have unobtrusively killed
four of these gold-makers,—my men put them
under ground just below the new wash-out at the
four mile stone. There are three left alive,—the
Shiner whom we have, another criminal named
'Yellow,' or ' Yaller' in the vernacular, and the
third"
"The third," repeated Pierpont, excitedly.
"The third I have never yet seen. But I
know who and what he is,—I know; and if he
is of human flesh and blood, his blood will flow
to-night."
As he spoke a slight noise across the turf at-
tracted my attention. A mounted man was
advancing silently in the starlight over the
spongy meadowland. When he came nearer
Barris struck a match, and we saw that he bore
a corpse across his saddle bow.


64 The Maker of Moons.
"Yaller, Colonel Barris," said the man, touch-
ing his slouched hat in salute.
This grim introduction to the corpse made me
shudder, and, after a moment's examination of
the stiff, wide-eyed dead man, I drew back.
"Identified," said Barris, " take him to the four
mile post and carry his effects to Washington,—
under seal, mind, Johnstone."
Away cantered the rider with his ghastly bur-
den, and Barris took our hands once more for the
last time. Then he went away, gaily, with a
jest on his lips, and Pierpont and I turned back
into the house.
For an hour we sat moodily smoking in the
hall before the fire, saying little until Pierpont
burst out with: "I wish Barris had taken one
of us with him to-night!"
The same thought had been running in my mind,
but I said: "Barris knows what he 's about."
This observation neither comforted us nor
opened the lane to further conversation, and after
a few minutes Pierpont said good night and
called for Howlett and hot water. When he had
been warmly tucked away by Howlett, I turned
out all but one lamp, sent the dogs away with
David and dismissed Howlett for the night.
I was not inclined to retire for I knew I could
not sleep. There was a book lying open on the
table beside the fire and I opened it and read a
page or two, but my mind was fixed on other
things.


The Maker of Moons, 65
The window shades were raised and I looked
out at the star-set firmament. There was no
moon that night but the sky was dusted all over
with sparkling stars and a pale radiance, brighter
even than moonlight, fell over meadow and wood.
Far away in the forest I heard the voice of the
wind, a soft warm wind that whispered a name,
Ysonde.
"Listen," sighed the voice of the wind, and
'' listen '' echoed the swaying trees with every
little leaf a-quiver. I listened.
Where the long grasses trembled with the
cricket's cadence I heard her name, Ysonde; I
heard it in the rustling woodbine where grey
moths hovered; I heard it in the drip, drip, drip
of the dew from the porch. The silent meadow
brook whispered her name, the rippling woodland
streams repeated it, Ysonde, Ysonde, until all
earth and sky were filled with the soft thrill,
Ysonde, Ysonde, Ysonde.
A night-thrush sang in a thicket by the porch
and I stole to the verandah to listen. After a
while it began again, a little further on. I ven-
tured out into the road. Again I heard it far
away in the forest and I followed it, for I knew it
was singing of Ysonde.
When I came to the path that leaves the main
road and enters the Sweet-Fern Covert below the
spinney, I hesitated; but the beauty of the night
lured me on and the night-thrushes called me
from every thicket. In the starry radiance,
5


66 The Maker of Moons.
shrubs, grasses, field flowers, stood out distinctly,
for there was no moon to cast shadows. Meadow
and brook, grove and stream, were illuminated
by the pale glow. Like great lamps lighted the
planets hung from the high domed sky and
through their mysterious rays the fixed stars,
calm, serene, stared from the heavens like eyes.
I waded on waist deep through fields of dewy
golden-rod, through late clover and wild-oat
wastes, through crimson fruited sweetbrier, blue-
berry, and wild plum, until the low whisper of
the Wier Brook warned me that the path had
ended.
But I would not stop, for the night air was
heavy with the perfume of water-lilies and far
away, across the low wooded cliffs and the wet
meadowland beyond, there was a distant gleam
of silver, and I heard the murmur of sleepy
waterfowl. I would go to the lake. The way
was clear except for the dense young growth and
the snares of the moose-bush.
The night-thrushes had ceased but I did not
want for the company of living creatures.
Slender, quick darting forms crossed my path
at intervals, sleek mink, that fled like shadows
at my step, wiry weasels and fat musk-rats,
hurrying onward to some tryst or killing.
I never had seen so many little woodland
creatures on the move at night. I began to
wonder where they all were going so fast, why
they all hurried on in the same direction. Now


The Maker of Moons. 67
I passed a hare hopping through the brushwood,
now a rabbit scurrying by, flag hoisted. As I
entered the beech second-growth two foxes glided
by rule ; a little further on a doe crashed out of
the underbrush, and close behind her stole a
lynx, eyes shining like coals.
He neither paid attention to the doe nor to me,
but loped away toward the north.
The lynx was in flight.
'' From what?" I asked myself, wondering.
There was no forest fire, no cyclone, no flood.
If Barris had passed that way could he have
stirred up this sudden exodus? Impossible;
even a regiment in the forest could scarcely have
put to rout these frightened creatures.
"What on earth," thought I, turning to watch
the headlong flight of a fisher-cat, "what on
earth has started the beasts out at this time of
night."
I looked up into the sky. The placid glow of
the fixed stars comforted me and I stepped on
through the narrow spruce belt that leads down
to the borders of the Lake of the Stars.
Wild cranberry and moose-bush entwined my
feet, dewy branches spattered me with moisture,
and the thick spruce needles scraped my face as
I threaded my way over mossy logs and deep
spongy tussocks down to the level gravel of the
lake shore.
Although there was no wind the little waves
were hurrying in from the lake and I heard them


68 The Maker of Moons.
splashing among the pebbles. In the pale star
glow thousands of water-lilies lifted their half-
closed chalices toward the sky.
I threw myself full length upon the shore, and,
chin on hand, looked out across the lake.
Splash, splash, came the waves along the shore,
higher, nearer, until a film of water, thin and
glittering as a knife blade, crept up to my elbows.
I could not understand it; the lake was rising,
but there had been no rain. All along the shore
the water was running up; I heard the waves
among the sedge grass; the weeds at my side
were awash in the ripples. The lilies rocked on
the tiny waves, every wet pad rising on the
swells, sinking, rising again until the whole lake
was glimmering with undulating blossoms. How
sweet and deep was the fragrance from the lilies.
And now the water was ebbing, slowly, and the
waves receded, shrinking from the shore rim
until the white pebbles appeared again, shining
like froth on a brimming glass.
No animal swimming out in the darkness along
the shore, no heavy salmon surging, could have
set the whole shore aflood as though the wash
from a great boat were rolling in. Could it have
been the overflow, through the Weir Brook, of
some cloud-burst far back in the forest? This
was the only way I could account for it, and yet
when I had crossed the Wier Brook I had not
noticed that it was swollen. And as I lay there thinking, a faint breeze


The Maker of Moons. 69
sprang up and I saw the surface of the lake
whiten with lifted lily pads.
All around me the alders were sighing; I heard
the forest behind me stir; the crossed branches
rubbing softly, bark against bark. Something—
it may have been an owl—sailed out of the night,
dipped, soared, and was again engulfed, and far
across the water I heard its faint cry, Ysonde.
Then first, for my heart was full, I cast myself
down upon my face, calling on her name. My
eyes were wet when I raised my head,—for the
spray from the shore was drifting in again,—and
my heart beat heavily; '' No more, no more.'' But
my heart lied, for even as I raised my face to the
calm stars, I saw her standing still, close beside
me; and very gently I spoke her name, Ysonde.
She held out both hands.
"I was lonely," she said, "and I went to the
glade, but the forest is full of frightened creatures
and they frightened me. Has anything happened
in the woods? The deer are running toward the
heights."
Her hand still lay in mine as we moved along
the shore, and the lapping of the water on rock
and shallow was no lower than our voices.
'' Why did you leave me without a word, there
at the fountain in the glade ?'' she said.
"I leave you!"
"Indeed you did, running swiftly with your
dog, plunging through thickets and brush, —oh
—you frightened me."


7o
The Maker of Moons.
"Did I leave you so?"
"Yes—after"
"After?"
"You had kissed me"
Then we leaned down together and looked into
the black water set with stars, just as we had
bent together over the fountain in the glade.
"Do you remember?" I asked.
"Yes. See, the water is inlaid with silver
stars,—everywhere white lilies floating and the
stars below, deep, deep down."
"What is the flower you hold in your hand?"
"Whitewater-lotus."
"Tell me about Yue-Laou, Dzil Nbu of the
Kuen-Yuin," I whispered, lifting her head so I
could see her eyes.
"Would it please you to hear ?''
"Yes, Ysonde."
"All that I know is yours, now, as I am yours,
all that I am. Bend closer. Is it of Yue-Laou
you would know? Yue-Laou is Dzil-Nbu of the
Kuen-Yuin. He lived in the Moon. He is old
—very, very old, and once, before he came to rule
the Kuen-Yuin, he was the old man who unites
with a silken cord all predestined couples, after
which nothing can prevent their union. But all
that is changed since he came to rule the Kuen-
Yuin. Now he has perverted the Xin,—the good
genii of China,—and has fashioned from their
warped bodies a monster which he calls the Xin.
This monster is horrible, for it not only lives in its


The Maker of Moons. 71
own body, but it has thousands of loathsome
satellites,—living creatures without mouths,blind,
that move when the Xin moves, like a mandarin
and his escort. They are part of the Xin although
they are not attached. Yet if one of these satel-
lites is injured the Xin writhes with agony. It
is fearful—this huge living bulk and these
creatures spread out like severed fingers that
wriggle around a hideous hand."
"Who told you this?"
"My step-father."
"Do you believe it?"
"Yes. I have seen one of the Xin's creatures."
"Where, Ysonde?"
'' Here in these woods.''
"Then you believe there is a Xin here?"
"There must be,—perhaps in the lake"
"Oh, Xins inhabit lakes?"
"Yes, and the seven seas. I am not afraid
here."
"Why?"
"Because I wear the symbol ot the Kuen-
Yuin."
"Then I am not safe," I smiled.
"Yes you are, for I hold you in my arms.
Shall I tell you more about the Xin? When the
Xin is about to do to death a man, the Wyeth- hounds gallop through the night ''
"What are the Yeth-hounds, Ysonde?"
"The Yeth-hounds are dogs without heads.
They are the spirits of murdered children, which


72
The Maker of Moons.
pass through the woods at night, making a wail-
ing noise."
"Do you believe this?"
"Yes, for I have worn the yellow lotus"
"The yellow lotus"
'' Yellow is the symbol of faith ''
"Where?"
"In Yian," she said faintly.
After a while I said, " Ysonde, you know there
is a God?"
"God and Xangi are one."
"Have you ever heard of Christ?"
"No," she answered softly.
The wind began again among the tree tops. I
felt her hands closing in mine.
"Ysonde," I asked again, "do you believe in
sorcerers?"
"Yes, the Kuen-Yuin are sorcerers ; Yue-Laou
is a sorcerer."
"Have you seen sorcery?"
"Yes, the reptile satellite of the Xin"
"Anything else?"
"My charm,—the golden ball, the symbol of
the Kuen-Yuin. Have you seen it change,—
have you seen the reptiles writhe?"
"Yes," said I shortly, and then remained
silent, for a sudden shiver of apprehension had
seized me. Barris also had spoken gravely,
ominously of the sorcerers, the Kuen-Yuin, and I
had seen with my own eyes the graven reptiles
turning and twisting on the glowing globe.


The Maker of Moons. 73
"Still," said" I aloud, "God lives and sorcery
is but a name."
"Ah," murmured Ysonde, drawing closer to
me, "they say, in Yian, the Kuen-Yuin live;
God is but a name."
"They lie," I whispered fiercely.
"Be careful," she pleaded, "they may hear
you. Remember that you have the mark of the
dragon's claw on your brow."
"What of it?" I asked, thinking also of the
white mark on Barris' arm.
"Ah don't you know that those who are
marked with the dragon's claw are followed by
Yue-Laou, for good or for evil,—and the evil
means death if you offend him ?''
'' Do you believe that!" I asked impatiently.
"I know it," she sighed.
'' Who told you all this? Your step-father?
What in Heaven's name is he then,—a China-
man!"
"I don't know; he is not like you."
'' Have—have you told him anything about
me?"
'' He knows about you—no, I have told him
nothing,—ah, what is this—see—it is a cord, a
cord of silk about your neck—and about mine!"
"Where did that come from?" I asked aston-
ished.
"It must be—it must be Yue-Laou who binds
me to you,—it is as my step-father said—he said
Yue-Laou would bind us ''


74 The Maker of Moons.
"Nonsense," I said almost roughly, and seized
the silken cord, but to my amazement it melted
in my hand like smoke.
"What is all this damnable jugglery!" I
whispered angrily, but my anger vanished as the
words were spoken, and a convulsive shudder
shook me to the feet. Standing on the shore of
the lake, a stone's throw away, was a figure,
twisted and bent,—a little old man, blowing
sparks from a live coal which he held in his
naked hand. The coal glowed with increasing
radiance, lighting up the skull-like face above it,
and threw a red glow over the sands at his feet.
But the face !—the ghastly Chinese face on which
the light flickered,—and the snaky slitted eyes,
sparkling as the coal glowed hotter. Coal! It
was not a coal but a golden globe staining the
night with crimson flames,—it was the symbol of
the Kuen-Yuin.
"See! See!" gasped Ysonde, trembling vio-
lently, "see the moon rising from between his
fingers! Oh I thought it was my step-father and
it is Yue-Laou the Maker of Moons—no! no! it
is my step-father—ah God! they are the same!"
Frozen with terror I stumbled to my knees,
groping for my revolver which bulged in my
coat pocket; but something held me—something
which bound me like a web in a thousand
strong silky meshes. I struggled and turned but
the web grew tighter; it was over us—all around
us, drawing, pressing us into each other's arms


The Maker of Moons.
75
until we lay side by side, bound hand and body
and foot, palpitating, panting like a pair of
netted pigeons.
And the creature on the shore below! What
was my horror to see a moon, huge, silvery, rise
like a bubble from between his fingers, mount
higher, higher into the still air and hang aloft in
the midnight sky, while another moon rose from
his fingers, and another and yet another until
the vast span of Heaven was set with moons and
the earth sparkled like a diamond in the white
glare.
A great wind began to blow from the east and
it bore to our ears a long mournful howl,—a cry
so unearthly that for a moment our hearts
stopped.
"The Yeth-hounds!" sobbed Ysonde, "do
you hear !—they are passing through the forest!
The Xin is near!"
Then all around us in the dry sedge grasses
came a rustle as if some small animals were
creeping, and a damp acrid odor filled the
air. I knew the smell, I saw the spidery crab-
like creatures swarm out around me and drag
their soft yellow hairy bodies across the shrinking
grasses. They passed, hundreds of them, poison-
ing the air, tumbling, writhing, crawling with
their blind mouthless heads raised. Birds, half
asleep and confused by the darkness fluttered
away before them in helpless fright, rabbits
sprang from their forms, weasels glided away


76 The Maker of Moons.
like flying shadows. What remained of the
forest creatures rose and fled from the loathsome
invasion; I heard the squeak of a terrified hare,
the snort of stampeding deer, and the lumbering
gallop of a bear; and all the time I was choking,
half suffocated by the poisoned air.
Then, as I struggled to free myself from the
silken snare about me, I cast a glance of deadly
fear at the sorcerer below, and at the same mo-
ment I saw him turn in his tracks.
"Halt!" cried a voice from the bushes.
"Barris !" I shouted, half leaping up in my
agony.
I saw the sorcerer spring forward, I heard the
bang! bang! bang! of a revolver, and, as the
sorcerer fell on the water's edge, I saw Barris
jump out into the white glare and fire again,
once, twice, three times, into the writhing figure
at his feet.
Then an awful thing occurred. Up out of the
black lake reared a shadow, a nameless shapeless
mass, headless, sightless, gigantic, gaping from
end to end.
A great wave struck Barris and he fell, another
washed him up on the pebbles, another whirled
him back into the water and then,—and then the
thing fell over him,—and I fainted.
$ 4* $ % ^ 3'
* * * * * *
* # # * * *
* * * * * *


The Maker of Moons. 77
This, then, is all that I know concerning Yue-
Laou and the Xin. I do not fear the ridicule of
scientists or of the press for I have told the truth.
Barris is gone and the thing that killed him is
alive to-day in the Lake of the Stars while the
spider-like satellites roam through the Cardinal
Woods. The game has fled, the forests around
the lake are empty of any living creatures save
the reptiles that creep when the Xin moves in the
depths of the lake.
General Druramond knows what he has lost in
Barris, and we, Pierpont and I, know what we
have lost also. His will we found in the drawer,
the key of which he had handed me. It was
wrapped in a bit of paper on which was written;
"Yue-Laou the sorcerer is here in the Cardinal
Woods. I must kill him or he will kill me. He
made and gave to me the woman I loved,—he
made her,—I saw him,—he made her out of a
white water-lotus bud. When our child was
born, he came again before me and demanded
from me the woman I loved. Then, when I re-
fused, he went away, and that night my wife and
child vanished from my side, and I found upon
her pillow a white lotus bud. Roy, the woman
of your dream, Ysonde, may be my child. God
help you if you love her for Yue-Laou will give,—
and take away, as though he were Xangi, which
is God. I will kill Yue-Laou before I leave this
forest,—or he will kill me.
"FRANKLVN BARRIS."


78 The Maker of Moons.
Now the world knows what Barris thought of
the Kuen-Yuin and of Yue-Laou. I see that the
newspapers are just becoming excited over the
glimpses that Li-Hung-Chang has afforded them
of Black Cathay and the demons of the Kuen-
Yuin. The Kuen-Yuin are on the move.
Pierpont and I have dismantled the shooting-
box in the Cardinal Woods. We hold ourselves
ready at a moment's notice to join and lead the
first Government party to drag the Lake of the
Stars and cleanse the forest of the crab reptiles.
But it will be necessary that a large force as-
sembles, and a well-armed force, for we never
have found the body of Yue-Laou, and, living or
dead, I fear him. Is he living?
Pierpont, who found Ysonde and myself lying
unconscious on the lake shore, the morning after,
saw no trace of corpse or blood on the sands.
He may have fallen into the lake, but I fear and
Ysonde fears that he is alive. We never were
able to find either her dwelling place or the glade
and the fountain again. The only thing that
remains to her of her former life is the gold ser-
pent in the Metropolitan Museum and her golden
globe, the symbol of the Kuen-Yuin; but the
latter no longer changes color.
David and the dogs are waiting for me in the
court yard as I write. Pierpont is in the gun
room loading shells, and Howlet brings him mug
after mug of my ale from the wood. Ysonde
bends over my desk,—I feel her hand on my arm,


The Maker of Moons. 79
and she is saying, "Don't you think you have
done enough to-day, dear? How can you write
such silly nonsense without a shadow of truth
or foundation?"


I
-


THE SILENT LAND.


"There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is
now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is how."
WALT WHITMAN.


THE SILENT LAND.
"And the woman fled into the wilderness, where
she hath a place prepared of God."
I.
FERRIS and I had had a dispute, a bitter
one, and, as usual, Ferris had pushed his
cap over his eyes until the hair on the back
of his head stuck out.
"You can't do it," he said, shoving both
hands up to the wrists in his canvas fishing-coat.
"I'll prove it," said I. "What a stubborn
mule you are, Ferris!"
"Stubborn nothing," he retorted, "you and
your theories must have your little airing, I sup-
pose, but I don't intend to assist."
"I'm right sometimes," I said.
"Sometimes you 're wrong, too," said Ferris.
Then he walked off toward the cliffs, whis-
tling, uncompromising, untidy.
"There 's a hole in your leggings!" I called
after him, but he did not deign to answer me.
'' Obstinate ass,'' I thought, for we were very
83


84 The Silent Land.
fond of each other, "if he wastes his time with
the Silver Doctor he 'll rue it." Then I looked
at Solomon and lighted a cigarette.
Solomon was a bird, an enervating bird of
the Ibis species, wrinkled and wizened, like the
mummies of his native land, which was Egypt.
The bird was mine, a sarcastic tribute from
Ferris, and the bird and the sarcasm both bore
directly on the only disputes which ever arose
between Ferris and myself. The cause of these
disputes was a trout-fly, an innocent toy of scarlet
and tinsel, known to anglers as the " Red Ibis."
I swore by it, Ferris swore at it. In the long
winter nights when the streams gurgled under
the frozen forests and the lake was a sheet of
soggy snow, Ferris and I loafed before the fire
pulling tangled masses of leaders and flies about
and dragging the silken lines over the rugs to
hear the reels click. Every fly known to the
brethren of the angle was discussed—every fly
except the Red Ibis. We both honestly tried to
avoid this bone of contention. We talked of
Duns and Hackles, and Spinners and Gnats, but
in spite of every precaution the Red Ibis would
occasionally rise like a fiery spectre between us,
and then we disputed vehemently.
"No angler with a rag of self-respect would
use the Ibis," said Ferris, with that obstinate
shrug which added gall to the insult, and I—
well, the crowning insult came when Ferris sent
to Cairo and imported a live Egyptian Ibis for me.


The Silent Land.
85
"Pull out his tail feathers when you 're short
of Red Ibis," gasped Ferris, weak with laughter,
as I stood silently inspecting the bird in my studio.
"I'll send him to Central Park," said I, following my wrath; but I thought better of it,
and Solomon, the wizened, became an important
member of my household.
The bird was a mystery. I never cared to
encounter his filmy eyes. Centuries seemed to
roll away when he unclosed them, visions of
tombs and obelisks filled my mind—glimpses
of desert sunsets and the warm waters of lazy
rivers. His black shrivelled head, bare as a
skull, lay like a withered gourd among the
garish flame-coloured feathers on his breast.
"Solly," said I, when Ferris disappeared
below the cliff, "do you want a frog?"
The bird unclosed one eye. I went to a pail
of water in which I kept minnows, and Solomon
followed me, solemnly hopping.
"Help yourself, Solly," said I, uncovering the
pail.
I called him Solly because I wished to put my-
self at ease with this relic of Egyptian Royalty.
The splendour of Pharo's court had not dimmed
this hoary prophet's eye, which was piercing
when the sleepy film left it—piercing enough
to make me feel thousands of years young, and
very bourgeois. In vain I addressed him as
Solly, in vain I gave him chocolate creams,—he
was the aristocrat, the venerable high-priest of


86
The Silent Land.
an Empire dead—and I was his man-servant, his
ass, and his ox.
Solomon dabbed once or twice at a sportive
minnow, pecked pensively at the handle of the
pail, swallowed a pebble or two, and then, ruffling
his scarlet feathers, sidled aimlessly back into the
sedge by the frog-pond. I watched him for
awhile, brooding dreamily among the rushes, but
he paid no further attention either to me or to the
small green frogs that squatted on the lily-pads or
floated half submerged, watching him with enor-
mous eyes.
A noisy blue-jay flitted through the orchard
and alighted on a crab-apple tree solely to insult
Solomon. He of course was unsuccessful, and
his language became so utterly unfit for publica-
tion that I moved away, shocked and annoyed.
The sun was very hot. It glittered with a
blinding light across the rippling pond, where
dragon-flies darted and sailed and chased each
other over the water, or flitted among the clouds
of dancing midges, searching for prey.
A sweet smell came to me from orchard and
sedge; there was an odour of scented rushes in
the air, and the lingering summer wind bore
puffs of perfume from clover-fields and meadows
fragrant with flowering mint. I looked again
toward the cliffs. Ferris was not in sight.
"Obstinate mule," I thought, and, picking up
my rod and fly-book, I sauntered toward the
forest.


The Silent Land.
87
"Ferris," said I to myself, "is after that big
trout by the Red Rock Rapids, but he 'll never
raise him with a Silver Doctor, and he 'll come
home in a devil of a temper."
I sat down in a clump of sweet fern and joined
my rod. When I had run the silk through the
guides and had fastened the nine-foot leader, I
opened my fly-book and sought for a Red Ibis
fly. There was not one in the book.
"I must send to New York to-morrow," I
thought, turning the aluminum leaves impa-
tiently; '' fancy my being out of Red Ibis !''
I selected a yellow Oak fly for the dropper and a
nameless Gnat for the hand-fly, and, drawing the
leader down to the reel, started on again, carrying
my rod with the tip behind me.
The forest was dim and moist and silent.
Where the sunshine fell among the ferns a few
flies buzzed in the gilded warmth; but except
for this and a strange grey bird which flitted be-
fore me silently as I walked, there was no sign
of life, nothing stirring, not a rustle among the
leaves, not a movement, not a bird-note.
Over moss and dead leaves aglisten in the pale
forest light I passed,—over crumbling logs, damp
and lichen-covered, half submerged in little pools;
and the musty fragrance of the forest mould set
me dreaming of dryads, and fauns, and lost
altars, whose marbles, stained with tender green,
glimmer in ancient forests.
This belt of woods was always silent ; I often


88
The Silent Land.
wondered why. There were no birds—none ex-
cept this strange grey creature which kept flitting
ahead of me, uttering no note. It was the first
bird I had ever seen in the western forest belt—
the first bird except Solomon, who occasionally
accompanied me on my trips to the long pool in the
river which borders the wooded belt on the west.
It was an unknown bird to me,—I could catch
fleeting glimpses of it,—and its long slender wings
and dark eyes brought no recollections to my
mind.
To the north, south, and east the woods were
full of thrushes and wood-peckers; full of game,
too—grouse, deer, foxes, and an occasional mink
and otter, but the shy wood creatures left the
western forest belt alone, and even the trout
seemed to shun the dark pools where the river
swept the edges of the wood until it curved out
again by Lynx Peak. I say the trout shunned
it, but there was one, a monstrous fish, wily and
subtile, that lived in the long amber pool below.
Early in the season Ferris had raised him with a
Silver Doctor, and Ferris's madness on the Silver
Doctor dated from that moment. His mania for
this fly lead him to use it in season and out, and
no amount of persuasion or of ridicule moved
him.
"Because," said I, " you had a Silver Doctor
snapped off by a big fish, do you imagine it's the
only fly in the world?"
"It's good enough for me," he said.


The Silent Land. 89
There were two things which Ferris used to
say that maddened me. One was, " The Silver
Doctor's good enough for me ;" the other was,
"New York 's good enough for me."
We never discussed the latter question after
Ferris had alluded to me as a " Latin Quarter
Nondescript," but the battle still raged over the
merits of the Silver Doctor and the Red Ibis.
When I came to the wooded slope which over-
hung the river I buttoned my shooting coat and
began a cautious descent, trailing my rod care-
fully. I headed for the foot of the pool, for one
of my theories, which ruffled Ferris, was that cer-
tain pools should be fished up stream. This was
one of those pools, according to my theory; and
when I had reached the rocks and had waded
into the rushing water, I faced up stream and
cast straight out into the rapids which curled
among the boulders at the foot of the pool.
At the second cast I hooked a snag and waded
out to disengage it. Fumbling about under the
foaming water I found my fly imbedded in some-
thing which refused to give way. I tugged cau-
tiously and gently; it was useless. Then I rolled
up my sleeve and plunged my arm into the water
up to the shoulder. This time it did give way;
I drew out my arm and held up something
glistening and dripping, in which my hook was
firmly imbedded. It was a shoe, small, pointed,
high-heeled, and buckled with a silver buckle.
"This," said I, "is most extraordinary," and


90 The Silent Land.
I sat down on a flat rock, holding the shoe close to
my eyes.
"Besnard—Paris," I read stamped on the lin-
ing over the heel. And the buckle was of ster-
ling silver. I sat for a moment, thinking.
Our cottage, Ferris'sand mine, was the only
house in the whole region that I knew of, except
the old house in the glade by the White Moss
Spring. That was unoccupied and had been for
years—a crumbling, abandoned farm, tottering
among the young growth of an advancing forest.
But as I sat thinking I remembered early in the
season having seen smoke above the trees once
when we were in the neighbourhood of the White
Moss Spring, and I recollected that Ferris had
spoken of poachers. We had been too lazy to in-
investigate, too lazy even to remember it until, as
I sat there holding the small shoe, the incident came
back to me, and I wondered whether anybody had
taken up an abode in the abandoned farm.
I did n't like it. The forests and streams be-
longed to Ferris and me, and although up to the
present moment it had not been necessary to em-
ploy many keepers, I began to fear that our woods
were being invaded and that we should soon be
obliged to find protection.
I looked at the shoe, turning it over carefully
in my hands. It was new—had scarcely been worn
at all.
"Pooh," I thought, " the owner of this could
scarcely do much damage among the game, but


The Silent Land.
91
of course there may be bigger shoes in company
with this, and those bigger shoes had better look
out!"
My first impulse was to throw the shoe into
the underbrush. I started to do this, and then
carefully laid it down on a sun-warmed rock.
"Let it dry," I muttered; "it's evidence for
Ferris." But as it happened, Ferris was not des-
tined to see the shoe.


EL
IFISHED the pool twice, once up and once
down, and heaven knows I fished it consci-
entiously ; but no trout rose to the flies, al-
though I changed the cast half a dozen times and
even violated my feelings by tying a Silver Doctor.
It was true I glanced up and down the river to
see whether Ferris was in sight before I did so.
"The wily old devil won't come up," said I to
myself, meaning the trout; "I 'll give him a rest
for a while.'' And I sat down on the rock where
the pointed shoe was drying in the sun, laying
my rod beside me.
"What's the use of speculating about this
shoe," I thought, and straightway began to
speculate.
The strange grey bird with the slender wings
and dark eyes slipped through the undergrowth
along the opposite side of the pool, but it uttered
no call, and I caught only fleeting glimpses of it
at intervals. Once, for a moment, it flitted quite
near, and a sudden sense of having seen it before
came over me, but after a little thinking I found
myself associating it with a rare bird I had once
92


The Silent Land.
93
noticed in Northern France, and of course it was
impossible that this could be a French bird.
"It was an association of ideas," said I to my-
self, looking at the mark in the slim shoe. "Bes-
nard—Paris.'' And I began speculating upon the
owner of the shoe.
"Young? Probably. Slender? Probably.
Pretty? The deuce take the shoe," I muttered,
picking up my rod. Presently I laid it down
again, softly.
"Now, perhaps," said I to myself, "this little
shoe has tapped the gravel of the Luxembourg,
patted the asphalt of the Boulevard des Italiens,
brushed the lawns of the Bois—ah me! ah me!
—the devil take the shoe !''
The sun beat down upon the rock; the little
shoe in my hand was nearly dry.
"No," said I to myself, "I 'll not show it to
Ferris. And I 'll not shove it into my pocket—
no—for if Ferris finds it he 'll rag me to death.
I'll throw it away." I stood up.
* * I 'll just throw it away," I repeated aloud to
encourage myself, for I didn't want to throw it
away.
"One, two, three," said I, with an attempt at
carelessness which changed to astonishment as I
raised my eyes to the bank above whither I had
intended to hurl the shoe.
For an instant I stood rigid, my right hand
clutching the shoe, arrested in mid air. Then I
placed the shoe very carefully upon the rock be-
side me and took off my shooting-cap.


94
The Silent Land.
"I beg your pardon," said I, "I did not see
you."
I stood silent, politely holding my shooting-cap
against my stomach. But I was confused, for she
had answered me in French, pure Parisian French,
and my ideas were considerably unbalanced.
I am afraid I stared a little. I tried not to.
She was slender and very young. Her dark eyes,
half shadowed under black lashes, made me think
of the strange, dark-eyed bird that had followed
me. She sat on the crooked trunk of a tree over-
hanging the bank, her feet negligently crossed,
her hands in the pockets of a leather shooting-
jacket. I'm afraid to say how short her skirts
were,—but of course this is the age of bicycles
and shooting-kilts.
"Madame," I said, trying to keep my eyes
from one small stockinged foot, "I have found a
shoe—"
"My shoe, Monsieur," she said, serenely.
"Permit me, madame," said I—
"Mademoiselle—" said she—
"Permit me,—a thousand pardons, Mademoi-
selle,—to return to you your shoe."
"It was very stupid of me to lose it," said she.
"It is nearly dry," said I ; "will Mademoiselle
pardon the uncommitted stupidity of which I was
nearly guilty."
"You were going to throw it away," said she.
"I almost perpetrated that unpardonable
crime—''


The Silent Land.
95
"Give it to me," she said, with a gracious
gesture.
Now when she smiled I smiled too, and picking
up the shoe waded across the pool to the bank
under her.
"May I come up?" I asked.
"Pardi, Monsieur, how else am I to get my
shoe?"
I clambered up, hanging to limbs and branches.
It was a miracle I did not break my neck.
"Why do you not take the path ?" she asked.
"Do you not know you might fall—and all for
a shoe ?''
"But such a shoe—"
'' True, the buckle is silver—''
"Which I claim the privilege of buckling,"
said I, dragging myself up beside her.
She deliberately held out her slim stockinged
foot, and I slipped the shoe on it.
The silver buckle was not easily buckled.
There were difficulties—for the tongue had be-
come bent and needed straightening.
'' You might take the shoe off again to arrange
the buckle," she said.
"I can straighten it without that," said I.
When at last the buckle was clasped we had
been talking so long that I had told her my name,
my residence, my profession, and more or less
about Ferris. I don't know why I told her all
this. She seemed to be interested. Then I asked
her if she lived at the "Brambles."


96
The Silent Land.
"The Brambles?" she repeated, looking at her
shoes.
"The deserted Farm by the White Moss
Spring—"
"Yes—not alone; I have a housekeeper."
"Aged?"
"Very—and fierce. But I shall do as I
please.''
"Did you buy the house?"
"No. It was empty, and I walked in. Next
day they sent my twelve trunks from Lynne
Centre. The furniture was good."
'' And you have been there for two months ?''
"Yes. I have a horse and dog cart too. Rose
drives to Lynne Centre twice a week for the mar-
keting. I think I shall keep a cow—I generally
do what I please. I choose to amuse myself with
you just now."
"This," said I, "is a very strange history;
did you know that Mr. Ferris and myself—
existed ?''
"It is not a strange history,—no, I once saw
your house as I passed through the forest belt,
but there was nobody there on the lawn except
an ordinary person with little side whiskers."
"Howlett!" I exclaimed.
"Comment ?'' she asked.
"A servant, an Englishman."
"Probably," said she, looking dreamily at me.
Then I told her all about Ferris and myself;
how we came every spring to the Clover Cottage


The Silent Land.
97
with Howlett, a cook, and three dogs as retinue,
how we fished in summer and shot in the autumn,
how twice a year men came all the way from
Lynne Center to house our hay and repair dam-
ages, how the game-keepers lurked at the mouth
of the valley, miles to the south, to prevent
poachers from entering, but we concluded it was
not necessary for keepers to patrol the woods
inside the valley.
"Now," I said, "the poachers are in our very
midst—here established—and such dangerous
poachers, too! What shall we do with them,
Mademoiselle?"
"You mean me," she said, with wide open eyes.
"No," said I, "I do not mean you—you are
very welcome in our valley."
"But I am sure you do mean me," she said,
smiling.
Then we talked of other things, of Paris and
France; of trout, and flies, and Ferris, of Nor-
mandy, and the beauty of the world; but it was
nearly five o'clock before we spoke of love.
"I have never loved," she said, looking at me
calmly.
"Oh, how unnecessary !" I thought, for I had
believed her clever.
"But," she continued, gravely, "I think it is
time that I did."
"I think so too," said I.
"I should like to fall in love," said she; "I
have nothing else to do."


98
The Silent Land.
"I also am very idle," I said.
"Then," said she, "the opportunity only is
lacking."
I think I muttered something about poachers
—I was not perfectly cool.
"Now," said she, "I know you mean me!"
"Ah," said I, "I mean a keener poacher than
you or I, a free rover more to be dreaded than an
army of riflemen."
"Then you don't mean me," she said.
I shook my head.
"Do you know," said she, "I should very
much like to be the heroine of a romance.''
"I will aid you to be one!" I said, hastily.
We had known each other nearly three hours.
"Let us," said she, "pretend that this is the
forest of Versailles in the time of Louis Quinze."
"Let us indeed!" I cried, enthusiastically."
"And you are a Count"
"And you a Marquise"
"Named Diane; it is my real name."
"Diane."
"And you"
"My real name is Louis"
"It will do; you may kiss my hand."
I wondered just where she was going to draw
the line. Then, the devil prompting, I entered
recklessly into this most extraordinary adven-
ture.
And what an adventure! Words, thoughts
even failed me as I looked at her. This wood-


The Silent Land.
99
land maid with the wonderful eyes! There was
no mistaking the challenge in her eyes, the half-
innocent smile, the utter disregard for every
human conventionality.
"How," thought I—" how can such a woman
wear a childlike face!" I had known coquettes,
—many,—but the depth of this strange girl's
recklessness I feared to sound—I dreaded almost
to understand.
"She is too deep," said I to myself—" too deep
forme," and I looked her questioningly in the
eyes.
I don't know why or how,—I never shall know
probably, but a sudden conviction seized me that
she was as innocent as she looked. Imagine a
man coming to such a conclusion! I felt inclined
to laugh, and yet I was as firmly convinced as
though I had known her all my life.
"You may kiss my hand," she said, and held
it out to me.
I did. I wished I had n't a moment later, for
I tumbled head over heels in love with her and
fairly gasped at the idea.
"levers in the Court of Louis Quinze resem-
bled us, I think," she said, after a long silence.
"We will try to make the resemblance per-
fect," said I, taking both her hands in mine.
She bent her head a little,—there was just a
shadow of resistance,—then I kissed her on the
lips.
There are moments in a man's life when he
958837A


TOO The Silent Land.
does not know whether he is a-foot or a-horse-
back. I remember that I sat down on the bank
and carefully uprooted several ferns. When I
had regained control of my voice,—the little maid
was very silent,—I asked her to tell me of her-
self, if it might please her to do so.
"I was born," said the little maid, resting her
small head on one hand, '' in Rouen. Do you
know Rouen?"
"Yes."
"Papa was an officer, and he killed his general
when I was seven years old. It was something
about Mama; I never saw her again. Then we
went to Canada very quickly; Papa died there.
I had been in a convent school; I ran away, and
went to New York. I am nineteen, and very
reckless.''
"Yes, Diane."
"I have a great deal of money in banknotes.
It was Papa's. I have never counted it—it is in
a big trunk. I understand English, but do not
care to speak it. I do not care what becomes of
me; I wish it were over—this life. You are the
first man who ever kissed me. Do you believe
me?"
"Yes, Diane.
'' I wonder you do. Let us go down to the
river where the sunlight falls. The descent is
easy ''
"Diane—you must not go"
"With you— will you give me your hand?"


The Silent Land.
101
"Come."
"Did you see that shy grey bird?" said the
little maid, hesitating on the slope, her hand in
in mine.
I could not see it, for we had already begun the
descent.


III.
WHERE the mischief have you been all
day ?'' demanded Ferris that evening
as we sat on the veranda after dinner.
"Well," said I lighting a pipe, "when you
had your fit of sulks I went off for a brace of
trout."
'' Did you see anything worth seeing ?''
"I saw no trout," said I.
"Unfortunate, eh?"
'' Oh not very,'' I said, looking at Solomon.
"Not very?"
"Look at that ridiculous bird, Ferris."
"Swallowed a frog the wrong way," said
Ferris, watching the solemn contortions of Solo-
mon; "he looks like a little Jew in a crimson
overcoat with a stomach ache. What fly did you
use, Louis?"
"Everything; could n't raise a fin."
"Oh, you've been trying that old devil down
by the west woods! I should think you 'd let
him alone; it's useless," yawned Ferris.
"I'm going to try for him every day till I get
him," said I, trying not to lie more than neces-
sary: "Of course you 'll not infringe?"
102


The Silent Land.
103
"Infringe! Not much! You can have the
whole west woods to your own sweet self; but
you 're an idiot!"
"Not at all," said I, thankfully) and in a
burst of confidence I confessed that I had used a
Silver Doctor.
There was a momentary gleam of triumph in
Ferris's eyes, but he was very decent about it and
asked me most politely for the loan of a Red Ibis.
Oh men of the busy world, learn courtesy from
the angler! There are other things you need not
learn from anglers.
"My dear fellow," said I, more touched than I
had been for a long time, "I have n't a Red Ibis
left. I shall write Conroy to-night before I
retire. If you really do want an Ibis I will
catch Solomon and pluck a plume from his tail
feathers."
"I don't want it enough to inconvenience you
or hurt Solomon's feelings,'' said Ferris, laughing.
After a long interval of silent smoking Ferris
rose and yawned at the moon.
"Do you know what a Spirit-bird is, Ferris?"
I asked, rapping my pipe on the arm of my chair.
"Spirit-bird—the French one—the Oiseau
Saint-Esprit? Yes, I've seen one—in the Vos-
ges."
"Grey—with slim wings and big dark eyes?"
"That's the bird," said Ferris; "why?"
"Well, I thought I saw one to-day. Of course
that's impossible."


io4
The Silent Land.
"Of course," said Ferris, yawning again!
"I'm going to turn in; good-night, old chap."
"Good-night," said I, tapping nervously on the
veranda with my pipe.
Howlett came out a few moments later with
my wading-shoes which he had been oiling.
"Well," said I, " are the hob-nails all right?"
"Seving 'ob nails is h'out, sir," replied How-
lett, holding up the shoes for my inspection.
"Put them in as soon as they're dry. Did
you oil the bamboo? Good. Is my lamp
lighted? Put it out—and you need not sit up,
Howlett; I'm going for a stroll."
"Thank you sir," said Howlett,—" and Solo-
mon, sir?"
Now it was one of my delights to see Howlett
house Solomon. The wily Ibis loved to snoop
about in the moonlight, and he was always ready
for Howlett when that dignified servant came to
round him up.
I looked at Solomon, who stood gloomily brood-
ing among the water-lilies.
"He ought to be in bed," said I.
Howlett descended the veranda steps with
arms extended, but Solomon sidled out into the
pond. Howlett pleaded earnestly. He flattered
and cajoled, but Solomon was obdurate.
"Nothink I say do move 'im, sir!" said
Howlett, stiffly; "he is vicious to-night, sir."
"Then take the boat," I said.
Howlett in a boat chasing a sulky Ibis was


The Silent Land.
one of those rare spectacles that few are permitted
to witness. Once a week Solomon turned "vi-
cious" and then, at Ferris's and my suggestion,
Howlett took to the boat. A terrestrial Howlett
was solemnly ludicrous, but an aquatic Howlett
was impossible. Of course Ferris and I never
laughed—that is, aloud, but we usually felt rather
weak after it was over.
In the course of half an hour Solomon, mad,
wet, and rumpled was cornered by Howlett and
clasped to his stiff shirt front, muddy, bedraggled,
and kicking.
"Are you not mortified, you bad bird?" said I,
as Howlett passed toward the kitchen where Kitty
the cook was airing his straw-thatched house.
"A vicious bird, sir, good-night, sir," mur-
mured Howlett.
"Good-night, Howlett; breakfast at seven to-
morrow," said I, and sauntered out into the
moonlit valley.
I had been walking almost half an hour when
it occurred to me that I should be in bed.
"What the deuce am I sprinting about the
valley at this hour for?" I thought, looking
around.
Over the shadowy meadows the night mist
hung, silvered by the moonlight, and I heard
the meadow-brook rippling through the sedge.
Slender birches glimmered among the alders, and
all the little poplar leaves were quivering, but I
felt no breath of air.


106 The Silent Land.
Where the dark forest fringed the meadow I
saw the moonbeams sparkling on lonely pools,
but the depths of the woodland were black and
impenetrable, and the forest itself was vague as
the mist that shrouded it.
For a long time I stood, looking at the stars
and the mist, and little by little I came to under-
stand why I was there alone.
I knew I should go on, I wished to, but I
lingered in the moonlight staring at earth and
sky until something moved in the thicket beside
me, and I followed it, knowing it was the Spirit-
bird.
When I entered the forest I could scarcely see
my hand, but I felt a trodden path beneath my
feet, and I heard before me the whisper of soft
wings, and presently I heard the river, rushing
through rocks of the western forest, and when I
came to the wooded bank the moonlight fell all
around me.
There was a narrow strip in the forest, over-
grown with silver birch and poplar and lighted
by the moon, but I searched it in vain, up and
down, up and down, always with the whisper of
soft wings in my ears.
At last I called, "Diane," and before I called
again, her hands lay close in mine.
"I came," said the little maid, "because you
were coming."
"Who told you I was coming?"


The Silent Land.
107
"Told me? No one told me. Rose is asleep.
Why did you come ?''
"Why did you, Diane?"
"I? Because you came. How did you find
my bower ?''
"Your bower, Diane?"
"It is yours I know; I call it mine; I call it
the Silent Land."
"It is very silent," I said.
"It is always silent—no birds, not even the
noise of the water. Do you think it is sad?
There are times when sounds,—the song of living
creatures and the countless movements of things
that live, trouble me. Then I come here. There
are flowers."
'' The air is very sweet, too sweet. What is
the perfume? The trees are heavy with fragrance.
Ah !—are you tired, Diane?"
'' No—it is the odour of blossoms; I sleep here
sometimes."
'' Your hair is loose—how long it is! Is it
the perfume from your hair—is it your breath—''
"The blossoms are very sweet; the moon has
gone."
"There is a star,—how soft your breath is."
"I do not see the star; where, Louis?"
"It is there ;—clouds are veiling it;—there is
a mist over all—"
"It is my hair—over your eyes."


IV.
HOWLETT," said I, one warm afternoon,
1' Solomon is unendurable: he follows
me everywhere, and I wish you to see
that he minds his own business."
"A hobstinate bird, sir," said Howett, "and
vicious when crossed,—which I scorn 'is h'anger,
—beg pardon sir,—for 'e's took to biting wen 'is
vittles disagrees."
"Has he bitten you?"
"Twice, sir,—which 'appily my h'eyes is hun-
injured, though h'aimed at by 'is beak."
"This is intolerable," said I; "you must
punish him, Howlett."
'"Ow, sir?"
'' Tie him up when he bites. Have those flies
come from Conroy's?"
"Nothink 'as came, sir."
"Where is Mr. Ferris?"
"Mr. Ferris is a whipping of the h'Amber Pool
sir, with three sea-trout to the good and a brace
of square tails. Solomon followed 'im, sir, and is
h'observing the sport."
"Then I can get away without that red feath-
108


The Silent Land. 109
ered Paul Pry tiptoeing after me," I thought,
and sent Howlett for my rod-case.
"Tell Mr. Ferris, when he returns, that I may
not be back until dinner," I said, when Howlett
brought the case.
I selected a four-ounce split bamboo, pocketed
my fly-book and a tin box of floating flies for dry
fishing, picked up a landing-net, and walked
away toward the western woodland, whistling. I
had not fished for three weeks, although every day
I went away into the western woods with rod and
creel. Ferris laughed at my infatuation for the
long pool where the great fish lay and jeered at
me when I returned evening after evening with
no trout, although the river, except the western
stretch, was full of trout. He had never come to
the pool,—I should have seen him from the Silent
Land if he had,—but Solomon sneaked after me
on several occasions. Once I caught him craning
his neck and peering into the bower,—our bower
—and as I did not care to have him pilot Ferris
thither, I hustled him off.
The woods were fragrant and warm, stained by
the afternoon sun; the quiet murmur of the brook
came to me from leafy thickets as I walked, and I
heard the river rushing in the distance and the
summer wind among the pines. White clouds
shimmered in the blue above, sailing, sailing God
knows where, but they passed across the azure,
one by one, drifting to the south, and I watched
them with the vague longing that comes to men
who watch white sails at sea.


I IO
The Silent Land.
I had turned my steps toward the long pool, for
I had decided to fish that afternoon, wishing to
redeem my words to Ferris—at least in part; but
as I stepped across the trail I heard the sound of
wings, and a shadow glided in front of me toward
the forest. It was always so from the first, and
now, as always, I turned away, following un-
questiouingly the Spirit-bird. The noise of the
river ceased as I entered the Silent Land. For
an instant the grey bird hovered high in the sun-
shine, then left me alone.
I threw myself full length upon the blossoming
bank and waited, chin on hand. And as I waited,
she came noiselessly across the moss, so quietly,
so silently that I saw her only when her fingers
touched mine.
"It has been a long time,'' we said; and ; '' Did
you sleep?" and ; "When did you awake?"
Then we asked each other a thousand little
questions which are asked when lovers meet, and
we answered as lovers answer. We spoke of the
Spirit-bird as we always did, wondering, and she
told me how that morning it had tapped upon her
window as the day broke.
"Rose did not hear it," she said, "but I was
already awake and thinking."
"I awoke at sunrise too," I said; "for a mo-
ment I thought it was a swallow in the chimney
that fluttered so—"
"The Spirit-bird flies swiftly when Love is
dreaming,"—that is a very old proverb of Nor-


The Silent Land.
111
maudy. What shall we do, Louis—there is so
much to do and so little time in life !—I brought
my lute—ah! you are laughing !''
"The lute is such an old-fashioned toy; I
didn't know you played. Will you sing too,
Diane? Something very old, older than the
lute."
"I learned a song this morning because I
thought you would care for it. That is why I
dared to bring my lute into the Silent Laud. The
song is called, "Tristesse."
Then the little maid sat up among the blossoms
and touched the soft strings, singing:
"J'ai perdu ma force et ma vie,
Et mes amis et ma gaité;
J'ai perdu jusqu' à la fierté
Qui faisait croire à mon génie.
Quand j'ai connu la Vérité
J'ai cru que c'était une amie;
Quand je l'ai comprise et sentie,
J'en étais déjà dégoûté.
Et pourtant elle est éternelle
Et ceux qui se sont passés d'elle
Ici-bas ont tout ignoré.
Dieu parle, il faut qu'on lui réponde;
Le seul bien qui me reste au monde
Est d'avoir quelquefois pleuré.


I 12
The Silent Land.
"That is all," said the little maid.
"Sing, Diane," I said, but I scarcely heard my
own voice.
She laughed and bent above me with a grace-
ful gesture. "Not that," she said, "for you at
least are not sad. There is a chansonnette,—
shall I sing again ?—then be very still, here at my
feet. Do you not think my lute is sweet?"
"Je voudrais pour moi qu'il fut toujours fête
Et tourner la tête
Aux plus orgueilleux;
Etre en même temps de glace et de flamme,
La haine dans l'âme,
L'amour dans les yeux."
"You, Diane?" I whispered; but she smiled,
and the mystery of love veiled her dark eyes;
and she sang:
"Je ne voudrais pas à la contredanse,
Sans quelque prudence
Livrer mon bras nu
Puis, au cotillion, laisser ma main blanche
Trainer sur la manche
Du premier venu."
"Si mon fin corset, si souple et si juste,
D'un bras trop robuste
Se sentait serré,
J'aurais, je l'avoue, une peur mortelle
Qu'un bout de dentelle
N'en fut déchiré."


The Silent Land. 113
She looked at me with soft, unfathomable eyes
and touched the lute. When I moved she started
from her reverie with a gay little nod to me:
"Quand on est coquette, il faut 6tre sage,
L'oiseau de passage
Qui vole a plein coeur
Ne dort pas en l'air comme unc hirondelle,
Et peut, d'un coup d'aile
Briser une fleur!"
"Sing," I said in a changed voice.
"I have sung," she said, and laid her lute in
my hands. But I knew nothing of minstrelsy
and lay silent, idly touching the strings.
She had fashioned for her fair head a wreath of
sweet-fern twined with clustered buds, white as
snow and faintly perfumed.
"So I am crowned," she said, "a princess in
the Silent Land. Where I step, all things green
shall flourish; where I turn my eyes, blossoms
shall open in the summer wind ;—am I not
queen ?''
"Will you not sing again, Diane?"
"No, it pleases me to hear a legend now. You
may begin, Louis."
'' Which—the Were-wolf or the Man in Pur-
ple Tatters or the—"
"No, no—something new."
"The Seventh Seal?"
"Begin it."
'' And when he opened the Seventh Seal there
was silence in Heaven—"
8


U4
The Silent Land.
'' Dear Saints, have we not silence enough in
the Silent Land? Tell me about battles."
"'And the sound of their wings was as the
sound of chariots of many horses running to bat-
tle.' I could tell you about battles, Diane."
"Tell me,—don't move your arm,—tell me of
battles, Louis."
"There was once a King in Carcosa," I began.
But the little maid was already asleep.
I thought I heard a step in the undergrowth
and listened.
The forest was silent.


WHEN we awoke it was night. Down
from the dark heavens a great star
fell, burning like a lamp. Above the
low-hanging branches, sombre, drooping, heavy
with fragrance, a misty darkness lay like a vast
veil spread.
In the stillness I heard her quiet breathing, but
we did not speak.
Silence is a Prophet, unveiling mysteries.
Then, through the forest, we heard the sound
of wings, and as we moved, stepping together into
the shadows, the moon rose above Lynx Peak,
gigantic, golden, splendid.
So we passed out of the forest into the star-lit
night.


VI.
THE skies were leaden, the watery clouds
hung low over the valley, and a wet wind
blew from the west, ruffling the long pool
where Diane stood. Kilted and capped in tweeds,
creel swinging with every movement of the rod
which swayed and bent with her bending wrist,
she moved from ripple to shallow, wading noise-
lessly while the silken line whistled and the gay
flies chased each other across the wind-lashed
pool.
We spoke in a low voice, glancing at each
other when the light cast struck the water.
'' Under the alders Diane—'' I said; '' have
you changed the Grey Dun for the Royal ?''
"No, what is your new cast?"
"Emerald and Orange Miller—I shall tie an
Alder-fly in place of the Miller. Do you think
the water warrants a cast of three ?''
"It is rough; I don't know,—Louis, was that
an offer?"
"I think it was the spray from the rapids.
Shall we move up a little? Do you feel the chill
of the water?"
116


The Silent Land.
117
"I am cold to my knees," said the little maid,
"the river is rising I think—ah, what was
that?"
"Nothing,—you touched a floating leaf in the
swirl."
"Splash!" A great fish flopped over in the
pool, a trout, lazy, unwieldy, monstrous.
"Oh! he missed it!" cried Diane, turning a
little white.
"Cast again," I whispered, tossing my rod
onto the sandy beach and unslingiug my landing-
net.
Trembling a little with excitement she cast
across the swirl, once, twice, twenty times, but
the monster was invisible. Somewhere in the
dusky depths of that amber well the fierce fish
lay watching the lightly dropping flies, unmoved.
Then we changed the cast; I emptied my fly-
book, but nothing stirred except the hurrying
water, curling, gurgling, tumbling through the
rocks. Finally I broke the silence.
'' Diane, it was the spinner that he rose to. He's
after something redder. Have you a Scarlet Ibis?"
"No—have you?"
I almost groaned, for Conroy's flies had not
arrived, and I had n't an Ibis in the world.
After a while she reeled in her silken line, and
we waded to the sandy beach and sat down.
"Oh, the pity of it," sighed Diane ; "never have
I seen such a trout before. I suppose it is use-
less, Louis."


n8
The Silent Land.
I sat moodily poking holes in the sand with
the butt of my landing-net.
We spoke of other things for a time, sinking
our voices below the roar of the river. Presently
a sunbeam stole through the vapour above, light-
ing the depths of the dark pool. And all at once
we saw the trout, hanging just above the pebbly
bottom; we saw the scarlet fins move, the great
square tail waving gently in the current, the mot-
tled spotted back, the round staring eyes. The
swelling of the gills was scarcely perceptible, the
broad mouth hardly moved.
For a long time we sat silent, fascinated ; then
something stirred behind us on the beach and we
slowly turned. It was Solomon.
"Ciel !" faltered Diane, "what is that?"
"My bird—an Egyptian Ibis," I whispered,
laughing silently; "he has followed me, after
all."
Solomon ruffled his scarlet plumes, blinked at
me, scratched his head with his broad foot,
pecked at a bit of mica, and took two solemn
steps nearer.
"Diane," said I, suddenly, "I 'll get a red fly
for you; don't move—the bird will come close
to us."
But Solomon was in no hurry. Inch by inch
he sidled nearer, dallying with bits of moss and
shining pebbles, often pausing to reflect, but
gradually approaching, for his curiosity concern-
ing Diane was great.


The Silent Land.
119
"He looks as if he had stepped off an obelisk,"
murmured Diane; "I have seen hieroglyphics
that resembled him. Oh, what a prehistoric head
—so old, so old !''
"His name is Solomon," I whispered. "Solo-
mon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these. I 'm going to have a small bit of Solo-
mon's glory—sh—h! ah! I've got him!"
It was over in a second, and I do not believe it
was painful. There was a flurry of sand, a furi-
ous flapping of flame-coloured wings, a squawk!
a smothered laugh—nothing more.
Mortified, furious, Solomon marched off, shak-
ing the river sand from wing and foot, and Diane
and I, with tears of laughter in our eyes, wound
the scarlet feather about a spare hook, tied it
close with a thread from my coat, and whipped
it firmly to the shank. I looped the improvised
fly to Diane's leader, and she shook the line free.
The reel sang a sweet tune as she drew the silk
through the guides, and presently she motioned
me to follow her out into the rippling shallows,
and I went, swinging my landing-net to my
shoulder. She cast once. The fly struck the
swirl and sank a little, but she drew it to the sur-
face and the current swept it under the alders.
For a moment it sank again; then the ripples
parted, and a broad crimson-flecked side rolled
just below the surface of the water. At the same
moment the light rod curved, deeply quivering,
the reel screamed like the wind in the chimney,


120 The Silent Land.
and the straining line cut through the water,
moving up the pool with lightning speed.
'' Strike!" I cried, and she struck heavily,
but the reel sang out like a whistling buoy, and
the fish tumbled into the churning water under
the falls at the head of the pool.
'' Now,'' said Diane, with a strange quiet in
her voice, "I suppose he is gone, Louis."
But the vicious tug and long, fierce strain con-
tradicted her, and I stepped back a pace or two
to let her fight the battle to the bitter end.
The struggle was splendid. Once I believe
she became a little frightened,—the rod was stag-
gering under the furious fish,—and she spoke in
a queer, small voice: '' Are you there, Louis ?''
"I am here, Diane."
"Close behind?"
"Close behind."
She said nothing more until the great fish lay
floating within reach of my net.
"Now!" she gasped.
It was done in a second; and, as I bore the
deep-laden net to the beach, I caught a fleeting
glimpse of a figure among the trees on the bank
above. Diane was kneeling breathlessly on a
rock beside me; she did not see the figure. I
did. for an instant. It was Ferris.


VII.
DINNER was over. Ferris and I lingered
silently over the Burgundy, and Howlett
hovered in the corner with a decanter of
port until Ferris shook his head.
It had been a silent dinner. Ferris tried to be
cordial, and failed. Then he tried to be indiffer-
ent, with better success. We exchanged a word
or two concerning a new keeper who was to be
stationed at the notch in the north, and I spoke
to Howlett about cleaning the lamps.
Neither of us mentioned rods or trout, although
Howlett had served us a delicious sea-trout that
evening which had fallen to Ferris's rod, over
which we ordinarily should have exulted.
Ferris of course knew that I had seen him among
the trees on the bank above the long pool. It was
my place to speak; we both understood that, but I
did not. What was there to say? Suppose I should
go back to the beginning and tell him—not all,
but all that I was bound in honour to tell him.
What would he think if I spoke of the Spirit-bird,
of the Silent Land, of my long deception? An
explanation was due him—I felt that with a


122
The Silent Land.
vague sense of anger and humiliation. For weeks
I had abandoned him; I never thought about his
being lonely, but I knew now that he had felt it
deeply. Oh, it was the underhand part of the
business that sickened me, the daily deceit, the
double dealing. Ferris was no infant. A word
would have been enough. I had never by sign
or speech spoken that word which would at least
have set me right with him, and which I could
have spoken honourably. And moreover, if I had
spoken that word,—no, not a word even, a look
would have been enough,—Ferris would never
have entered the western forest belt.
We sat dawdling over our wine in the glow of
the long candles while the fire crackled in the
chimney place ; for the evening was chilly, and
Solomon brooded sullenly before the blaze. How-
lett, noiseless and pompous, glided from side-board
to table, decorously avoiding the evil jabs from
Solomon's curved bill, until Ferris woke up and
told him he might retire, which he did with a
modest " good-night, sir," and a haughty glance
at Solomon. A half hour of strained silence fol-
lowed. I leaned on the table, my head on my
hands, watching the candle light reflected on the
fragile wine glasses. Myriads of little flames
glistened on the crystal bowls, deep stained with
the red wine's glow. The fire snapped and spar-
kled on the hearth, and Solomon slept, his wiz-
ened head buried in the depths of his flaming
plumage.


The Silent Land. 123
And as we sat there, there came a faint tapping
at the curtained window. Ferris did not hear it
I did, for it was the Spirit-bird.
"I must go," said I, rising suddenly.
"Where?" said Ferris.
I looked at him stupidly for a moment, then
sank back into my chair.
Solomon stirred in his slumber and I heard the
wind rising in the chimney.
Ferris leaned across the table and touched my
sleeve.
I looked at him silently.
"I must speak," he said; "are you ready?"
I did not reply.
"Sadness and silence have no place here, be-
tween you and me. Shall I tell you a story I
once read ?''
"I am half asleep," I muttered.
"This is the story," he said, unheeding my
words. "There was once a King in Carcosa"
My hand fell heavily upon the table.
"And there was given unto him a mouth
speaking great things and blasphemies"
"For God's sake, Ferris"
"Yes," he said, " for God's sake."
We sat staring at each other across the table,
and if my face was as white as his I do not know,
but my hand trembled among the glasses till they
tinkled.
'' I was born in France,'' he said at last. '' You
did not know it, for I never told you. What do


124
The Silent Land.
you know about me after all? Nothing. What
have years of friendship taught you about my
past? Nothing. Now learn. My father was
shot dead by an inferior officer in Rouen. The
assassin escaped to Canada where—I found him.
He died by his own hand—from choice. I did
not know he had a child."
The dull fear at my heart must have looked
from my eyes. Ferris nodded.
"Yes, you know the rest," he said; "the
shame and disgrace of the suicide drove the child
away—anywhere to escape it—anywhere—here,
into the wilderness the woman fled where she hath
a place prepared of God."
The Spirit-bird was tapping on the window, I
heard the noise of wings beating against the
pane.
"I must go," I said, and my voice sounded
within me as from a great distance.
"Vengeance is God's," said Ferris, quietly:
"I am guilty."
"I must go," I repeated, steadying myself with
my hand on the table.
The noise of wings filled my ears. I knew the
summons.
"Do you not hear?" I cried.
"The wind," said Ferris.
Then the door slowly opened from without,
the long candles flared in the wind, and the ashes
stirred and drifted among the embers on the
hearth. And out of the night came a slender


The Silent Land. 125
figure, with dark eyes wide, and timid hands
outstretched—outstretched until they fell into
my own and lay there.
"I came from the Silent Land," she said;
'' the bird lead me; see, it has entered with me,
Louis."
"It is my wife who has entered," I said quietly
to Ferris, and the little maid clung close to me,
holding out one slim hand to Ferris.
There was an interval of silence.
"Father Gregory will breakfast with us to-
morrow," said Ferris to me.
"A Priest?"
"Open the window," smiled Ferris; "there is
a small grey bird here."
So I opened the window and it flew away.
"Good-night," whispered the little maid, and
kissed her hand to the open window.
"Diane!"
She came to me quietly. Ferris had vanished;
Solomon peered dreamily at us with filmy eyes.
"The Spirit-bird has gone," she said.
Then, with her arms about my neck, I raised
her head, touching her white brow with my lips.
******
When my wife read as far as you have read,
she picked up the embroidery which she had
dropped beside her on the table.
"Do you like my story?" I asked.
But she only smiled at me from under her
straight eyebrows.


126
The Silent Land.
The next morning I received her ultimatum;
I am to cease writing about beautiful women of
doubtful antecedents who inhabit forest glades,
I am to stop making fun of Howlett, I am to
curb my passion for rod and gun, and, if I insist
on writing about my wife, I am to tell the truth
concerning her. This I have promised Ysonde
to do, and I shall try to, in "The Black Water."
1


THE BLACK WATER.


"Lorsque la coquette Espérance
Nous pousse le coude en passant,
Puis a tire-d'aile s'élance,
Et se retourne en souriant;
"Où va l'homme! Où son coeur l'appelle!
L'hirondelle suit le zephyr,
Et moins légère est l'hirondelle
Que l'homme qui suit son désir."


THE BLACK WATER.
"Oil! could you view the melodic
Of ev'ry grace,
And musick of her face,
You 'd drop a teare,
Seeing more harmonic
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare."
LOVELACE.
I.
YSONDE swung her racquet. Her laughter
was very sweet. A robin on the tip of a
balsam-tree cocked his head to listen; a
shy snow-bird peered at her through the meadow
grass.
"What are you laughing at?" I asked, un-
easily. I spoke sharply—I had not intended to.
The porcupine on the porch lifted his head, his
rising quills grating on the piazza; a drab-coloured
cow, knee deep in the sedge, stared at me in
stupid disapproval.
"I beg your pardon, Ysonde," I said, sulkily,
for I felt the rebuke of the cow. Then Ysonde
9 129


130 The Black Water.
laughed again; the robin chirped in sympathy,
and the snow-bird crept to the edge of the tennis-
court.
"Deuce," I said, picking up a ball, "are you
ready?"
She stepped back, making me a mocking
reverence. Her eyes were bluer than the flower-
ing flax behind her.
I had intended to send her a swift service, and
I should have done so had I not noticed her eyes.
"Deuce," I repeated, pausing to recover the
composure necessary for good tennis. She made
a gesture with her racquet. The service was a
miserable failure. I drove the second ball into
the net, and then, placing the butt of my racquet
on the turf, sat down on the rim.
"Vantage out," said I, gritting my teeth;
"what were you laughing at, Ysonde?"
"Vantage out," she repeated; "I am not
laughing."
'' You were,'' I said; '' you are now.''
She went to the boxwood hedge, picked out
one ball and sent it back; then she drove the
other over the net and retired to her corner
swinging her racquet. I did not move.
"You are spoiling your racquet," she said.
I was sitting on it. I knew better.
"And your temper," she said, sweetly.
"Vantage out," I repeated, and raised my ten-
nis-bat for a smashing service. The ball whisted
close to the net, and the white dust flew from her


The Black Water.
court, but her racquet caught it fair and square
and I heard the ring of the strings as the ball
shot along my left alley and dropped exactly on
the service line. How I got it I don't know,
but the next moment a puff of dust rose in her
vantage court, there was a rustle of skirts, a
twinkle of small tennis shoes, and the ball rock-
eted, higher, higher, into the misty sunshine.
"Oh," gasped Ysonde, and bit her lip.
The ball began to come down. I had time to
laugh before it struck,—to laugh quietly and
twirl my short mustache.
"I shall place that ball," said I, "where you
will not find it easily" ; and I did, deliberately.
For a second Ysonde was disappointed, I could
see that, but I imagined there was the slightest
tremour of relief in her voice when she said:
"Brute force is useless, Bobby; listen to the
voice of the Prophetess."
"I hear," I said, "the echo of your voice in
the throat of every bird."
"Which is very pretty but unfair," said
Ysonde, looking at the snow-birds beside her.
"It is unfair," she repeated.
"Yes," said I, "it is unfair ; are you ready?"
"Let us finish the game this afternoon," she
suggested; "look at these snow-birds, Bobby ; if
I raise my racquet it will frighten them."
"And you imagine," said I, " that these snow-
birds are going to interrupt the game—this
game?"


132 The Black Water.
"What a pity to frighten them; see—look how
close they come to me? Do you think the little
things are tamed by hunger?"
"Some creatures are not tamed by anything,"
I said.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, innocently.
I was glad that I suppressed my anger.
"Ysonde," I said, "you know what this game
means to me—to us."
"I know nothing about it," she said, hastily,
retreating to her corner; "play—it's deuce you
know."
"I know," I replied, and sent a merciless ball
shooting across her deuce court.
"Vantage in," I observed, trying not to smile.
A swift glance from her wide eyes, a percep-
tible tremble of the long lashes—that was all; but
I knew what I knew, for I have hunted wild
creatures.
The porcupine on the piazza rose, sniffed,
blinked in the sunlight, and lumbered down the
steps, every quill erect.
"Billy! Go back this minute!" said Ysonde.
The quills on Billy's back flattened.
"Billy," I repeated, "go and climb a tree."
"If you speak to him he will bristle again,"
said Ysonde, walking over to the porcupine.
"Billy, my child, climb this pretty balsam tree
for the gentleman; come—you are interrupting
the game, and the gentleman is impatient."
"The gentleman is very impatient, Billy," I
said.


The Black Water. 133
I saw Ysonde colour—a soft faint tint, nothing
more; I saw Billy receive a gentle impulse—oh,
very gentle indeed, from the point of her slender
tennis shoes. So the porcupine was hustled up
the balsam-tree, where he lay like an old mat,
untidy, mortified, nursing his wrath, while two
blue-birds tittered among the branches above
him.
Ysonde came back and stood in the game
court.
"It is vantage, I believe," she said, indiffer-
ently.
"Out," said I, with significance. Ysonde
looked at me.
"Out," I repeated.
"Play," she said, desperately.
"No," I replied, sitting down upon the edge
of my racquet again—I knew better—" let us
clearly understand the consequences first."
She swung her racquet and looked me full in
the eyes.
"What consequences?" she said.
"The consequences incident upon my winning
this set."
"What consequences?" she insisted, defiantly.
"The forfeit," said I.
"When you win the set we will discuss that,"
she said. "Do you imagine you will win?"
She was a better player than I; she could give
me thirty on each game.
"Yes," I said, and I believe the misery in my
voice would have moved a tigress to pity.


134
The Black Water.
Now perhaps it was because there is nothing
of the tigress about Ysonde, perhaps because I
showed my fear of her—I don't know which—but
I saw her scarlet lips press one upon the other,
and I saw her eyes darken like violet velvet at
night.
"Play," she said; "I am ready."
The first ball struck the net; the racquet turned
in my nerveless hand, and she smiled.
"Play !" I cried, and the second ball bit the
lime dust at her feet. I saw the flash of her
racquet, I saw a streak of gray lightning, and I
lifted my racquet, but something struck me in
the face,—the tennis-balls were heavy and wet,
—and I staggered about blindly, faint with
pain.
"Oh, Bobby !" cried Ysonde, and stood quite
still.
"I'm a duffer,'' I muttered, trying to open my
eye, but the pain sickened me. I placed my hand
over it and looked out upon the world with one
eye. The drab-coloured cow was watching me;
she was chewing her cud ; the porcupine had one
sardonic eye fixed upon me; the robin, balanced
on the tip of the balsam, mocked me. It was
plain that the creatures were all on her side.
The wild snow-birds scarcely moved as Ysonde
hastened across the court to my side. I heard
the blue-birds tittering over head, but I did not
care; I had heard the tones of Ysonde's voice,
and I was glad that I had been banged in the


The Black Water. 135
eye. It was true she had only said, "Oh,
Bobby!"
"Is it very painful?" she asked, standing
close beside me.
"Yes," I replied, seriously.
"Let me look," she said, laying one hand on
the sleeve of my cricket shirt.
"Billy will rejoice at this," said I, removing
my handkerchief so she could see the eyes. The
pain was becoming intense. With my uninjured
eye I could see how white her hand was.
She stood still a moment; my arm grew warm
beneath her hand.
"It will cheer Billy," I suggested; "did I tell
you that he bit me yesterday and I whacked him?
No? Well, he did, and I did."
"How can you!" she murmured; "how can
you speak of that ridiculous Billy when you may
have—have to be blind?"
"Nonsense," I said, with a shiver.
She crossed the turf to the spring and brought
her handkerchief back soaking and cold as ice.
I felt her palm on my cheek as she adjusted it.
It was smooth, like an apricot.
"Hold it there," I said, bribing my conscience;
"it is very pleasant." She thought I meant the
wet handkerchief.
"If—if I have ruined your sight" : She began.
Now it was on the tip of my tongue to add—
'' and yet you are going to ruin my life by beat-
ing me at tennis," but my conscience revolted.


136 TheBlack Water.
"Do you think it is serious?" she asked, in a
voice so low that I bent my head involuntarily.
She mistook the gesture for one of silent acquies-
cence. A tear—a large warm one—fell on my
wrist; I thought it was a drop of water from the
handkerchief at first. Then I opened my unin-
jured eye and saw her mistake.
"You misunderstood," I said, wearily. "I
don't believe what the oculist told me; the eye
will be all right."
"But he warned you that a sudden blow
would"
Might- "Oh—did he say might?"
"Yes—but it won't. I 'm all right—don't take
away your hand; are you tired?"
"No, no," she said, "shall I get some fresh
water ?''
"Not yet—don't go. The game was at deuce,
was n't it?"
Ysonde was silent.
"Was it deuce? Does that point count against
me?" I insisted.
"How can you think of the game now?" said
Ysonde, in a queer voice—like the note of a very
young bird.
I sat down on the turf, and the handkerchief
fell from my eye. Ysonde hastened to the spring
and returned carrying the heavy stone jar full of
water. It must have strained her delicate wrist
—she said it did not; and, kneeling beside me,


The Black Water.
137
she placed the cold bit of cambric over my
eye.
"Thank you," I said; "will you sit beside me
on the turf?" Both of my eyes were aching and
closed, but I heard her skirts rustle and felt the
momentary pressure of her palm on my cheek.
"Are you seated?" I asked.
"Yes, Bobby."
"Then tell me whether I lost that point."
"How can I tell," she answered; "I would
willingly concede it if it were not"
"For the forfeit," I added; "then you think
I did lose the point?"
"Does your eye pain very much?" she asked.
"Yes," said I, truthfully. Perhaps it was un-
generous, but I dared not reject such an ally as
truth. I opened one eye and looked at Ysonde.
She was examining a buttercup.
"All buttercups look as though they had been
carefully varnished," said she, touching one with
the tip of her middle finger.
"Did I win the set?" I began again.
"Oh-- no—not the set !" she protested.
"Then I lost that point?"
'' Oh ! why will you dwell upon tennis at such
a moment!"
"Because," said I, " it means so much to me."
I suppose there was something in my voice that
frightened her.
"Forgive me," I said, bitterly ashamed, for I
had broken our compact, not directly, but in sub-


138 The Black Water.
stance. "Forgive me, Ysonde," I said, looking
at the porcupine with my left eye.
"Ridiculous Billy," for that was his name,
stared at me with the insolence born of safety,
and his white whiskers twitched in derision.
"You old devil," I thought, remembering the
scar on my ankle.
'' Where did he bite you ?'' asked Ysonde un-
consciously reading my thoughts. It was a trick
of hers.
"In the ankle,—it was nothing, I would rather
have him bite the other ankle than get any more
of his quills into me !" I replied. "See how the
snow-birds have followed you. They are there
among the wild strawberries.''
She turned her head.
"Hush!" she whispered, raising one palm.
It was pinker than the unripe berries. There
was an ache in my heart as well as in my eyes, so
I said something silly; "There was an old man
who said, Hush! I perceive a young bird in this
bush"
"When they said, Is it small ? he replied, Not at
all! It is four times as big as the bush!" re-
peated Ysonde, solemnly. We both laughed, but
I read a gratitude in her eyes which annoyed me.
"We digress," I said, "speaking of the
game—"
"Oh, but we were not speaking of the game!"
she said, half-alarmed, half-smiling; "there ! I
thought you were going to be sensible, Bobby.''


The Black Water. 139
"I am. I only wish to know whether I lost
that game."
"You know the rules," she said.
"Yes—I know the rules."
"If it were not for the forfeit, I should not
insist,'' she continued, returning to her buttercup.
"It seems unfair to take the point ;—does the
eye pain, Bobby?"
'' Not so much,'' I replied, sticking to the truth
to the bitter end. My ally was becoming a nui-
sance.
"Let me see it," she said, gently removing the
handkerchief. The eye must have looked bad,
for her face changed.
"Oh, you poor fellow," she said, and I fairly
revelled in the delight of my own misery.
"Then I lost that point," said I, stifling con-
science.
She replaced the handkerchief. Her hand had
become suddenly steady.
"No," she said, "you did not lose the point,
—I concede it."
I wondered whether my ears were tricking me.
"Then—if I won the point—I won the set," I
said.
"Yes."
"And the forfeit"
"The forfeit was that I should kiss you," said
Ysonde, gravely.
"That was not all"
"No,—you are to be allowed to tell me that


140 The Black Water.
you love me," continued Ysonde in calm, even
tones.
"Then," said I, flushing uncomfortably, "when
will you pay the forfeit ?''
"Now, if you wish it. Shall I kiss you?"
She leaned on the turf, one hand hidden by the
buttercups. She had dropped the handkerchief,
and I picked it up and held it to my eye with my
left hand. Then, with my right hand, I took
her right hand, listlessly drooping beside her, and
I looked her full in the eyes.
"When we made the wager," I said, "we
were boy and girl. That was almost twenty-four
hours ago. You need not kiss me, Ysonde."
'' A kiss means more at our age,'' she said.
"We were very silly," said I.
"It should mean love," she said, faintly.
"Indeed it should," I said.
Ysonde sat straight up among the field flowers.
"I do not love," she said.
"I know it," I replied gaily, and I let the ban-
dage drop from my eye. "The pain is all gone,"
I said, closing my left eye to see whether my
vision was impaired.
I was totally blind in my right eye.
For an instant the shock staggered me. I don't
know how long I sat, mouth open, staring at the
sun with one sound, one sightless eye. Ysonde,
her chin on her hands, lay with her face turned
toward the White Lady, a towering peak in the
east.


The Black Water. 141
"Come," I said, rising, " your aunt will be im-
patient; dinner has been served this half hour.''
She sprang to her feet,—she had been in a rev-
erie,—and gave me a long look which I could not
define.
"And your eye doesn't pain?" she asked,
after a moment.
"No," I said, for the pain had disappeared
with the sight; " I am all right except a head-
ache."
"And you can see perfectly well?"
"Perfectly."
It was at this point that truth and I parted; for
what was a lost eye that it should cause her a mo-
ment's regret?


IT.
IT was about this time that the oculist came to
Holderness and visited me at the Rosebud
Inn. I was in a dark room; Ysonde thought
it better, believing darkness a cure for headache.
When the oculist walked in—his name was Keen,
—he said, " What the devil are you doing here?"
"I am blind in one eye—will it be noticeable?"
I asked.
"Banged in the eye?" he enquired, opening
the shutters.
"Banged in the eye," I repeated, as he bent
over me.
His examination lasted scarcely ten seconds.
After a moment he rose and closed the shutters,
and I stood up in the darkness.
"Will it disfigure me?" I asked again.
"No,—an oculist could tell the difference per-
haps. You may go out in three weeks."
"Blind?"
"Nonsense," growled Keen, "you have an-
other eye yet."
"But I am an artist," I said in a low voice, "is
there hope?"
142


The Black Water. 143
I heard Keen sit down in the room, and his
rocking-chair squeaked through five minutes of
the bitterest darkness I ever knew. I could stand
it no longer, so I rose and felt my way towards
the rocking-chair,—I wanted to touch him—I was
terrified. Well, it only lasted a few moments—
most men pass through crises—I was glad he did
not attempt to pity me.
"It was Miss "he began.
"Hush!" I whispered. "Who told you,
Keen?"
"She did," he replied. "Of course, she need
never know you are"
"Blind," I said,—"No, she need not know
it."
I heard him feeling for the door.
'' Turn your back,'' he said.
I did so.
"Three weeks?" I enquired over my shoulder.
"Yes—don't smoke."
"What the devil shall I do?" I said, savagely.
"Think on your sins, old chap,"—we had
studied together in the Latin Quarter—'' think of
Pepita"
"I won't," I cried. Keen hummed in a mis-
chievous voice,
"Quand le sommeil sur ta famille
Autour de toi s'est repondu,
O Pdpita, charmante fille,
Mon amour, a quoi penses-tu?"


144 The Black Water.
"Keen," I said, " I 'll break your head, if I
am one-eyed."
"I'm a married man," he replied, "and I
refuse your offer; that's better, I like to hear the
old ring in your voice, Bobby—keep a stiff upper
lip. Surgery and painting are not the only things
we learned in the Quarter.''
I heard the door close behind him, then turned
and groped my way toward the bed.
How I ever lived through those three weeks !—
Well, I did, and every fresh pipe of Bird's-eye
tasted sweeter for my disobedience.
"Write him," I dictated through the closed
door to Ysonde,—" write him that I am smoking
six pipes a day as he directed." After all, if I
was going to be blind in one eye, I did not care
whether tobacco hastened the blow, and I was
glad to poke a little fun at Keen.
Ysonde could not imagine why the doctor had
recommended smoking — she had heard that it
weakened the sight, but she wrote as I directed,
merely expressing her distrust in Keen, which
amused me, for he is now one of the most famous
oculists in the world.
"Yes," said I, through the key-hole, " Keen is
young, and has much to learn, but I dare not dis-
obey orders. How is your aunt ?''
"My aunt is well, thank you, Bobby; did you
like the sherbet she made ?''
"Yes—that's six times you have asked me."


The Black Water. 145
I was wearying of lying. The sherbet reposed
among the soapsuds of my toilet jar. .
Ysonde's aunt, a tall aristocratic beauty, whose
perfectly arched eye-brows betrayed the compla-
cent vacancy of her mind, had actually prepared,
with her own fair hands, a sherbet for me. I
cannot bear sweets of any kind.
"Aunt Lynda will make another to-morrow,"
cooed Ysonde through the key-hole.
"Thank her for me," said I faintly; "Ysonde,
I am coming out to-night.''
"It is not yet three weeks !" cried Ysonde.
"It will be three weeks to-morrow at 1 p.m.
My eyes won't suffer at night. I should like to
smell the woods a little. Will you walk with me
this evening ?''
"If Aunt Lynda will allow me," said Ysonde.
After a moment she added: "I will ask her
now''; and I heard her rise from her chair outside
my door.
When she came back, I was lying face down-
wards on my bed, miserable, dreading the hour
when I should first face my own reflection in a
mirror. I heard her step on the stairs, and I
jumped up and groped my way toward the
door.
"Bobby," she called softly.
"Ysonde," I answered, with my mouth close
to the key-hole. She started—I heard her—for
she did not know I was so near. I bent my head
to listen.
zo


146 The Black Water.
"Aunt Lynda says you are foolish to go out
before to-morrow-"
"The evening won't hurt me."
'' But suppose—only suppose your disobedience
should cost you the sight of your eye?"
"It won't," said I.
"Think how I should feel?"
"It won't," I repeated. The perspiration sud-
denly dampened my forehead, and I wiped it
away.
"Can't you wait ?" she pleaded.
"No. Have you your aunt's permission to
walk with me this evening?"
"Yes," she said. "Shall I read to you a little
while?"
For an hour I listened to her voice, and if it
was Lovelace or Herrick or Isaac Walton, I do
not know upon my soul, but I do know that my
dark room was filled with the delicious murmur;
and I heard the trees moving in the evening wind
and the twitter of sleepy birds from the hedge.
It might have been the perfume from the roses
under my window—perhaps it was the fragrance
of her hair—she bent so close to my door outside
—but a sweet smell tinctured the darkness about
me, stealing into my senses; and I rose and
opened my blinds a little way.
It was night. I heard the rocky river rushing
through the alders and the pines swaying on
the ridge. The ray from the moon which sil-
vered the windows caused my eyes no pain.


The Black Water.
M7
I listened. Through the low music of her
voice crept the song of a night-thrush. A breeze
stirred the roses under my window; the music
of voice and thrush was stilled. Then, in the
silence, some wild creature cried out from the
mountain side.
'' Ame damnee!" I muttered; for my soul was
heavy with the dread of the coming morning.
'' What are you murmuring in there by your-
self ?'' whispered Ysonde, through the door.
"Nothing—was it a lynx on Noon Peak?"
"I heard nothing," she said.
"Nor I," said I, opening the door.
The light from the lamp dazzled but did not
hurt me. She laid down the book and came
swiftly toward me.
"Now," said I, " we will walk under the stars
—with your aunt's permission."
I heard her sigh as she took my arm; '' Bobby,
I am so glad your eye is well. What could you
have done if you had lost the sight of an eye?"


III.
THE morning was magnificent. A gentleman
with symmetrical whiskers named Blylock,
and I were standing on the verandah of the
Rosebud Inn. Blylock's mind was neutral. His
lineage was long, his voice modulated, his every
action acutely impersonal. The subdued polish
of Harvard was reflected from his shoes to his
collar. When he smoked he smoked judiciously,
joylessly.
'' And you lost the fish ?'' said I.
"Yes," said Shylock, with colourless enthusi-
asm.
"In the West Branch?"
"Near the Forks," said Blylock. "Do you
know the pool?"
I regretted that I did not. He had once asked
me whether I knew the Stryngbenes of Beacon
Street, and I had replied with the same regret.
Now he learned that I was culpably ignorant of
the pool at the West Branch Forks.
Blylock looked at the mountains. The White
Lady was capped with mist, but except for that
there was not a cloud in the sky. The Gilded
148


The Black Water. 149
Dome towered, clear cut as a cameo, against the
pure azure of the northern horizon; Lynx Peak,
jagged and cold, shot up above the pines of
Crested Hawk, whose sweeping base was washed
by the icy river.
'' Do you think he might weigh five pounds ?''
I asked.
"Possibly," replied Blylock; "I regret exceed-
ingly that I lost him."
'' But, thank God, Plymouth Rock still stands!"
was what I felt he expected me to say. I did
not; I merely asked him if he had ever experi-
enced emotion. "Why, of course," he answered
seriously, but when I begged him to tell me when,
he suspected a joke and smiled. If I had a son
who smiled like that I would send him to Tony
Pastor's. Oh, that smile !—gentle, vacant, blank
as the verses of a Brook Farm Bard, bleaker than
Bunker Hill.
"For sweet charity's sake," said I, " tell me
why you do it, Blylock."
"Do what?" he asked.
"Oh," said I wearily, "nothing—lose a five-
pound trout, for instance."
"I had on a brown hackle," said Blylock ; " it
was defective."
"It bust," said I, brutally, " did you curse?"
"No,*' replied Blylock. Ysonde came out and
we took off our shooting-caps.
"Put them on again directly," said Ysonde,
nestling deep into the collar of her jacket;


150 The Black Water.
"is it too cold for the trout to rise, Mr.
Blylock?"
Blylock looked at the sky and then at his finger
tips. There was a seal ring on one of his fingers
which I was tired of seeing.
I listened to his even voice, I noticed his grace-
ful carriage—I even noticed the momentary flush
on his cold cheeks. Oh, how tired I was of look-
ing at him; it wearied me as it wearies me to read
advertisements in the cars of the elevated railroad.
But I liked him.
"Blylock," said I, "get a gait on you, and
we 'll whip the stream to the Intervale before
dinner."
'' The water will be cold,'' said Ysonde. '' You
ought to have waders."
Now Ysonde knew that I had no waders. I
loathed them. Blylock always wore waders.
"Thank you," said Blylock, "I will not neg-
lect to wear them."
I looked at Ysonde and met her eyes.
"Oh," said I, spoiling everything with inten-
tional obstinacy, '' Mr. Blylock never forgets his
waders." For a moment the colour touched her
cheek, but she treated me much better than I de-
served.
"Bobby," said Ysonde, "remember that you
have been ill, and if you wade the river in knick-
erbockers you will be obliged to eat sherbert
again."
So she knew the mystery of the soapsuds.


The Black Water. 151
"I have no waders, Ysonde," I said humbly,
"do you think I had better not go?"
"You know best," she said indifferently; and
I got my deserts to the placid satisfaction of Bly-
lock.
Ysonde walked away to join her aunt and I
loafed about, sniffing the breeze, sulky, undecided,
until Blylock appeared with rod and creel.
"Going?" enquired Blylock.
"No, I shall paint," I said, after a moment's
silence.
He joined Ysonde and her aunt, and I saw
them all walking toward the trail that crosses the
river by the White Cascade. Blylock had under-
taken to teach Ysonde to cast. I was surprised
when she accepted, for I myself had taught her to
cast. However I never asked any explanation
and she never offered any—to my secret annoy-
ance.
It was just two weeks that I had been out of
the dark room. I was totally blind in my right
eye, but nobody except Keen and myself knew it.
I was becoming used to it—I was only too thank-
ful that the eye, to all appearances, was as perfect
as the other eye. -But I dreaded to begin paint-
ing again. I feared that everything might be
colourless and lop-sided, that I should be a ruined
man as far as my profession was concerned. I
had put off the beginning of work from sheer cow-
ardice. Nobody but an artist can appreciate my
mental suffering;—nobody but an artist knows


152 The Black Water.
that two eyes are little enough to see with. Had
the accident destroyed the balance of my sight?
Would my drawing be exaggerated, unstable,
badly constructed, out of proportion? Would my
colour be weak or brutally crude? I decided to
find out without further delay, so when Ysonde
and her aunt and Blylock had disappeared, I
went to my room, gathered up my well-worn
sketching kit, screwed two canvases into the
holder, and marched manfully out the door into
the sunlit forest.
Ridiculous Billy followed me. This capricious
porcupine had taken a violent fancy to me, from
the moment I emerged from the dark room. Of
course I preferred his friendship to his enmity—I
still bore a red scar on my ankle—but what
soothed me most was his undisguised hatred of
Blylock. Billy bit him whenever he could, and
the blood of Bunker Hill appealed to Heaven
from the piazza of the Rosebud Inn!
Blylock took it very decently—the porcupine
was Ysonde's property—but although he himself
suffered in silence, and Ysonde darned his golf-
stockings as partial reparation, I always fancied
that his blood was importuning Heaven, and, re-
membering George III, I trembled for Ridiculous
Billy.
Sometimes I was sorry for Blylock, sometimes
I was not, especially when Ysonde darned his
golf-stockings. Blylock was Lynda Sutherland's
cousin, but I demonstrated to Ysonde that this


The Black Water.
153
did not concern her. Sometimes I wished that
Blylock would go back to Beacon Street, and yet I
had grown fond of him in a way.
The porcupine followed me into the forest,
poking his rat-like muzzle into every soft rotten
stump, twitching his white whiskers. A red
squirrel followed him from tree to tree, chattering
and squealing with rage, but Billy lumbered
along, stolid, blase, entirely wrapped up in his
own business. What that business was I dared
not enquire, for Billy's malicious eyes boded evil
for interlopers, and I respected his privacy.
Walking along the fragrant brown trail, barred
with sunlight, I recalled that cold gray morning
in camp when Sutherland—Lynda's late lamented
—waking from the troubled dreams incident on
an overdose of hot whiskey and water, called to
me, to take " that thing away!" "That thing''
was Billy. From his nest among the pine-clad
ridges, he had smelled our pork, and being a free-
born American, he had descended to appropriate it.
In the gray of the morning, through the smoulder-
ing camp-fire smoke, I saw Billy in the act of re-
moving the pork from the crotches of a spruce
tree.
"What is it? Take it away for God's sake!"
bellowed Sutherland, associating Billy with other
grotesque phantoms incident on overdoses.
"It's a porcupine," said I.
"Pink?" faltered Sutherland.
"Go to sleep, you brute," I muttered, not ad-


154
The Black Water.
dressing the porcupine. I took a poncho, a thick
one, and ran the porcupine down. Then I envel-
oped him in the blanket, and got a rope about
his neck, tied him to a tree and examined my
wounds. One of our guides helped me pull the
spines from my person, and that night the other
guide led Ridiculous Billy into the settlement
which consists of the Rosebud Inn and three
barns.
The taking of Billy preceded Sutherland's death
by twenty-four hours; he was mauled by a pan-
ther whose cubs he was investigating. His wife,
Lynda, who had secured a few month's reprieve
from his presence, and who first heard of his death
at Fortress Monroe, came north with Ysonde.
Sutherland was buried in New York, and two
weeks later Lynda and Ysonde came to the Rose-
bud Inn. All this happened three years ago, and
during those three years, Billy, gorgeous with
a silver collar, had never forgiven me for remov-
ing him from his native wilds. His attitude
toward the household was unmistakable. Lynda
he avoided, Ysonde he followed with every mark
of approbation, Blylock he loathed, and now, he
had taken this sudden shine to me.
Billy and I followed the trail, solemnly, delib-
erately. The trail was a blind one, now plain,
brown and gold with trampled wet leaves, now
invisible, a labyrinth of twisted moose-bush and
hemlock, badly blazed. But we knew our busi-
ness, Billy and I, for presently we crossed a swift


The Black Water.
»55
brook, darkling among mossy hollows, and turn-
ing to the right, entered a moist glade all splashed
with dewy sunlight.
"Here," said I, unstrapping my camp-stool,
"is a woodland Mecca"; and I drove my white
umbrella deep into the bank, where the brook
widened in sunny shallows.
Billy eyed me a moment, rolled a pine-cone
over with his nose, and mounted a tree. I liked
to watch him mount trees. He did not climb, he
neither scrambled nor scratched, he simply flowed
up the trunk.
"Pleasant dreams," said I, as he curled up in
the first moss-covered crotch; and I began to set
my palette.
In the fragrant sun-soaked glade the long grass,
already crisp as hay, was vibrating with the hum
of insects. Shy forest butterflies waved their soft
wings over the Linnea, long-legged gnats with
spotted wings danced across the fern patches, and
I saw a great sleepy moth hanging from a chest-
nut twig among the green branches overhead.
His powdery wings, soft as felt, glistened like
gilded dust.
"An Imperial Moth," said I to myself, for I
was glad to recognize a friend. Then a wood-
thrush ruffled his feathers under the spreading
ferns, and I saw a baby rabbit sit up and wriggle
its nose at me.
"Lucky for you I'm not a fox," said I, pick-
ing up a pointed sable brush; and I drew the out-


156
The Black Water.
line of the chestnut tree, omitting the porcupine
in the branches.
When I had indicated a bit of the forest beyond
the glade, using a pointed brush dipped in Ga-
rance Rose foncee, I touched in a mousey shadow
or two, scrubbed deep warm tones among my
trees, using my rag when I pleased, and then,
digging up a brushful of sunny greens and yel-
lows, slapped it boldly on the foreground. Over
this I drew a wavering sky reflection, indicated a
sparkle among the dewy greens, scrubbed more
sunlight into the shallow depths of the brook,
and leaned back with a nervous sigh. What had
God taken from me when he took the light from
my eye? I pondered in silence while round me
the brown-winged forest flies buzzed and hummed
and droned an endless symphony. To me, with
my single trembling eye, my painted foreground
seemed aglow with sunlight, and the depths of
the quiet forest, wrapped in hazy mystery, ap-
peared true and just, slumbering there upon my
canvas.
The brook prattled to me of dreams and splen-
did hopes, the pines whispered of fame, the ferns
rustled and nodded consolation. I raised my head.
High in the circle of quivering blue above, a gray
hawk hung, turning, turning, turning in silence.
A light step sounded among the fallen leaves.
Slowly I turned, my sight dazzled by the sky,
but before my eye had found its focus I heard her
low laughter and felt her touch on my arm.


The Black Water. 157
"You were asleep," she said, "you must not
deny it, do you hear me?"
"I was not asleep," I answered, rising from my
camp-stool.
"Then you are blind,—why I have been stand-
ing there for two minutes."
'' Two minutes? then I believe that I must
be blind," said I, turning so that I could see her
better. She stood on my right.
'' I expected to be challenged,'' said she; "I
did not hear your qui vive."
Then she sat down on my camp-stool and gazed
at my canvas with amazement.
I watched her in silence, proud of my work,
happy that she should recognize it, for she knew
good work every time. After a while I began to
chafe at her silence, and I bent my head to see
her face. I shall never forget the pained surprise
in her eyes nor the quiver of her voice as she
said:
"Bobby, this is childish, what on earth do you
mean by such work ?''
The blow had fallen. At first I was stunned.
Then terror seized me, and I grasped a low swing-
ing branch to steady myself, for I felt as though I
were falling.
"Bobby," she cried, "you are white—are you
ill?"
"No," said I, "that sketch was only a joke,—
to tease you."
"It is a very stupid joke," she said coldly; "I


158 The Black Water.
cannot understand how an artist could bring him-
self to do such a thing."
"It was a poor joke," said I, red as fire, "par-
don me, Ysonde, I don't know what possessed me
to paint like that."
She picked up my paint rag and swept it across
the face of my canvas; then turning to me:
"Now you are forgiven; come and talk to me,
Bobby."
The sun climbed to the zenith and still we sat
there, she with her round white chin on her wrist,
I at her feet.
Billy, who had descended from his perch in
the chestnut tree as soon as he heard Ysonde's
voice, rambled about us, snuffling and snooping
into every tuft of fern, one evil eye fixed on us,
one on the red squirrel who chattered and
twitched his brush, and rushed up and down a big
oak tree in a delirium of temper.
"No," replied Ysonde to my question, "Mr.
Blylock did not fish; he talked to Lynda most of
the time. I came here because I had an intuition
that you were going to paint."
"But," said I, "how did you know I was com-
ing here? I never before painted in this glade."
"I don't know how I knew it," said Ysonde,
slowly.
"Witchcraft?" I asked.
"Possibly," she said, with an almost impercep-
tible frown.
"I have noticed already," I said, " that you


The Black Water.
159
have a mysterious faculty for reading my thoughts
and divining my intentions. Are you aware of
it?"
"No," she said shortly.
'' But you have,'' I persisted.
'' You flatter yourself, Bobby. I am not think-
ing of you every minute."
"Suppose," said I, after a moment's silence,
'' that you loved me ''
"I shall not suppose so," she answered haugh-
tily.
"Let us suppose, then," said I, " that I love
you ''
'' Really, Bobby, you are more than tiresome.''
I thought for a while in silence. The wood-
thrush, who had come quite close to Ysonde—all
wild creatures loved her—began to sing. The
baby rabbit sat up to listen and wriggle its nose,
and the speckled gnats danced giddily.
"Suppose," said I, with something in my voice
that silenced her, " suppose that you loved me,
and that I had lost my eye. Would you still love
me?"
'' Yes,'' said Ysonde, with an effort.
"And suppose," I continued, "I had been
born with an eye blind; could you have loved
such a man ?''
"I do not think I could," she answered truth-
fully.
"Probably not," I repeated, biting the stem of
a wild strawberry. After a moment I looked up


160 The Black Water.
into the sky. The hawk was not there; but I
was not looking for the hawk.
"Come," said I, rising, " dinner must be ready
and your aunt should not be kept waiting."
I gathered up my sketching kit, tenderly per-
haps, for I should never use it again, and whistled
Billy to heel,—which he did when he chose.
Perhaps it was something in my face—I don't
know—but Ysonde suddenly came up to me and
took both my hands.
'' Are you going to be sensible, Bobby ?'' she
asked. Her face was very serious.
"Yes, Ysonde," I said.
But she did not seem satisfied—there came a
faint glow on her face—it may have been a sun-
beam—and she dropped my hands and whistled to
Billy.
"Come !" she cried, with a tinge of anger in
her voice that I had never before heard,—" heel,
Billy!"
But as Billy lingered, sniffing and rooting
among the ferns, she picked up a twig and struck
Billy on the nose. The blow was gentle—it
would not have hurt a mosquito—but I was as-
tounded, for it was the first time I had ever seen
her lift her hand in anger to any living creature.
Perplexed and wondering I followed her through
the forest, my locked colour-box creaking on my
shoulder.


IV.
"rT"*O him that hath shall be given, and from
I him that hath not, shall be taken away
even that which he hath," said I, knock-
ing my pipe against the verandah railing.
"Scripture," said Shylock, approvingly.
"For this is the law and the prophets," I con-
tinued, grateful that the Bible had received Bos-
ton's approval.
"Scripture," repeated Blylock, with the smile
of a publisher mentioning the work of a very
young author.
"Exactly," I replied, "also the Koran; I for-
get whether Tupper mentions it."
'' Probably,'' said Blylock seriously.
"Probably," I repeated, inserting a straw in
the stem of my pipe. Ysonde frowned at me.
"Shylock," I continued, smiling at nothing,
"have you read Emerson?"
"Heavens!" murmured Blylock under his
breath.
I had aroused him. I made it a point to stir him
up once every day, satisfied to allow him to relapse
into his normal Beacon Street trance afterward.
II 161


162 The Black Water.
"Your scriptural quotation," said Ysonde, with
a dangerous light in her eyes, "would indicate
that you have suffered a loss.''
"From him that hath not, shall be taken away
even that which he hath," I repeated; "yes,
having nothing, I have lost all I have, which," I
continued, "is of course nothing. But I am en-
croaching on Brook Farm,—and the Koran"
'' And on the patience of your friends,'' said
Ysonde; "don't try to be epigrammatic, Bobby."
There was a glass of water standing on a table
to my right. I did not see it, my right eye being
sightless, and I knocked it over. I was confused
and startled at this—it brought back to me my
misfortune so cruelly that I apologized more than
was necessary, and received a puzzled stare from
Ysonde. I noted it and chafed helplessly. Lynda
Sutherland came out on the porch, and I rose and
brought her a chair.
'' The moonlight reminds me of Venice,'' said
Lynda, turning her lovely face to the moon.
We all agreed with her, although we knew it
was nonsense, for we all had lived in Venice. If
she had said it reminded her of peach ice-cream,
we would have agreed. She was too beautiful for
one to analyze what she said—she was too beauti-
ful to analyze it herself. I remembered with a
shock that the late lamented had once referred
to his wife's being " d nd ornamental," and I
was glad the panther had clawed his besotted soul
from his body. But Sutherland had never said a


The Black Water. 163
truer thing in his life; drunkard that he was, he
always spoke the truth.
"Lynda," cooed Ysonde, "do you think that
we might camp for a few days with Bobby and
Mr. Blylock? They are going to the Black
Water to-morrow and Mr. Blylock asked us."
'' We take two guides,'' added Blylock, vaguely.
"We will only stay three days," said I.
"We will have a trout supper," suggested Bly-
lock.
"And flap-jacks for breakfast," said I.
'' I should so like to go,'' pleaded Ysonde.
Blylock examined the moon, and I saw Lynda
look at him.
"Is there any danger?" she asked.
I was discreetly silent; the question was not
addressed to me.
"I think not," said Blylock turning around,
"I carry a rifle."
"Three cheers for Bunker Hill," I said, "there
is nothing to shoot ''
"Except—panthers," observed Blylock dryly.
At this tactless remark I expected to hear Lyn-
da refuse to go. She did not, although she looked
at Blylock a little reproachfully. He, serenely
unconscious, examined his seal ring in silence.
Possibly Lynda did not believe that panthers
ranged so near the Inn, perhaps she was not un-
grateful to the last one that had patted her late
lamented into a better land.
"There are," said I, truthfully, "a few pan-


164 The Black Water.
thers ranging between the Gilded Dome and
Crested Hawk. Sometimes they get as far as
Noon Peak and the White Lady, sometimes even
as far as Lynx Peak, but I never heard of any-
thing bigger than a lynx being seen near the
Black Water."
"I have been in these forests every summer
and autumn for twenty years," said Bly lock,
'' and I never saw either panther or lynx; have
you?" he ended, turning toward me. Then,
recollecting that I had witnessed the mauling of
the late lamented, he turned rosy, and I was
pleased to see that he was capable of experiencing
two whole emotions in one evening.
I did not answer—it was not necessary, of
course. I could show him the panther skin in my
studio some day when I wanted to take a rise out
of him, It measured nine feet from tip to tip—it
might have measured more had the panther had
time to nourish himself with Sutherland.
Now Ysonde must have read what was passing
in my mind, for she looked shocked and nestled
closer to Lynda.
'' What is a lynx," demanded Lynda, shivering.
"There are two species found here," replied
Blylock, glad to change the subject, "one the big
grey Canada lynx, the other the short-tailed
American lynx"
"Otherwise Bob-cat, Lucivee, and wild-cat," I
interposed; '' they make a horrid noise in the
woods and are harmless."


The Black Water. 165
"If you let them alone," added Blylock, con-
scientious to the end.
"Which we will," said Ysonde, gaily, "we are
going, are we not, Lynda ?''
'' No,'' said Lynda, firmly.
But the next morning when the first sunbeams
scattered the mist which clung to copse and
meadow, and sent it rolling up the flanks of the
Gilded Dome, Lynda said, '' Yes,'' and possibly
her pretty mountain costume tipped the balance
in Ysonde's favour, for Lynda looked like a fin-de-
siecle Diana in that frock and she knew it, bless
her fair face!
The guides, Jimmy Ellis and Buck Hanson,
were tightening straps and rolling blankets on the
lawn outside.
"Buck," said I, "how many pounds do you
take in?"
"Fifty, sir," drawled Buck, wiping the sweat
from his face with the back of his hand.
"And you, Jimmy?" I asked.
"Abaout forty, sir," replied Ellis, seriously.
"I cal'late," added Buck, "the ladies will want
extry blankets."
"They will," I replied, "the wind is hauling
around to the northwest." Then I took a step
nearer and dropped my voice.
"Any panthers seen lately, Jimmy?"
"I hain't seed none," replied Ellis.
"What was it killed the white heifer two
weeks ago?"


166 The Black Water.
"Waal," replied Jimmy reflecting a little, "I
cal'late t 'war a cat."
"It maught be a b'ar," said Buck, "I seed one
daown to Drake's clearin' last week come Sab-
bath."
'' Sho !'' drawled Ellis, returning to his
blankets.
"I understand," said I, "that Ezra Field
found a thirty-pound trap missing last week."
'' Whar ?'' asked Hanson.
"Back of the gum-camp on Swift River," I
replied.
Ellis looked cynical and Hanson laughed, the
silent confiding laughter of the honest.
'' Ezry was scairt haf tu deth by a Bob-cat,
onct, into Swift River Forks," said Ellis; "he
sees things whar there hain't nawthin'."
'' Do you think,'' said I, after a long pull at
my pipe, "that panthers ever attack? I mean,
when you let their cubs alone."
"Hain't never seed no panther," replied Buck.
"You saw Mr. Sutherland when he was
brought in three years ago.''
"Yes sir—you and Cy Holman toted him in."
"Well, you saw the panther we brought in
also, did n't you?"
"Yes sir,—but that was a daid panther," re-
plied Buck, prosaically.
I laughed and walked toward the piazza.
"All I want to know is whether you fellows
have heard that these creatures are bothering


The Black Water. 167
honest people who mind their business,'' I said
over my shoulder; and both the big guides
laughed, and answered " No fear o' that sir I"
Half an hour later we were on the trail to the
Black Water.
The morning was perfect, the air keen as Sep-
tember breezes on the moors, and the mottled
sunlight spotted our broad trail which twisted
and curved through the tangled underbrush along
the bank of a mountain stream.
Blylock and Ysonde were well ahead, the latter
swinging a light steelshod mountain stick; next
came Lynda, beautiful and serene, approving the
beauty of the forest in pleased little platitudes. I
followed close behind, silent, spellbound by the
splendour of the forest, charmed by the soft notes
of the nesting thrushes and the softer babble of
Lynda and the brook.
Broad dewy leaves slapped our faces, filmy float-
ing spiders' meshes crossed our chins and cheeks
and tickled Ysonde's pretty nose."
"You may walk ahead," she said to Blylock,
"and break the spiders' webs for me."
"With pleasure," said Blylock, seriously, and
I saw him take the lead, his single eyeglass
gleaming in the sunshine.
"It is written," said I, flippantly, "that the
first shall be last, and the last shall be first;—I
believe that I should take the lead."
"Please do," said Ysonde, coolly, "it is your
proper place."


168 The Black Water.
Now Ysonde had never before said anything to
me quite as sharp as that, although doubtless I
had often invited it.
'' Do you want me to go?" I asked inanely.
"If you care to clear the path, I would not
object," said Ysonde.
"For you and Lynda," said I, feeling that I
was speaking regardless of either sound or sense.
"And for Mr. Blylock," added Ysonde,
quietly.
"With pleasure," said I, vaguely wishing my
tongue might stop wagging before I said some-
thing hopelessly foolish, "I shall clear the way
for you—and Mr. Blylock."
I had said it; even Lynda raised her lovely
eyes to me in disapproval. As for Ysonde, her
face wore that pained expression" that I dreaded
to see—I had never seen it before but once—in
the glade—and I felt that my proper place was
among the wits of a country store. A boor in the
kitchen of the Rosebud Inn would have had more
instinctive tact—unless he was jealous!—that is
the word!—I was jealous—vulgarly jealous of
Blylock. Perhaps Ysonde read the shame in my
face, perhaps she had divined my thoughts as she
did when she chose, but she saw I was miserable,
disgusted with myself, and she raised me to her
own level with a smile so sweet and chivalrous
that I felt there was manhood left in me yet.
"Bobby," she said, "you promised to show me
how to blaze a trail. Have you forgotten?"


The Black Water. 169
I dropped out of the path to the right, she to
the left; Lynda passed us to join Bly lock who
was waiting, the two big guides tramped by, their
boots creaking on the trodden leaves. I drew the
light hatchet from my belt, removed the leather
blade-cover, and started on.
"This is all it is," I said, and struck a light
shaving from the bark of a hemlock, cutting it at
the base with the next stroke so that the bit of
bark fell, leaving a white scar on the tree trunk.
"Always on both sides," said I, repeating the
stroke on the other side of the tree. "Will you
try it, Ysonde?"
She took the hatchet in her small gloved hand,
and the chips flew along the trail until I begged
her to spare the forest.
"But the trees don't die!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, Bobby, you're joking; am I overdoing
it?"
"A little," said I, "a blind man could follow
this forest boulevard.''
"You are blind," she said, calmly.
"Blind?" I cried with a start.
"To your own interests, Bobby. Aunt
Lynda likes you, but she does n't like to hear you
speak flippantly. If you destroy her trust in you,
she will not let us walk together when we please."
We moved on in silence for a while, until
Ysonde, tired of blazing, handed me the hatchet.
"Yes," said I, " I am blind—I cannot lead you
any trail."


lyo
The Black Water.
'' Nor I you,'' she said simply.
I did not reply, for who but I should know that
through the fragrant forest, bathed in sun and
dew, the blind led on the blind.
"You have formed a habit," said Ysonde, "of
muttering to yourself. Are you afraid to have
me know your thoughts?"
"Yes," said I, turning, "I am afraid."
She did not answer, but I saw her colour deepen,
and I feared that I had spoken bitterly.
"I was thinking that I had forgotten my
flask," I continued gaily.
"Mr. Blylock has your flask-—you were not
thinking of that,'' said Ysonde.
"Well," said I, "then tell me of what I was
thinking; you know you can read my thoughts—
when you take the trouble,'' I added prudently.
"Bobby," said Ysonde, "I would take more
trouble for your sake than you dream of.''
I stopped short in the trail and faced her, but
she passed me impatiently. I saw her bite her lips
as she always did when annoyed.
The chestnut, oak, and dappled beech-woods
were giving place to pines and hemlocks as we
wheeled from the Gilded Dome trail into the nar-
rower trail that leads over the long divide to the
Black Water. Along the rushing stream alder
and hazel waved, silver birches gleamed deep-set
in tangled depths, and poplars rose along the
water's edge, quivering as the breezes freshened,
every glistening leaf a-tremble.


The Black Water. 171
Under foot, brown pine-needles spread a polished
matting over the forest mould, for we had entered
the pine belt and the long trail had just begun.
The breeze in the pines ! it will always make
me think of Ysonde. Wild wind-swept harmonies
swelling from the windy ridge, the whisper and
sigh and rush of water, the grey ledges, the deep
sweep of precipices where lonely rivers glimmer,
lost in the sea of trees,—these I remember as I
think of Ysonde, these and more too,—the dome
of green, the fragments of sky between mixed
branches, the silence, broken by a single birdnote.
******
The trail crossed a sunny glade, mossy and
moist, bordered by black birch thickets and car-
peted with winter-green. Ysonde leaned upon
her steel-shod staff and looked at her own reflec-
tion in the placid spring pool, shining among the
ferns.
"I am very much tanned," she said.
"Are you thirsty," I asked.
"There is a little freckle beside my nose," ob-
served Ysonde.
"It is becoming," I said truthfully.
"Yes, I am thirsty," said Ysonde, "—what do
you know about freckles ?''
I handed her a cup of water; she drank a little,
looked over the rim of the cup reflectively, drank
a little more, sighed, smiled, and poured what
was left of the water upon the moss.


172
The Black Water.
"A libation to the gods," she explained.
"To which?" I asked.
"Ah, she said; I had not thought of that.
Well, then, to—to—"
I looked at her and she tossed the cup to me
saying, '' I shall not tell you. I am getting into
the habit of telling you everything.''
"But—but the gentleman's name?" I urged.
"No, no! Goodness ! may I not have a secret,
all my own?"
"Very well," said I, "you pour out libations
to a gentleman god and I shall even up matters.
Here 's to the lady!"
"Minerva, of course. You are so wise," sug-
gested Ysonde.
"It's neither to Minerva nor to the owl," said
I, "it's to the Lady Aphrodite."
"Pooh !" said Ysonde, "you are not clever;
Hermes might ''
"Might what?"
"Be careful, Bobby, your sleeve is getting
wet"
"Might what?"
'' Now how should I know,'' exclaimed Ysonde,
"mercy, I 'm not a little Greek maiden!"
I strapped the cup to my belt, tightened the
buckle of my rod-case, lighted my pipe, and sat
down on a log.
"Well, Master Bobby," said Ysonde in that
bantering voice which she used when perfectly
happy.


The Black Water.
173
"Well, Mistress Ysonde," said I.
"Are you going to lose the others?"
I pointed to the foot of the long slope, where,
among the tree trunks, something blue fluttered.
"It's Lynda's veil," said Ysonde, "and there
is Mr. Blylock, also; they are sitting down."
"True," said I, "let us rest also. We have
been hours on the trail. Here is a dry spot on
this log."
Ysonde sat down. Now whenever Ysonde
seated herself there was something in the pose of
her figure that made me think of courts and kings
and coronations. The little ceremony of seating
herself ended, I resumed my seat also, feeling it a
privilege accorded only to the very great. I told
her this and she pretended to agree with me.
'' You must be something at court,'' she said,
"you cannot be an earl, for earls are blond and
slender; you cannot be a count, for counts are
dark and dapper; nor a duke, for dukes are big
and always red in the face; you might be a baron
—no, they are fierce and merciless"
"So am I."
"No you 're not. You can't be a marquis
either, for they are plausible and treacherous ''
"Then I 'll be a Master of 'Ounds," I insisted,
"let the title go by the board."
She agreed, and I was installed Master of Stag-
hounds to her petite Majesty—this position per-
mitting me to sit occasionally in her presence.
"I am thirsty again," said Ysonde.


174 The Black Water.
I brought her a cup of ice-cold water into which
I dropped a dozen wild strawberries. She touched
a berry with the tip of her pink tongue, which was
bad manners, and I told her so.
"What do you know about Queen's eti-
quette?" she said disdainfully, and, finding the
berries ripe, she ate three and smiled at me.
A thrush came fearlessly to her very feet and
drank from the spring; a mottled wood-toad made
futile efforts to clamber up the log into her lap,
and two red lizards peeped at her from a cleft in
the boulder beside us.
"It's queer," said I, watching the scrambling
toad, '' how you seem to fascinate all wild crea-
tures. Shall I poke the toad away ?''
'' No, I am not afraid; I am very glad they all
come to me."
'' You were possibly a dryad once,'' I hazarded.
"Possibly. And you?"
"Probably the oak tree that sheltered you."
"Sheltered me?"
There is something in the note of a very young
bird that I have noticed in Ysonde's voice, but
now, as she laughed—oh, such soft, sweet laugh-
ter,—it seemed to me as though the bird had
grown, and its note trembled with purer, truer
melody.
"Sheltered me! I imagine it!" she said, with
a wonderful sweetness in her eyes. "Hark! Mr.
Blylock is calling!"
She rose with capricious grace as I answered


The Black Water. 175
Blylock in a view-halloo which awoke the echoes
among the cliffs above us.
When we came up to them Lynda linked her
arm in Ysonde's, and Blylock and I pushed ahead
after the plodding guides.
Blylock and I discussed trout-flies and casts
and philosophy with an occasional question to the
guides, and as we moved I could hear the light
laughter of Lynda and the clear voice of Ysonde
singing old songs that were made in France when
hawk's-bells tinkled in castle courts and tasselled
palfreys pawed the drawbridge.
It was noon when we entered the Scaur Valley,
and luncheon was grateful ; but before the leading
guide entered the spotted trail which swings to
the west above the third spur of Crested Hawk,
the sun had dropped into the notch between
Mount Eternity and the White Lady, and the
alpen-glow crimsoned every peak as we threw
down our packs and looked out across the Black
Water. "Here," said I, "our journey ends;
Princess Ysonde,"—I took her gloved hand,—"be
seated, for below you lies the Black Water—yours
by right of conquest."
"I cal'late 't 'l be right cold to-night, Ma'am,"
said Buck Hanson.
"Yes," said Ysonde listlessly.


V.
NIGHT fell over the Black Water before the
shelter was raised, but the great camp-fire
lighted up the cleared space among the
trees, and I saw Ellis staggering in under loads
of freshly-stripped bark for our roof. Buck Han-
son finished thatching the exposed ends with
hemlock and spruce. The partition, a broad
sheet of heavy bark, separated the lean-to into
two sections, one for Lynda and Ysonde, the
other for Blylock, myself, and the guides.
I had roamed about the underbrush, lopping
off balsam twigs for our bedding which Blylock
brought in and spread over the pine-needle floor.
When Ellis finished roofing the hut with his
thick rolls of bark I sent him to the spring below
with the camp kettle, and picking up an axe,
called to Buck to follow.
"I should very much like," said Blylock sol-
emnly, "to chop a tree into sections adequate for
the camp fire."
'' Take the axe and my blessing,'' said I, "I
hate to chop."
"It's very good of you," said Shylock, follow-
176


TheBlack Water.
177
ing Buck into the forest where our firelight glim-
mered red on rugged trunks towering into the
blackness above.
Ysonde came creeping out of her compartment,
her eyes and cheeks brilliant in the fire's glare.
"Lynda is lying down," she said, "is n't sup-
per nearly ready? How delicious our bed of bal-
sam smells; what are you doing with your trout
rod?"
I knotted the nine-foot leader to the line,
slipped on an orange miller for a dropper, tied a
big coachman three feet above it, and picked up
my landing-net.
"What is home without a dinner?" I asked,
'' and what is dinner without a trout? Come
down to that rock which hangs over the Black
Water, and you shall see your future dinner leap-
ing in the moonlight.''
'' Bobby the poet,'' said Ysonde, steadying her-
self by my arm in the dark descent to the lake.
"Poet Bobby, there is no moon on the Black
Water."
"Look," said I, pointing to a pale light in the
sky above the White Lady, "the moon will come
up over that peak in ten minutes; give me your
hand, it's very dark."
Clinging closely to my arm, she moved through
the undergrowth until we felt the firm flat rock
under our feet. The rock ran straight out into
the water at right angles from the shore like a
pier.
la


178
The Black Water.
"Be careful—oh, be careful," she urged, "you
almost walked off into the water there where the
shadows lie so black."
'' Then hold me,'' said I diplomatically, and I
felt her warm hands close tightly on my left arm.
The moon peeped over the shoulder of the
White Lady as I made my first cast into the dark-
ness ahead, and I saw my leader strike the water,
now placidly rocking like a lake of molten silver.
"Oh-h !" cried Ysonde, softly, "oh, the won-
drous beauty of it all."
In the silence I heard the thwack of an axe
from the woods above and Blylock's voice quite
plainly. The water lapped the edges of the rock
below us, catching thin gleams from the shining
sheet beyond, and my silk line whistled and
whimpered like a keen wind lashing the sea.
Then a wonderful thing occurred. Out of the
depths of the burnished water a slim shape shot,
showering the black night with spray. Splash!
A million little wavelets hurried away into the
darkness, crowding, sparkling, dancing in widen-
ing circles, while the harsh whirr of the reel rang
in my ears, and the silk line melted away like a
thread of smoke. The rod staggered in my
hand.
"Ysonde, there are two on now!" I whis-
pered.
"Give me the rod!" she said, excitedly. I
handed it to her, and for a moment she felt the
splendid strain. Then the fish gave a deep surge


The Black Water.
179
to the west, and she gasped and pushed the rod
into my hands.
"Living wild things struggling for life," she
sighed. "Oh, hurry, Bobby,—it pains me so!"
and she pressed both hands to her breast.
For a second the joy of the battle left me. I
had an impulse to fling the rod into the Black
Water; but I am a hunter by instinct.
Deeper and deeper surged the fish, and the rod
swayed and bent until the tip brushed my
knuckles.
"Oh, kill the creatures," murmured Ysonde,
"it is all so fierce and cruel,—I never thought
you were like that!"
"I am," I muttered, checking a savage sweep
toward the north,—" quick, Ysonde—pass me my
net."
She did so, and I crawled down to the water's
edge, shortening my line at every step. It was
soon over; I washed my hands in the black water,
and flung the fish back into the landing-net.
"Now," said I, tossing rod and net over my
shoulder, '' we will go to dinner; lean on my
shoulder ;—how brutal you must think me,
Ysonde."
'' Yes,'' said Ysonde.
She passed me—perhaps it was the moonlight
that whitened her cheeks—and I saw her enter
the circle of red firelight as Lynda came forward
to meet her.
"Hello, Ellis !" I called.


180 The Black Water.
'' Hallo, sir!" came back from the spring
among the rocks below, and Jimmy Ellis ap-
peared, carrying a chunk of pork.
'' Two,'' I said, turning the trout out of the
landing-net.
"Good fish, sir," drawled Ellis, "mor'n 'nuff
for dinner, I suspicion."
"Split them," said I, "broil both as only you
can broil them. Spring all right ?''
"Sweet an' full. Dinner is ready above."
Blylock came down with a blazing pine knot to
inspect the fish, and I heard him rigging his rod
ten minutes later as I walked into camp and sat
down, glowing from a dip in the tin bucket below.
Lynda and Ysonde were nibbling away at
broiled trout, hot toast, and potted pheasant.
"Dear me," said Lynda, "I really must not
eat like this, I have had three cups of bouillon to
begin with. Ysonde says you are the cleverest
angler in the world. ''
"That, of course," said Ysonde, "may be an
exaggeration, for I have seen very few anglers."
"Oh, you're not exaggerating one bit," I
assured her. '' Is there any toast over there ?''
Lynda deigned to serve me with hot bouillon
and Ysonde tossed a slice of toast to me, scandal-
izing her aunt.
"You little savage," said Lynda, reproach-
fully.
"Any trout left?" I asked. "Where is Mr.
Blylock?"


The Black Water. 181
"Here's the trout," smiled Ysonde, serving
me a bit of the crisp pink fish. "Mr. Blylock
said 'ha !' several times when he saw your two
trout and went down to the rock flourishing his
rod very recklessly."
"Mr. Blylock never flourishes anything," ob-
served Lynda.
"No, he waved it as Merlin might have
waved ''
"Why, Ysonde! " said Lynda, warmly.
I was discreet enough to finish my toast in
silence; I was very happy.
"Now, Sir Fisherman," said Ysonde, "a cup
of this white wine with your trout? What! a
whole bottle? Oh, Lynda, look at him!"
"I see him," said Lynda, sleepily, "I wonder
what time it is."
Buck and Jimmy, having finished their dinner,
which included a trout between them and a gallon
or so of coffee, piled half a dozen logs on the fire,
backed them with half a tree trunk, said good-
night very politely, and ambled away with the
dishes and a pail of boiling water. Ten minutes
later Blylock came in with three fair-sized fish,
which Lynda admired and I encored, and then
Lynda and Ysonde rose with deep reverences,
and mockingly prayed to be allowed to retire.
Buck and Jimmy were already sound asleep.
"If they snore," said I, "there will be murder
done on Black Water shore."
Blylock lighted a cigar and I my pipe.


182 The Black Water.
"I never sleep well in camp the first night,"
said I.
"No?" asked Blylock, politely.
"No, you old jay," said I, for I was becom-
ing very fond of Blylock. That broke the back
of Beacon Street for the moment, and Blylock
blossomed out as a story-teller without equal. I
laughed till it hurt me, softly, of course, and still
Blylock, imperturbable, bland, told story after
story, until I marvelled, between my spasms of
laughter, at the make-up of this Bostonian. At
last he went to bed, mildly suggesting that I fol-
low his example, which I did after I finished
my pipe, although I knew I should sleep but
little.
About ten o'clock Buck Hanson snored. I
leaned over Blylock, already fast asleep, and
poked the wretched Buck until he stopped. Ten
minutes later Ellis began a solo which I have
never since heard equalled.
"Great heavens !" I muttered, and jabbed him
viciously with my rod-butt, but Jimmy Ellis
did n't wake, and before I knew it, Buck Han-
son, taking a mean advantage, chimed in with a
snort that would have done credit to a rogue ele-
phant. This was not all. I dread to record it,
but I am trying to tell the truth in this story—I
pray the lady to pardon me if I suggest that from
the other side of the bark partition came a sound,
—delicate, discreet, but continuous, in short, a
gentle—no! no! I can never bring myself to


The Black Water. 183
write it down. I am no brute, Madam—and,
after all, only men snore.
A black fly got into my neck and bothered me;
later a midge followed the example of his erring
colleague. To slay them both was my intention,
and in doing so I awoke Blylock, who sleepily
protested. This was exasperating, and I told him
so, but he was asleep again before I finished.
Why on earth I should never be able to sleep
more than an hour or so on my first night in
camp,—I who have camped in the forest for years,
—I never can understand.
I endured the concerted snores of the whole
camp as long as I could, then I crawled to the fire
outside, hauled two fresh logs into the blaze,
swathed myself in my blankets, lighted a fresh
pipe, and sat down with my feet to the heat and
my back against a sapling.
Outside the wavering ring of firelight the black-
ness was so profound, so hoplessly impenetrable
that I wondered whether a storm was rolling up
behind the Scaur. Trees, brush, rocks, and ledges
—the whole huge forest, root and branch, seemed
woven together into curtains of utter darkness
which wavered, advanced, and receded with the
ever dying, ever leaping flames. There was no
storm, for I saw stars on the strip of darkness
above—little pale stars, timidly glimmering in the
depths of a vast vault. The moon had long ago
passed behind the Scaur — that sullen mass of
menacing ledges, blackening the fathomless


The Black Water.
stretch of the Black Water. There were noises
in the forest, stealthy steps and timid scratchings
—now faint, as if across the rocking lake, now
nearer, now so sudden and sharp that I involun-
tarily leaned forward, striving to pierce the outer
circle of gloom beyond the fire ring. Once some-
thing brushed and rustled among the leaves
behind me, and I saw a grey snake glide into the
warm glow by my feet.
"Get out," I whispered, with a gesture of an-
noyance.
The serpent slowly raised its head, flashed a
forked tongue at me, swayed a moment, then
noiselessly moved on into the night.
'' Salut! O mon Roi !'' said a low voice be-
hind me, and Ysonde crept out of her fragrant bed
of balsam, and curled up in her blanket at my feet.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, " I am so sleepy, but
I can't sleep. Why is it, Bobby ?—I have n't
closed my eyes once."
"Then," said I, under my breath, " it was not
you who"
"Sh-h! Lynda might hear you."
"Not probable, judging from symptoms."
"You 're impertinent, Bobby—hark! do you
hear? What was it?"
'' Anything from a toad to a porcupine; the
forest is always full of sounds. Are you warm,
Ysonde?"
"Yes,—and so sleepy that — ah! what was
that?"
"Anything from a wood-mouse to a weasel."


The Black Water.
"I don't believe it."
"A fawn, perhaps—I heard deer among the
pitcher-plants at the head of the Black Water a
few minutes ago."
"Gentle things," murmured Ysonde, " I wish
they would come close to me; I love them—I love
everything.''
'' And everything on earth and sea loves you,
Ysonde."
Her lids were drooping, and she smiled, half
asleep.
"Bobby," she murmured, " I believe I could
sleep here by you—you make me sleepy."
Her head drooped and rested on my blanket.
After a moment—it may have been an hour—I
whispered, bending above her: "Do you sleep,
Ysonde?" and again, " do you sleep?"
The stars flickered and died in the heavens, the
flames sank lower, lower, and the great black
night crept into the camp, smothering the fading
fire with pale shadows, vague and strange,
moving, swaying, until my eyes closed and I
slept.
Was it a second—was it an hour? I sat bolt
upright staring at the dying embers before me.
A bit of charred log fell in with a soft crash send-
ing a jet of sparks into the air, where they faded
and went out. Went out? There were two—
two big green sparks that had not faded with the
others, and I, half asleep, watched them, vaguely
curious. Ah! they are moving now—no, they
are still again, close together.


186 The Black Water.
The hair stirred on my head, my heart ceased,
thumped once, stopped—it seemed hours,—and
leaped into my throat, almost stifling me with its
throbbing. I was not dreaming, for I felt the
sweat trickling in my eyebrows, and the roots of
my hair were cold and damp.
Ysonde moved in her slumber, frowned and
raised her hand.
A low snarl came from the shadows. Slowly
the power of thinking returned to me, but my eye
never left those two green sparks, now blazing
like lamps there in the darkness.
When would the thing spring? Would I have
time to fling Ysonde behind me? Would it
spring if I called to Bly lock? Bly lock had a
rifle. Would it spring if I moved, or if Ysonde
moved again? Gently, scarcely stirring, I tried
to free my knees, and the creature snarled twice.
"It 's against all precedent in these woods," I
thought, '' for any of the cat tribe to dare attack a
camp." A sudden anger took possession of me,
a fury of impatience, and quick as the thought, I
sprang among the embers and hurled a glowing
branch straight into the creature's eyes. What
happened after that I can scarcely tell; I know a
heavy soft mass struck me senseless, but my ears
at moments ring yet with that horrid scream
which seemed to split and tear the night asunder,
wavering, quavering, long after I was hurled on
my back, and my eyes seemed stark open in
oceans of blood.


VI.
when I came to my senses it was still dark
—or so it seemed to me. After a while
I felt a hand shifting the bandage which
pressed heavily over both eyes, and in a moment
or two somebody raised me by the shoulders,
somebody else by the knees, and I heard Blylock
cock his rifle, and say: "Give me that torch,
Buck, and walk faster."
"Blylock," I gasped, " they 're lugging me in
as I lugged in Sutherland—mauled by a pan-
ther," and I laughed miserably.
"Hello!" said Blylock, in a low voice, "I
thought you'd brace up; are you bleeding
much?"
"I don't know," I muttered; "what, in hell's
the matter?"
"Matter!" repeated Blylock, " the forest has
gone mad—it's preposterous, but the woods are
full of bob-cats, troops of 'em, and the skulking
brutes have actually got the nerve to follow us."
"Can't I walk?" I groaned. "Where is
Ysonde ?"—for I was beginning to remember.
"Walk ?—yes, if you want to bleed to death—
187


The Black Water.
the ladies are here between me and the guides
who are toting you."
"Ysonde," I murmured, " pardon me for my
profanity—I am dazed—where are you?"
"Here, Bobby," whispered Ysonde — "close
beside you; don't talk, dear, you are very much
hurt."
"Are you speaking to me, Ysonde?" I said,
doubting my senses.
"To you, Bobby," she whispered close to my
ear, " did n't you know that I loved you? Ah,
try to live and you will know !''
My strength was ebbing fast, but I think I
muttered something that she understood, for the
light touch of her hand was on my cheek, and I
felt it tremble. Somebody gave me water,—I was
choking,—and my burning lips shrank and
cracked beneath the cool draught. I could hear
Jimmy Ellis muttering to Buck Hanson, and
Hanson's replies.
"Look out, Buck, here's a rut,—Mr. Blylock,
can you dip your pine knot this side ?—so fashion,
—steady, Buck."
"Steady, it is,—hold up his legs,—Mr. Blylock,
throw a stun by that windfall,—there's a lucivee
sneakin' araound in behind"
Crack! spoke Blylock's rifle, and then I
heard Buck's nasal drawl: "A stun is jest's
good, Mr. Blylock, they 're scairt haf tu deth—I
suspicion it 's the pork they 're after!"
"Throw that pork into the woods, Jimmy,"


The Black Water. 189
said Bly lock, "we 'll be in before long. Good
heavens! how dark it is—lay him down and
throw that pork away—there may be a panther
among them."
"There be," drawled Buck, " I seen him."
"You did? Why did n't you say so! I can't
waste cartridges on those infernal lynxes."
"I sez to you, Mr. Blylock, sez I, throw stuns,
it's jest as good," replied Buck, placidly; and I
was lifted again, fore and aft.
"It'sincredible," grumbled Blylock; "what's
got into all these moth-eaten lynxes and mangy
panthers; I 've been twenty years in these woods,
and I never before saw even a tom-cat."
"I ain't seed nothing like this,—there's three 'r
four bob-cats raound us now, and I ha'n't never
seed but one so close before,—Jimmy was there
that night. I jest disremember if it was abaout
gummin' time"
Crack! went Blylock's rifle, and I heard a
whine from the thickets on the left.
"Thet 's the panther—let him hev it again,"
said Ellis.
Again the rifle cracked.
"The darned cuss!" drawled Buck; "shoot
again, Mr. Blylock!"
"No need," said Ellis—" listen! There he
goes lopin' off. Hear him snarl!"
"Hit, I guess," said Buck, and we moved on.
Once I heard Buck complain that a particularly
bold lynx kept trotting along the trail behind,


I go The Black Water.
'' smellin' and sniffin' almighty close to my
shins," he asserted, and there certainly was an
awful yell when Blylock wheeled in his tracks and
fired. I heard Ellis laughing, and Buck said,
"haow them lucivees du screech!"
"Worse 'u a screech-owl," added Ellis.
That is the last thing I remembered until I
woke in my bed in the Rosebud Inn.
The bandage was still on my eyes,—I felt too
weak to raise a finger,—and the rest of my body
seemed stiff and hard as wood. I heard somebody
rocking in a rocking-chair and I spoke.
"I am here," said Ysonde,—but her voice
seemed choked and unsteady.
"What time is it?" I asked, incoherently.
"Half past eleven," said Ysonde.
"I am hungry," said I, and that was my last
effort until they brought me a bowl of beef broth
with an egg in it, and I had managed to swallow
it all.
I heard the door close, and for a moment I
thought I was alone, but presently the rocking-
chair creaked, and I called again: "Ysonde."
"I am here."
"What is the matter with me?"
"You have been ill."
"How long?"
"Two days, Bobby. You will get well—the
claws poisoned you. Try to sleep now."
"What claws?"
"The—the panther's—don't you remember?"


The Black Water. 191
"No—yes, a little. Where are the lynxes?
Where is Blylock?"
Ysonde laughed softly.
'' Mr. Blylock has gone to Boston on important
business. I will tell you all about it when you
can get up. He's to be married."
"And Lynda?"
"Lynda is downstairs. Shall I call her?"
"No."
The next day I drank more broth, and two
days later I sat up,— it took me half an hour and
some groans to do so.
"I think," said I, listening to the rocking-
chair, " that it is high time I saw something.
Lift my bandage, please, Ysonde."
"Only one side," she said, and lowered the
cloth that concealed my right eye—the sightless
one.
There was a silence, a wretched moment of
suspense, and then Ysonde cried: '' What—what
is it—can't you see—can't you see me !—Oh,
Bobby!"
When I spoke I hardly knew what I said, but
it was something about Keen's assuring me that
nobody but an oculist could tell that I was blind
in my right eye. I remember I felt very angry at
Keen, and demanded to know how Ysonde could
see that my right eye was sightless. I am glad I
was spared the agony of her face—I would wil-
lingly have been spared the agony of her voice as
she cried. '' Did I do that ?''


192 The Black Water.
I tried to move, but her arms were about me,—
I tried to explain, but her warm mouth closed my
lips; I only thought that it was very pleasant to
be blind.
The eyes of an oculist and the eyes of love see
everything. Who says that love is blind?
Her tears fell on my cheeks; when she asked
pardon, I answered by asking pardon, and she—
but, after all, that is our own affair.
"And my left eye," said I, "is that gone,
too?"
"Almost well," said Ysonde, "it was a sympa-
thetic shock, or something; I was afraid the claws
had struck it, but Dr. Keen"
"Keen!"
"Yes—he 's gone to Holderness now. Don't
you remember his being here with Dr. Conroy,
the surgeon ?''
"No," said I, "I was too badly mauled. I
have been clawed by a panther, then ?''
"A little," said Ysonde, with gentle sarcasm.
After a moment I inquired about the present
health of the panther, and was assured that he
was probably flourishing his tail in excellent spir-
its somewhere among the Scaur crags.
"Then Blylock did n't hit him?"
"He hit something, for I heard it scream—Oh,
my darling, what a horrible night !—and you
dying, as I believed, and the tangled brush, and
the flare of the torch, and the firing "—
******


The Black Water. 193
"Are you thirsty?—your lips are burning,"
said Ysonde.
******
I have a joke on Keen—James Keen, the great
oculist, the wise, the infallible,—and I trust he
will swallow his medicine like a little man when
he reads this. It happened in this way.
I was sitting under the trees by the Tennis
Court with Ysonde, watching the snow-birds flut-
tering in the meadow grass, and listening to the
robin who, boldly balanced on the tip of his spruce
tree, was doing his best. The blue-birds were
teaching their young to navigate the air, twitter-
ing and tittering at the efforts of their youngsters,
a truly frivolous family. "The drab-coloured cow
had also done her best, and the result was a minia-
ture copy of herself, also an expert cud-chewer.
Billy—Ridiculous Billy, the white-whiskered
and malicious, was spread in the low forks of an
apple tree, a splendid representation of a disrepu-
table door-mat.
Lynda sat at the bay-window in the Rosebud
Inn, embroidering something in white and gold.
She also succeeded in doing her best in her own
line, which was to look more beautiful every day.
I saw Blylock's shadow behind her.
"When are they to be married, Ysonde?" I
asked for the fiftieth time.
"On the twenty-seventh,—oh, Bobby, it 's
shocking to keep forgetting — and we 're to be
best man and bride's maid, too!"
13


194
The Black Water.
The sun dazzled my left eye, and I closed it for
a second. Then a miraculous thing happened,
an everlasting joke on Keen, for, although I had
closed my sound eye, and, by rights, should have
been blind as a bat, I was nothing of the kind.
"My right eye—Ysonde—I can see !—Do you
understand? I can see !" I stammered.
Oh, it was glorious—glorious as the joyous
wonder in Ysonde's eyes !—it was a miracle. I
don't care what Keen says about it having hap-
pened before, or about it happening once in ten
thousand cases, and I don't care a brass farthing
for his subsequent observations concerning the
optic nerve, and partial paralysis, and retinas, and
things,—it was and must remain one of God's mir-
acles, and that is enough for Ysonde and for me.
"We will go to the glade and repaint my pic-
ture which you erased,'' said I.
She understood and forgave me, for I hardly
knew what I was saying.
"Come," she said—her eyes were wonderfully
sweet, and bitter than the flowering flax around
us.
So, with her hand in mine, we walked up
the scented path to the Rosebud Inn, Billy lum-
bering along behind us, twitching his hoary
whiskers.


IN THE NAME OF THE MOST HIGH.


"Il n'est pas nécessaire qu'il y ait de l'amour dans un
livre pour nous charmer, mais il est nécessaire qu'il y ait
beaucoup de tendresse.''
J. JOUBKRT.


IN THE NAME OF THE
MOST HIGH.
N the third day toward noon the fire slack-
ened; the smoke from the four batteries
on the bluff across the north fork of the
river slowly lifted, drifting to the east. The
Texas riflemen kept up a pattering fusilade until
one o'clock, then their bugles rang " Cease fir-
ing," and the echoes of the last sulky shot died
out against the cliffs.
Keenan, crouching behind one of his hot guns,
could see the Texas sharpshooters retiring to the
bluff, little grey shadows in the scrub-oak thicket
gliding, flitting like wild hedge-birds toward the
nest of cannon above.
"Don't let 'em get away like that !" shouted
Douglas, "give it to them in the name of
God!"
And Keenan smiled, and sent the Texans a
messenger in the name of God—a messenger
I.

197


igS In the Name of the Most High.
which fell thundering from the sky above them,
crushing the face of the iron-stained cliff and the
lives of those who had clustered there to breathe
a little.
"Amen," said Keenan, patting his gun.
Douglas crawled out of a hole in the rocks and
drew himself up to the edge of the breastworks.
Cleymore emerged from a shallow rifle-pit and
walked slowly along the intrenchments, motion-
ing his men back into their burrows.
"Because," he said, "a hole in the hill is
worth two in your head—get into that ditch, Mor-
ris !—Cunningham, if you don't duck that red
head of yours, I 'll dock it!"
"Captain Cleymore," said Douglas, lowering
his field-glass, " two batteries have limbered up,
and are trotting toward the cemetery"
"May they trot into it, and stay there!"
said Keenan, examining the wreck of an ammu-
nition chest in the ditch.
Cleymore studied the bluff with his marine
glasses for a while, then called to Keenan: '' How
many guns have you now ?''
"Four," shouted Keenan from the ditch; "all
my horses are shot except two mules '' A burst
of laughter cut him short—his own tattered artil-
lerymen, to their credit, did not smile, but Doug-
las and Kellogg laughed and rows of grinning
faces emerged from holes and pits along the ditch
until Cleymore shouted, '' Down !'' and his infan-
try disappeared, chuckling. Keenan, red in the


In the Name of the Most High. 199
face, turned to his battery-men who were running
the guns forward, and put his own ragged shoul-
der to the wheel. Cleymore sat down on a stone
and watched a lank artilleryman splicing the
dented staff of the battery guidon.
"I guess that 'll dew, Capting," he drawled,
holding the staff out to Cleymore, who took it and
rubbed the polished wood with his sleeve.
"It will do, Pillsbury," he said, "where is
O'Halloran?"
"Shot in the stummick," said the private, " and
unable tew work."
"Dead?"
"I presume likely he 's daid, sir," returned
Pillsbury through his nose.
"I 've got a man for the guidon," called Kee-
nan from the ditch, and a fat freckled cannoneer
waddled forward and stood at attention.
'' Look out !'' sang out Douglas from his post
on the breastworks, and "Down!" cried Cley-
more, as a shell rose in the air over them and the
boom of a gun rolled across the river from the
bluff. The scream of the shell ceased; a white
cloud shot with lightning appeared in the air above
them, and a storm of shrapnel swept the breast-
works. Cleymore sprang to his feet, but the fat
cannoneer remained on the ground.
'' Get up,'' said Cleymore, cautiously, '' Pills-
bury lift him; is he dead?"
'' I guess," said Pillsbury, "he's sufferin' from
a hereditary disease."


200 In the Name of the Most High.
"Eh? What disease?" snapped Cleymore,
stepping forward.
"I guess it's death," said Pillsbury, with an
expressionless wink.
Cleymore stared at him through his eyeglasses,
then turned on his heel.
"I wish," grumbled Keenan, "that the
wounded would make less noise. Douglas, send
them another bucket of water, will you? Is the
surgeon dead ?''
"Dying," said Kellogg,—" never mind, Doug-
las, I 'll see to the water; keep your glass on
their batteries; what are they doing now?"
'' Nothing,'' replied Douglas, '' wait a bit—ah!
here come their sharpshooters again!"
'' To hell with them !'' muttered Keenan sav-
agely, for his battery-men had been cruelly
scourged by the sharpshooters, and he almost
foamed with rage when he looked over into the
ditch at the foot of the mound. The odour from
the ditch had become frightful.
"Look down there, Captain," he called to
Cleymore, his voice trembling with passion, but
Cleymore only nodded sadly. He was watching
something else. A figure in the uniform of a
staff-officer, filthy with grime and sweat, had
crawled through what was left of the covered
bridge across the South Fork, and was wriggling
his way toward the debris of Keenan's battery.
Cleymore watched him with puckered eyes.
"What do you want, sonny?" he asked, as


In theName of the Most High. 201
the staff officer crept past him,—"orders? Give
'em to me—keep to the ground, you fool," he
added, as a flight of bullets swept overhead. The
staff-officer lifted a flushed face, scratched and
smeared with dust and sweat, and attempted a
salute.
"Colonel Worth's compliments to Colonel Ran-
dal—" he began, but was interrupted by Cley-
more: "Colonel Randal's in the ditch below with
most of his regiment piled on top of him. What
are your orders ?—hold on to the bridge till hell
freezes ?—I thought so,—I'm Cleymore, Captain
in the 10th New York Sharpshooters, yonder's
what 's left of us, and there 's two dozen of
Colonel Randal's Rhode Islanders among 'em,
too. Major Wilcox has got a hole in his face, and
can't speak—you see what's left of Keenan's bat-
tery—four guns, and few to serve 'em except my
riflemen. Is n't General Hooker in sight?"
The staff-officer raised his blue eyes to the
wreck of the battery, and then looked question-
ingly at Cleymore. The latter lay moodily twist-
ing and untwisting the stained leather thong
whipped about his sword hilt.
"I'm ranking officer here," he said, "the rest
are dead. My compliments to General Kempner,
and tell him his orders shall be obeyed. Both
bridges are mined. Murphy is watching for
Longstreet —What are you shivering for?"
"Ague," said the staff-officer in a low voice.
Cleymore spat out a mouthful of dust that a


202 In the Name of the Most High.
bullet had flung in his face, and wiped his glasses
on his sleeve. "Who are you from, anyway?"
he demanded. "I don't take orders from Colonel
Worth."
"General Kempner is dead," said the staff-
officer simply.
Keenan came up chewing a twig and whistling.
"Captain Cleymore," said the staff-officer,
"my horse has been shot and Colonel Worth is
waiting. Will you point out to me the quickest
way back ?''
"Back !" broke in Keenan, "you can't get
back, my boy!"
'' I must,'' said the youngster, without glan-
cing at the artillery officer.
"Oh, if it's a case of must," said Cleymore in-
differently, '' come ahead,'' and he rose to his
knees and peered across the swollen South Fork,
now a vast torrent of mud.
Crack ! Crack ! rang the rifles from the oppo-
site shore, and the little staff-officer's cap was
jerked from his head and rolled down the em-
bankment into the river. Keenan cursed.
"Come on, sonny," said Cleymore, scrambling
down the embankment to the ditch. The ditch
was choked with mangled bodies in blue, flung
one over the other amid smashed gun-wheels,
caissons, knapsacks, and rifles; and the staff-
officer hesitated for an instant at the brink.
"Jump !" called Cleymore, "here ! Get down
behind this rock and keep your nose out of sight;


In the Name of the Most High. 203
those Texas gentlemen waste few bullets; are you
hit?"
"No," said the little staff-officer.
"Bull luck; did you see Randal's men? The
shells did it—look there."
He pointed the length of the ditch. The staff-
officer turned pale. Everywhere corpses,—mere
heaps of blue rags, stained yellow by dust and
black with stiff blood, everywhere dented can-
teens, twisted muskets, unsavory scattered cloth-
ing, worn shoes, and shrunken blue caps. A big
black horse, bloated and dusty lay with both hind
legs stark in the air; under him were dead men,
mostly Keenan's, by the red stripes on the faded
trousers.
Cleymore pulled his short blond moustache and
turned to the staff-officer.
"You see that slaughter pen," he said; "tell
Colonel Worth."
The staff-officer felt for his cap, remembered it
had been shot off his head, and looked gravely at
Cleymore.
'' I have four guns and two hundred and twenty
odd men," said the latter; "if they bring back
their batteries, an hour or two will see us all in the
ditch below with Randal; if they don't we can
hold on to the South Fork bridge I fancy. Do
you know why they withdrew their batteries ?''
"No,—unless it was to shell Colonel Worth's
cavalry. His men are in the woods behind the
railroad. If you can hold the bridge until night


204 In the Name of the Most High.
they will keep the line open. Colonel Worth is
waiting. I must go back now, Captain."
Cleymore leaned along the edge of the protect-
ing ledge and handed his field-glasses to the boy.
"Now," he said, "you can see the bend in the
river. There are three pines on the bank above
—see ?''
"Yes."
'' Take the foot-path by those pines until you
come to a burnt barn. Follow the river after that
and if the iron bridge is n't blown up yet you can
get across; if it is blown up you can't join Colonel
Worth."
"But—a—a boat"
"A boat in that?"
They looked at the foaming torrent, thundering
among the rocks. After a moment the staff-officer
pointed to the shot-torn bridge below them.
"Oh," said Cleymore, "you came that way,
did n't you? Well, miracles happen, and that
was one of them, but if you try to get back that
way, the performance won't be encored, and you
can bet your curly head on that, my son."
"It 's the shortest way," said the little staff-
officer.
"Yes, the shortest way to Kingdom come,"
said Cleymore, disgusted; "if you 're not shot,
the Texans will catch you."
They were crouching on the hot dried grass,
side by side. The sweat poured down Cleymore's
forehead washing the powder grime into thick


In the Name of the Most High. 205
patches over his young face. He threw his black-
ened jacket open at the throat, rubbed his fore-
head with his sleeve and said, "Whew!"
"It's the shortest way," repeated the other,
rising to his knees.
"You can't go," said Cleymore, sharply, "the
bridge is mined and Murphy may blow it up any
moment."
The youth handed back the field-glass with a
smile. For a moment their eyes met, then Cley-
more's flushed face turned a bright crimson and he
caught his breath, murmuring "I'm blest!"
"Captain Cleymore," said the staff-officer
coolly, "you are detaining me from my duty.
Have I your permission to leave?"
They eyed each other steadily.
'' You must not go," said Cleymore in a curious,
husky voice, "let me send a man"
"Have I your leave?"
"Comeback," cried Cleymore, "I won't give
it !"—but the youngster sprang to his feet,
touched his curly head in quick salute, and started
on a run toward the covered bridge, holding his
sabre close to his thigh.
"Drop!" shouted Cleymore, and began to
swear under his breath, but the youngster ran on,
and to Cleymore's amazement, the rifles of the
fierce Texans on the other side of the river were
silent.
On and still on ran the boy, until, with a sigh
of astonishment and relief, Cleymore saw him


206 In theName of the Most High.
push in among the handful of blue-clad engineers
at the end of the bridge; but he went no further,
for they stopped him with levelled bayonets, shak-
ing their heads and gesticulating, and suddenly
Cleymore noticed that the bridge was afire at the
further end.
"Murphy's fired the bridge! " he called out to
Kellogg on the plateau above.
Kellogg's head appeared over a shattered gun
limber. "Then Longstreet 's coming, you bet!"
"I suppose so, can't you see anything? Call
Douglas."
The Texas rifles cracked again. Kellogg did
not answer. "Can't you see any movement near
the woods ?'' demanded Cleymore from his rock.
Then he looked carefully at Kellogg's head, ap-
pearing to rest between two bits of sod, and he
saw, in the middle of the forehead, a round dark
spot from which a darker line crept slowly down
over the nose.
After a second or two he turned from the dead
eyes staring fixedly at him, and looked across the
river where the rifles were spitting death. The
round white blotches of smoke hung along the
river bank like shreds of cotton floating. Then
he glanced toward the bridge again. There was
a commotion there; a group of excited soldiers
around a slender figure, bareheaded, gesticulat-
ing.
"What 's that hop o' my thumb up to now?"
he muttered excitedly, and raised his field-glass.


In the Name of the Most High. 207
"By Jingo! Trying to cross the bridge, and it's
afire!"
For a moment he knelt, his eye glued to the
field-glasses, then with an angry exclamation he
turned toward the floating rifle-smoke along the
opposite bank. The chances were that he'd be
hit, and he knew it, but he only muttered pet-
tishly; " Young fool," and started, stooping low,
toward the swaying knot of men at the bridge.
The chances were ten to one that he'd be hit,
and he was, but he only straightened up and ran
on. The minid-balls came whining about his
head, the blood ran down into his boot, and filled
it so that he stopped as he ran. And after all he
was too late, for, as he panted up to the bridge,
far down the covered way he saw the youngster
speeding over the smoking rafters.
"Stop him !" he gasped.
A soldier raised his rifle, but Cleymore jerked it
down.
"Not that way," he said, leaning back on his
sword.
Along the dry timbered tunnel crept the boy,
for the fire was all about him now. Once he fell
but rose again.
"Has the mine been fired—the powder trail?"
asked Cleymore, in a dull voice.
A soldier nodded and opened his mouth to
speak, but a deafening roar drowned his voice and
gave Cleymore his answer.
"Is that all?" asked Cleymore again, as the


208 In the Name of the Most High.
smoke rushed skyward, and the ground trembled
and cracked beneath them.
'' One more,'' said a sergeant curtly, as Captain
Murphy hurried up. The whole further section
of the bridge had crumbled into the torrent below.
The smoke swept through the tunnel, and when
it lifted Cleymore caught a glimpse of a figure
dragging itself back from the gulf ahead. The
soldiers saw it too.
"He would go," said one of them, as though
speaking to himself.
Cleymore tore off his jacket and held it before
his face.
"You can't do it !" cried Murphy, horrified.
'' Let go—I must,'' said Cleymore quietly, '' cut
the match, if you can."
'' The other mines are on fire! In the name
of God, Cleymore !'' urged the engineer officer,
holding him back by both shoulders.
"Damn you, Murphy, let me go !" cried Cley-
more fiercely; "let go, I say."
"I will not, Cleymore; we can't lose you for a
fool of a boy ''
'' But it's a woman!'' roared Cleymore, wrench-
ing himself free.


n.
S he ran through the smoke-choked bridge,
bright little flames shot from the crack-
ling timbers, and he felt the hot breath of
the furnace underneath. And all the time he
kept repeating as he ran, "I 'm a fool, I'm a
fool, it's all up now"; but he hurried on, shield-
ing his face with his braided jacket, feeling his
way through the flurries of smoke and sparks
until a whirl of flame blocked his way; and on the
edge of the burning depths he found what he was
looking for.
She was very slender and light, in her ragged
uniform, and he lifted her and wrapped his jacket
about her head. Then he started back, increas-
ing his speed as the black smoke rolled up from
the planks under foot, but it was easier than he
had dared dream of, for she revived, and when
Murphy loomed up in the gloom, and steadied
them with an arm, he laughed aloud from sheer
nervousness. Then a terrific explosion threw
him on his face, but Murphy helped him up,
and he seized his burden again and staggered
toward the hill where Keenan's guns were already

'* 209


21 o In the Name of the Most High.
thundering, and the crack—crack—crackle of rifles
echoed and re-echoed from rock to cliff.
"You 're hit," said Douglas, as he entered the
entrenchment.
"I know it," said Cleymore, hastily scan-
ning the rifle-pits, "keep the men under cover,
Douglas—what 's up? Wait, I 'll be there in a
second. Here, Pillsbury, take this wo—this offi-
cer to my burrow and stay there until I come!''
Douglas, lying close to the top of the breast-
works, glasses levelled, began to speak in a mo-
notonous voice: "The two batteries have re-
turned and are unlimbering to the west; they
seem to have cavalry too; a heavy column is
moving parallel to the railroad—infantry and am-
munition convoy; more infantry coming through
the cemetery; I can see more on the hill beyond;
the batteries have unlimbered—look out !''
"Down!" shouted Cleymore, but the shells
sailed high overhead and plunged into the muddy
torrent of the South Fork.
"Keenan," he called, "do you want volun-
teers?"
"Not yet—damn the Texans !" bawled Kee-
nan through the increasing din.
Douglas began, "Cleymore, they are—" and
fell over stone dead.
Cleymore heard the minie-balls' thud! thud!
as they struck the dead body, half flung across
the breastwork, and Keenan, maddened by the
bullets which searched his dwindling files, bel-


In the Name of the Most High. 211
lowed hoarsely, as one by one his guns flashed
and roared, '' Now! In the name of God, lads,
to hell with them!"
Like red devils in the pit the cannoneers worked
at their guns, looming through the infernal
smoke pall stripped to their waists. Keenan,
soaked with sweat and black from eyes to ankle,
raged like a fiend from squad to squad while his
guns crashed and the whole hill vomited flame.
Thicker and blacker rolled the smoke from the
battery emplacement, until it shrouded the hill.
Then out of the darkness reeled Keenan howl-
ing for volunteers and weeping over the loss of
another gun.
'' Three left ?'' motioned Cleymore faintly with
his lips.
"Three! Number four dismounted and all
killed; send me some of your infantry !'' and the
artilleryman plunged into the blazing furnace
again. Below them the grass and abatis caught
fire and the smarting smoke of green wood almost
blinded Cleymore. Murphy and his engineers
were at work among the crackling logs, but after
a while the dull blows of their axes died away
and Cleymore knew they were dead.
"More men for the guns!" roared Keenan
from the darkness, and a dozen Rhode Islanders
tumbled out of their burrows and groped their
way into the battery. In another moment Kee-
nan came staggering out again, gasping like a fish
and waving his arms blindly.


212 In the Name of the Most High.
"They 've got another gun, Cleymore,—only
two now,—more men for the guns!"
Cleymore, half fainting from the loss of blood,
motioned to his men for volunteers; and they
came, cheering for old New York, and vanished,
engulfed in the battery smoke.
The hill was swept by fierce cyclones of lead;
bullets flew in streams, whistling, hurtling among
the rocks, rebounding into the rifle-pits, carrying
death to those below. Great shells tore through
the clouds, bursting and shattering the cliff over-
head. A whirlwind of flame from the burning
bridge swept over the hillside, hiding the river
and the heights opposite, and the burning abatis
belched smoke and torrents of sparks. Cleymore
sat down near the burrow, and picked the bits of
cloth from the long tear which the bullet had
made in his flesh above the knee. The last of the
engineer company came toiling up from the rail-
road bridge, and the lieutenant nodded to his
question, "Yes, the bridge is blown out of the
water. Where can I put my men in, Captain?"
Cleymore pointed to the pits, and they went
into them, cheering shrilly. A moment later a
shell fell into one of the crowded pits and ex-
ploded, throwing out a column of sand and bodies
torn limb from limb. Only one gun was firing
now from Keenan's battery, but from that one
gun the lightning sped continuously, fed by a
constantly renewed stream of volunteers. Cley-
more, watching Keenan, thought that he had


In the Name of the Most High. 213
really gone mad. Perhaps he had, and perhaps
that is why Heaven directed a bullet to his brain,
before the loss of his last gun should kill him with
grief. Then a shell smashed up the muzzle of
the last gun, and the remnants of the servants
dragged themselves away to lie panting like
hounds on the scorched earth, or die inch by inch
from some gaping wound.
"The jig is up," said Cleymore aloud to him-
self.
For a quarter of an hour the enemy's guns
rained shells into the extinct crater—the tomb of
Keenan and his cannon. Then, understanding
that Keenan had been silenced forever, their fire
died out, and Cleymore could hear bugles blowing
clearly in the distance.
He staggered to his feet and called to his men,
but of the 10th New York Rifles, only thirty came
stumbling from the pits. Pillsbury also answered
the call, sauntering unconcernedly from the bur-
row whither he had carried Cleymore's charge.
All around them the wounded were shrieking
for water, and Cleymore aided his men to carry
them to the spring which flowed sparkling from
the rocks above. It was out of the question to
remove them,—it was useless to think of burying
the dead. The three days' struggle for the hill
had ended, and now all the living would have to
leave,—all except one.
"Pillsbury," said Cleymore, "take my men,
and strike for the turnpike due north. I can't


214 In the Name of the Most High.
walk—I am too weak yet, but you have time to
get out. March !''
The men refused, and Pillsbury called for a
litter of rifles, but a volley whistled in among
them and they reeled.
'' Save thet there flag !'' shouted Pillsbury,
"I 've got the guidon!"
Cleymore lay on the ground motionless, and
when they lifted him his head fell back.
"Daid," said Pillsbury, soberly, " poor cuss!"
A rifleman threw his jacket over Cleymore's
face, and started running down the hill to where
the colour-guard was closing around a bundle of
flags, black and almost dropping from the staffs.
"Save the colours !" they cried, and staggered
on toward the north.


III.
IT may have been thirst, it may have been the
groans of the wounded that roused Cleymore.
He was lying close by the rivulet that ran
from the rock spring, and he plunged hands and
head into it and soaked his fill.
The wound on his leg had stiffened, but to his
surprise he found it neatly dressed and bandaged.
Had aid arrived?
"Hello!" he called.
The deep sigh of a dying man was his only an-
swer. He hardly dared to look around. The air
was stifling with the scent of blood and powder
and filthy clothing, and he rose painfully to his
feet and tottered into the cool burrow among the
rocks.
His blanket and flask lay there, but before he
raised the flask to his lips he lifted the corner of
the blanket nervously. Underneath stood a small
oblong box, into which was screwed an electric
button. Two insulated wires entered the ground
directly in front of the box, which was marked in
black letters, " Watson's Excelsior Soap."
Cleymore replaced the blanket, swallowed a
215


216 In the Name of the Most High.
mouthful of whiskey and lay down, utterly ex-
hausted. It was late in the afternoon when he
awoke from the pain in his leg, but somebody had
bandaged it again while he slept, and he was able
to move out into the intrenchments. Most of the
wounded were dead—the rest were dying in si-
lence. He did what he could for Cunningham
who joked feebly and watched Morris with quiet
eyes. Morris died first, and Cunningham, hear-
ing the death-rattle in his comrade's throat, mur-
mured: '' Phin he lived he bate me, but oi 'll give
him a race to the Saints fur his money! Is Dick
Morris dead now ?''
"Dead," said Cleymore.
"Thin, good-bye, Captain dear," whispered
Cunningham.
At first Cleymore thought he was sleeping.
The evening fell over the hilltop, and the last
of the wounded shivered and died with drawn face
upturned to the driving clouds. Cleymore cov-
ered the boy's face—he was scarcely sixteen—and
sat down with his back against a rock.
The wreck of Keenan's battery rose before him
in the twilight, stark and mute, silhouetted against
the western horizon. Lights began to sparkle
along the opposite river bank, and now, from the
heights, torches swung in semi-circles signalling
victory for the army of the South, death and dis-
aster to the North. Far away over the wooded
hills dull sounds came floating on the breeze, the
distant rhythmic cadence of volley firing. There


In the Name of the Most High. 217
were fires too, faint flares of light on the horizon
where Thomas was " standing like a rock." On
a nearer slope a house and barn were burning,
lighting up the stumps and rocks in the clearing,
and casting strange shadows over the black woods.
In the gathering twilight someone came down the
cliffs at his back, treading carefully among the
shellsplit fragments, and Cleymore saw it was the
little staff-officer. She did not see him until he
called her.
'' I want to thank you for dressing that scratch
of mine,'' he said, rising.
"You are very welcome," she said, "is it
better?"
"Yes—and you?"
'' You saved my life,'' she said.
"But are you burnt—you must have been"
'' No—only stifled. Are the wounded alive? I
did what I could."
"They are dead," said Cleymore. She un-
hooked her sabre, and sat down beside him look-
ing off over the valley.
After a silence he said: "I suppose you are one
of our spies—I have heard of the women spies,
and I once saw Belle Boyd. How did you hap-
pen to take the place of an aide-de-camp?"
"Am I to tell all my secrets to an infantry
captain ?'' she said, with a trace of a smile in
her blue eyes.
"Oh, I suppose not," he answered, and re-
lapsed into silence.


218 /;/ /he Name of the Most High.
Presently she drew a bit of bacon and hard-tack
from her pouch and quietly divided it. They
both drank from the rivulet after the meal was
finished. She brushed the water from her lips
with a sun-tanned hand, and looking straight at
Cleymore, said: "The hill below the abatis is
mined, is it not ?''
"Now, really," said Cleymore, " am I to tell
all my secrets to a girl spy?" She stared at him
for a moment, and then smiled.
"I know it already," she said.
"Oh," said Cleymore, "and do you know
where the wires are buttoned ?''
'' Wires ?'' she exclaimed.
"Of course. Be thankful that poor Murphy's
mines at the bridge were old-fashioned. If there
had been wires there, you would not be sitting
here."
"And you have stayed to fire this mine ?" she
said at length.
"Yes."
"The bridges are gone, and the river is impass-
able. It will be days before Longstreet's men can
cross.''
"I know it," said Cleymore, " but when they
come, I 'll be here—and so will the mine."
The spy dropped her clasped hands into her
lap.
"I 'll blow them to hell!" said Cleymore
savagely, glaring at the silent dead around him.
Then he begged her pardon for forgetting himself,


In the Name of the Most High. 219
and leaned against the rock to adjust his eye-
glasses.
"That would be useless butchery," said the
girl, earnestly.
'' That will do,'' said Cleymore, in a quiet
voice.
The girl shrank away as though she had been
struck. Cleymore noticed it, and said: "If you
are a Government spy, you are subject to army
regulations. I would rather treat you as a
woman, but I cannot while you wear that uniform
or hold a commission. How, in Heaven's name,
did you come to enter the service? You can't be
eighteen—you are of gentle breeding?"
"I am a spy !" she exclaimed, " and I thank
God, and I hate the enemies of my country !''
"Amen," said Cleymore, wondering at her
fierce outburst.
"Do you not hate the Confederates?" she
demanded.
"No," he answered, gravely, "but I hate the
rebellion."
"But you must hate your enemies ; I do."
"I don't; it makes me sick to see them go
down-- splendid fellows,—Americans, and to think
that such troops might have stood shoulder to
shoulder with our own, under the same flag,
against the world !—aye, against ten worlds! I
hate the rebels? By Heaven, no! Think of
Thomas and Grant and Lee and Jackson leading
a united army against those thieving French in


220 In the Name of the Most High.
Mexico! Think of Sherman and Sheridan and
Johnston and Stuart facing the fat-brained treach-
ery of England! I tell you I respect the rebels.
Look at that heap of dead! Look at those
smashed guns! Look at me—the defeated com-
mander, crouching in this slaughter pen, waiting
to spring a mine—and die. The men who reduced
me to this have my respect as soldiers and my
love and admiration as Americans, but if I could
blow them all to the four winds by one touch of
an electric button, I'd do it, and bless the
chance!" The girl trembled at his fervour.
"That is a strange creed," she murmured.
"Creed? The Union, in the Name of God-
that 's my creed!"


IV.
THE next day it rained. The rebel batteries
flung a dozen shells among Keenan's
ruined guns, but, receiving no answer,
ceased firing. Cleymore was stiff and ill, but he
managed to reach the intrenchment and rest his
field-glasses against a rock. The four batteries
were in motion, filing along the river bank toward
the cemetery where a flag drooped above a mar-
quee, the headquarters of some general. The
Texan Riflemen were moving about the scrub-
oak, showing themselves fearlessly, and a bat-
talion of engineers was hard at work on the smoul-
dering piers of the bridge. Dark masses of troops
appeared on the distant hillsides as far as the eye
could reach, and along the railroad track cavalry
were riding through the rain.
All day long Cleymore watched the rebel army,
and at night he shared his hard-tack and bacon
with the girl. They spoke very little to each
other, but when Cleymore was looking at the
rebels her eyes never left him. Once, when he
crept into his cave to swallow a drop of brandy,
she hurried from rifle-pit to rifle-pit, evidently


222 In the Name of the Most High.
searching for something, but when again he reap-
peared she was seated listlessly against the rocky
wall, her blond head buried in her hands. And
that night too, when he was tossing in feverish
slumber, she passed like a shadow through the
intrenchment, over rocks, down among the dead
in the hollows, her lantern shining on distorted
faces and clenched hands.
The next day the rain still fell; the engineers
were steadily at work on the ruined bridge, but
the river had swollen enormously, and Cleymore
could not see that they had progressed. He went
back to his cave and dropped on the blanket, the
box marked "Watson's Excelsior Soap" at his
side. The girl brought him a bit of hard-tack and
a cup of water. It was the last crumb left in the
camp, except three biscuits which she had in her
own pockets. She did not tell him so.
Toward midnight he fell asleep, and when she
saw that he slept, she bent over him and looked
into his face, lighting a match. Then she softly
raised the blanket and saw his arm encircling a
box marked "Watson's Excelsior Soap." As
she stooped to touch the wires he stirred in his
sleep and smiled, and she shrank away, covering
her eyes with her hands. The next day she
brought Cleymore his biscuit and cup of water, for
his strength was ebbing, and he could scarcely
crawl to the breastworks. She ate nothing her-
self. The engineers were progressing a little, the
sun shone on the wasted hills, and the music of a


In the Name of the Most High. 223
Confederate band came in gusts across the river
from the cemetery.
'' They are playing 'Dixie,' '' said the girl;
but Cleymore only sighed and pulled the dirty
blanket over his face. The next day she brought
him his biscuit, there was but one left now, and
he, not knowing, asked for another, and she gave
him the last.
About noon he called to her, and she helped
him to the breastworks and held his field-glasses.
The engineers had made alarming progress, for
the river was falling rapidly.
"They 'll be over to-morrow," he said.
When he was lying in his blanket once more,
he beckoned her to come close beside him.
"Are you ill?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"You are so white and frail—I thought you
might be ill."
"Oh, no," she said.
'' Have you plenty to eat?"
"Plenty."
"When are you going?"
"Going?" she faltered.
"You must go, of course," he said, queru-
lously, '' they will be over the river to-mor-
row."
"And you?" said the girl.
"It 's my business to stay here."
"And—fire the mine?"
"And fire the mine," he repeated.


224 In the Name of the Most High.
"What is the use? They will enter all the
same.''
"Not all of them," said Cleymore, grimly.
"No—not all of them—a hundred half-starved
young fellows will be mangled—a hundred moth-
ers will be childless—but what matter, Captain
Cleymore?"
'' What matter,'' he repeated,—" my orders are
to defend this hill until hell freezes over, and I am
going to do it." Then, again, he wearily asked
pardon for his words.
Toward evening she saw he was sleeping; his
eye-glasses had fallen beside him on the blanket.
Almost timidly she picked them up, held them a
moment, then bent her head and touched them
with her lips.
The morning broke in a burst of splendid sun-
light. Over the river the rebel bands were play-
ing when Cleymore's hot eyes unclosed, but he
could not rise from his blanket.
The girl brought him a cup of water and held it
while he drank.
"There are no more biscuits," she said.
"I shall not need them," he murmured, " what
are the rebels doing ?''
'' They are massing to cross. The bridge is
almost ready."
"And I 'm ready," he said, " good-bye."
The girl knelt beside him and took both of his
hands in hers. "I am not going," she said.
"I order you," he muttered.


In the Name of the Most High. 225
"I refuse," she answered gently.
A hectic flush touched the hollows under his
eyes and he raised his head. "I order you to
leave these works," he said angrily.
"And I refuse," she repeated gently.
A burst of music from the river bank came up
to them as their eyes met in mute conflict. Cley-
more's hand instinctively felt for the button and
the wires, then he gave a great cry and sat up
among his rags, and the girl rose slowly to her
feet beside him.
'' Traitor!" he gasped, and pointed at her with
shaking hands.
She turned perfectly white for a moment, then
a wan smile touched her lips, and she quietly drew
a revolver from her jacket.
"I am not a traitor," she said, " I am a Con-
federate spy, and I cut those wires last night.
You are my prisoner, Captain Cleymore."
The silence was broken by the noise from the
bands, now massing about the further end of the
completed bridge. Cleymore bent silently over
the ruined wires, touched the button, then, turn-
ing savagely, whipped his revolver to his head
and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck an
empty cylinder, and he flung it from him with a
sob.
In an instant the girl was on her knees beside
him, raised him in her arms, holding his head on
her shoulder.
"Is it so hard to surrender to a woman?" she
is


226 In the Name of the Most High.
asked, '' see, I give you my revolver—here—now
shoot me down at your feet! I cut those wires!
Shoot fearlessly—Ah, do you think I care for my
life?"
Cleymore raised his head a little.
"I surrender," he sighed, and fainted.
Then there came a great sound of cheering from
below, the drums rattled, and the music of the
bugles swelled nearer and nearer, until a crash of
eager feet sounded among the branches of the
abatis and a figure clad in grey leaped upon the
breastworks and drove the steel point of a stand-
ard into the gravel.
"In the name of God!" he shouted in a voice
choked with emotion.
"Let him pray," muttered the dusty veterans
of Longstreet's infantry as they wheeled into the
parallels, " he 's one of Jackson's men."
And all these things were done in the Name of
the Most High.


THE BOY'S SISTER.


"Le plus grand tort de la plupart des maris envers
lews femmes, c'est de les avoir épousées."


THE BOY'S SISTER.
"Je tie me sens jamais plus seul que lorsque je livre
tnon coeur a quelque ami."
ARLAND'S profession took him to Ten Pin
Corners. His profession was to collect
butterflies for the Natural History Mu-
seum of New York. '' Uncle Billy,'' who kept the
Constitution Hotel at Ten Pin Corners, thought
"bug huntin'" was a "dampoor bizness, even
fur a dood,''—and perhaps it was—but that is none
of your business or mine. Garland lived at the
Constitution Hotel. The hotel did small honour to
its name, in fact it would have ruined any other
constitution. It was ruining Garland's by de-
grees, but a man of twenty-five does n't notice
such things. So Garland swallowed his saleratus
biscuits and bolted pork and beans, and was very
glad that he was alive.
He had met the male population of Ten Pin
Corners over the bar at the Constitution Hotel,—
Maupassant.
I.


230 The Boys Sister.
it being a temperance state—and there he had
listened to their views on all that makes life worth
living.
He tried to love his fellow-countrymen. When
Orrin Hayes spat upon the stove and denounced
woman's suffrage—when Cy Pettingil, whose wife
was obliged to sign his name for him, agreed pro-
fanely—when the Hon. Han ford Perkins, A. P.
A., demonstrated the wickedness of Catholicism,
and proffered vague menaces against Rome, Gar-
land conscientiously repressed a shudder.
"They are my countrymen, God bless 'em,"
he thought, smiling upon the free-born.
Uncle Billy's felonious traffic in the "j'yfull
juice," did not prevent his attendance at town
meeting, nor his enthusiastic voice against local
option.
"I ain't no dum fool," he observed to Gar-
land, "let the wimmen hev their way."
"But don't you think," suggested Garland,
"that a liberal law would be better?"
"Naw," replied Uncle Billy.
"But don't you think even a poor law should
be observed until wise legislation can find a rem-
edy?"
'' Naw,'' said Uncle Billy, and closed the sub-
ject.
Sometimes Uncle Billy would come out on the
verandah where Garland was sitting in the sun,
fussing over some captured caterpillar. His in-
variable salute was, "More bugs? Gosh!"


The Boy's Sister.
Once he brought Garland a cockroach, and sug-
gested the bar-room as a new and interesting col-
lecting ground, but Garland explained that his
business did not include such augean projects,
and the thrifty old man was baffled.
"What's them bugs good fur?" he demanded
at length. Garland explained, but Uncle Billy
never got over the impression that Garland s real
business was the advertising of Persian Powder.
Most of the prominent citizens of Ten Pin Corners
came to Garland to engage his services as potato-
beetle exterminator, measuring-worm destroyer,
and general annihilator of mosquitos, and to each
in turn he carefully explained what his profession
was.
They were skeptical—sometimes sarcastic. One
thing, however, puzzled them; he had never been
known to try to sell anybody Persian Powder, for,
possessed with the idea that he was some new
species of drummer, they found this difficult to
reconcile with their suspicions.
'' Bin a-buggiu', haint ye?" was the usual
salute from the free-born whom he met in the
fields; and when Garland smiled and nodded, the
free-born would expectorate and chuckle, '' Oh,
yew air slick, Mister Garland, yew 're more 'n a
Yankee than I be."
Ten Pin Corners was built along both sides of
the road; the Constitution Hotel stood at one
extremity of the main street, the Post Office at
the other. Garland once asked why the place


232
The Boys Sister.
was called Ten Pin Corners, and Uncle Billy told
him a lie about its having been named from his,
Uncle Billy's, palatial ten pin alley.
"Then why not Ten Pin Alley ?" asked Gar-
land.
"Cuz it ain't no alley," sniffed Uncle Billy.
"But," persisted Garland, "why Corners?"
"Becuz there haint no corners," said Uncle
Billy evasively, and retired to his bar, thirsty and
irritated. '' Asks enough damfool que-estions t'
set a man crazy," he confided to the Hon. Han-
ford Perkins; "I've hed drummers an' drummers
at the Constitooshun, but I h'aint seen nothin'
tew beat him."
The Hon. Hanford Perkins looked at Uncle
Billy and spat gravely upon the stove, and Uncle
Billy spat also, to put himself on an equality with
the Hon. Hanford Perkins.
Concerning the mendacity of Uncle Billy there
could be no question. Ten Pin Corners had been
originally Ten Pines Corners. Half a mile from
the terminus of the main street stood a low stone
house. It was included in the paternal govern-
ment of Ten Pin Corners, and it was from this
house, surrounded by ten gigantic pines, and
from the four cross-roads behind it, now long
disused and overgrown with grass and fireweed,
that the village name degenerated from Ten Pines
to Ten Pin.
Thither Garland was wont to go in the even-
ings, for the pines were the trysting places of


The Boys Sister. 233
moths—grey moths with pink and black under
wings, brown moths with gaudy orange under
wings, rusty red moths flecked with silver, nan-
keen yellow moths, the product of the measuring-
worm, big fluffy moths, little busy moths, and
moths that you and I know nothing about. The
sap from the pines attracted some of these crea-
tures, the lily garden in front of the stone house
attracted others, and the whole combination
attracted Garland. Also there lived in the stone
house a boy's sister.
One afternoon when Uncle Billy's continued
expectoration and Cy Pettingil's profanity had
driven Garland from the hotel, he wandered down
into a fragrant meadow, butterfly net in one hand,
trout rod in the other, and pockets stuffed with
cyanide jar, fly-book, sandwiches, and Wilson
on Hybrids.
The stream was narrow and deep, for the most
part flowing silently between level banks fragrant
with mint and scented grass; but here and there
a small moss-grown dam choked the current into
a deeper pool below, into which poured musical
waterfalls.
There were trout there, yellow, speckled, and
greedy, but devious in their ways, and uncertain
as April mornings. There were also frogs there,
solemn green ones that snapped at the artificial
flies and came out of the water with slim limbs
outstretched and belly glistening.
"It 's like pulling up some nude dwarf, when


234
The Boys Sister.
they grab the fly," wrote Garland to his chief in
New York, "really they look so naked and inde-
cent." Otherwise Garland was fond of frogs;
he often sat for hours watching them half afloat
along the bank or squatting majestically upon
some mossy throne.
That afternoon he had put on a scarlet ibis
fly, and the frogs plunged and lunged after it,
flopping into the pools and frightening the lurk-
ing trout until Garland was obliged to substitute
a yellow fly in self defence. But the trout were
coy. One great fellow leaped for the fly, missed
it, leaped again to see what was wrong, and find-
ing out, fled into the depths, waving his square
tail derisively. Garland walked slowly down
the brook, casting ahead into the stream, some-
times catching his fly in the rank grass, some-
times deftly defeating the larcenous manoeuvres
of some fat frog, and now and then landing a
plump orange-bellied trout among the perfumed
mint, where it flopped until a merciful tap on the
nose sent its vital spark into Nirvana and its crim-
son flecked body into Garland's moss-lined creel.
Once or twice he dropped his rod in the grass to
net some conceited butterfly that flaunted its
charms before the serious-minded clover bees, but
he seldom found anything worth keeping, and the
butterfly was left to pursue its giddy interrupted
flight.
As he passed, walking lightly on the flowering
turf, the big black crickets sang to him, the katy-


The Boys Sister.
235
dids scraped for him, and the grasshoppers, big
and little, brown, green, and yellow, hopped out
of the verdure before him, a tiny escort of out-
riders.
It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when
he came to the last pool, before the meadow brook
flows silently into the woods where slim black
trout lurk under submerged rocks and mosquitos
swoop thankfully upon the wanderer.
On the bank of the pool sat a beautiful boy
watching a cork floating with the current.
"Hello," said Garland, "you ought to be in
school, Tip."
The boy looked at Garland through gilded tan-
gled curls. "Can't you see I'm fishin'?" he
said in a whisper.
'' I see,'' said Garland, '' but you know your
sister would n't allow it. Why did you stay away
from school, Tip ?''
The angelic eyes were lowered a moment, then
the boy carefully raised his pole, and, seeing the
bait intact, dropped it into the water again.
"Bill Timerson biffed me," said the child.
'' If Willy Timerson struck you, you should
not stay away from school," he said; "did you—
er—hit him back?"
"Did I?"
"Did you?" repeated Garland, repressing a
smile.
"Heu! Why, Mister Garland, I slammed
that d—n mug of his ''


236
The Boys Sister.
"Tip !" said Garland.
The boy hung his head and looked at the cork.
Garland sat down beside him and lighted his pipe.
After a moment he said: '' Tip, I thought you
promised me not to swear."
The boy was silent.
"Did you ?" said Garland.
"Yes," replied the boy, sullenly.
"Well ?" persisted Garland.
"I lied," said the boy.
"You forgot," said Garland, quietly, "you
don't lie, Tip."
The boy looked at him shyly, then turned to
his cork again.
"Tip," said Garland, "what do you think of
these?" he opened his creel and Tip looked in.
"Hell !" said the child softly.
"What !" interrupted Garland.
"There!" said Tip calmly, "I lied again;
lam me one in the snoot, Mister Garland."
Garland touched the boy lightly on the fore-
head. "You will try," he said, trying to conceal
the despair in his voice.
"Yes," cried the child fervently, "I will, Mr.
Garland, so help me—I mean, cross my heart!"
After a moment he added, "I—I brought you a
green worm—here it is"
"Hello! A Smerinthus, eh? Much obliged,
Tip; where did you get it?"
"Sister found it on the piazza,—she said mebbe
you 'd want it," replied the child lifting his line


The Boys Sister.
237
again; "say, Mister Garland, Squire Perkins
says you 're loony."
'' What,'' laughed Garland.
'' Solemn,'' continued the child, '' he says you
was onct a book agent or a drummer, but you 're
loony now and can't work."
"The Hon. Hanford Perkins, Tip?" asked
Garland, laughing frankly.
"Yep, ole Perkins hisself."
"To whom did he eulogize me, Tip?"
"What, sir?"
"To whom did he say this?"
"To sister—an' Celia turned her back on him;
I seen it. Are you loony?"
Garland was laughing but managed to say, no.
"That's what I said," said Tip, scowling at
the water, "and I said you 'd kick the hel—
you 'd kick the stuffins outen him if he said it
much more. Will you, Mr. Garland?"
"I—I don't know," said Garland, trying to
control his mirth, "you must n't say that sort of
thing, you know, Tip."
"I know it," said Tip, resignedly, "I hove 'n
apple through his hat though,—last night."
Then Garland explained to Tip all about the
deference due to age, but so pleasantly that the
child listened to every word.
"All right," he said, "I 'll let the ole man be,
—I was plannin' to bust a window," he con-
tinued, with a trace of regret, "but I won't!"
he cried in a climax of pious resignation.


238
The Boys Sister.
Garland watched a distant butterfly critically
for a moment, then picked up his rod and creel
and shook the ashes from his pipe.
"Goin' to see Cis?" inquired Tip.
'' Hem! Hum! I—er—may pass by that
way," replied Garland.
"You won't tell her that I smashed Bill Timer-
son?"
"Of course not," said Garland, "that's for
you to tell her."
"I won't," said the child doggedly.
"Very well," said Garland, walking away.
Tip watched him, but he did not turn, and the
child's face became troubled.
"I will tell, Mr. Garland !" he called across
the meadow.
"All right, Tip," answered Garland, cheerily.


II.
BEFORE Garland came in sight of the low
stone house he caught the fragrance of the
lilies. The sun glittered low on the hori-
zon, long luminous shadows stretched over
meadow and pasture, and a thin blue haze floated
high among the feathery tops of the pines about
the house. A white nanny-goat of tender age,
tethered on the velvet turf, cried '' me—h!
me—h!" watching him with soft silly eyes.
Except for the kid, and a Maltese cat asleep on
the porch, there was no sign of life about the
house. Garland turned and looked out over the
pastures. A spot of greyish-pink was moving
down there. He watched it for a moment, quietly
refilling his pipe, then dropped his rod and net
upon the turf, and threw himself on the ground
beside them. From time to time he raised his
eyes from the pages of Wilson on Hybrids to note
the progress of the pink spot in the distant pasture.
Wilson was most interesting on hybrids. What
Wilson had to say was this: "There can be no
doubt that hybrid forms of these two splendid
butterflies, Nymphalis Arthemis and Nymphalis
239


240
The Boys Sister.
Ephestion, exist in the localities frequented by
these species. In the little village of Ten Pin
Comers, Professor Wormly discovered an un-
known hybrid, which, unfortunately, he was un-
able to capture or describe."
This was what Wilson had to say on hybrids.
This was what Garland thought: "I'd give
fifty dollars to capture one of these hybrids ;—I
wonder what Celia is doing in the pasture? It
may not have been a hybrid; it may only have
been a variety. Celia is milking the Alderney,
that 's what she 's doing. Still Wormly ought
to know what he 's about. Celia has finished
milking; now it's the Jersey's turn. I should
like to see a hybrid of Arthemis and—hello!
Celia has finished, I fancy." Then he laid down
his book and carefully retied his necktie.
When Celia arrived and placed her milk pail on
the porch, Garland jumped to his feet with hypo-
critical surprise.
"You are milking early," he said, "did you
just come from the pasture?"
The girl looked at her pail and nodded. The
sunlight gilded her arms, bare to the shoulder,
and glittered in a fierce halo around her burnished
hair. She had her brother's soft blue eyes, fringed
with dark lashes, but the beauty of her mouth
was indescribable. Garland, as usual, offered to
take the milk pail, and she, as usual, firmly
declined.
"You never let me," he said, "I wanted to


The Boys Sister. 241
bring it up from the pasture, but I knew what
you 'd say."
'' Then you saw me in the pasture,'' she
asked.
"Er—er—yes," he admitted.
'' I saw you too,'' she said, and sat down in the
red sunlight under the pines.
Garland sat down also, and made an idle pass
at a white butterfly with his net.
'' Have you caught any new butterflies to-
day ?'' she asked, bending to tie her shoe-
string.
"No, nothing new," he answered. She
straightened up, brushed a drop or two of milk
from the hem of her pink skirt, passed a slim
hand over her crumpled apron, and leaned back
against the tree trunk, touching her hair lightly
with her fingers.
"Last night," she said, "a great green miller-
moth came around the lamp. I caught him for
you."
"A Luna," he said, "thank you, Celia."
"Luna," she repeated gravely, " is he rare?"
She had picked up a few phrases from Garland
and used them with pretty conscientiousness.
"No," said Garland, "not very rare—but I
will keep this one."
"I caught some more, too," she continued, "a
yellow miller—"
"Moth, Celia."
"Miller-moth—"


242 The Boys Sister.
"No—a moth—"
"A yellow moth," she continued serenely,
"that had eyes on its wings."
"Saturnia Io," said Garland.
"Io," repeated the girl, softly, " is it rare?"
"It is rare here. I will keep it."
The Maltese cat lifted its voice and rubbed its
arched back against the milk pail. Its name was
Julia and Garland called it to him.
"Julia has a saucer of milk on the porch ; she
is only teasing,'' said Celia.
But Julia's voice was sustained and piercing,
and Garland rose laughing and poured a few
drops of warm fresh milk into the half-filled
saucer. Then Julia exposed the depth of her
capriciousness; she sniffed at the milk, walked
around it twice, touched the saucer playfully,
patted a stray leaf with velvet paw, and then
suddenly pretending that she was in danger of
instant annihilation from some impending calam-
ity, pranced into the middle of the lawn, crooked
her tail, rushed halfway up a tree-trunk, slid back,
and finally charged on the tethered kid with
swollen tail and ears flattened.
Garland went back to his seat on the turf.
"It is the way of the world," he said gaily.
Celia picked up a pine cone and sniffed daintily
at the dried apex.
'' Julia was not hungry; she only wanted atten-
tion, '' he added.


The Boys Sister. 243
"Some people are hungry for attention too,—
and never get it," said Celia.
Garland knew what she meant. It was com-
mon gossip among the free-born who congregated
about the saliva stricken stove at Uncle Billy's or
sat on musty barrels in the Post Office store.
"But," said Garland, "you do not want his
attention,—now.''
"No," she said indifferently, " I do not want
it now,—it is too late."
"Then don't let 's think about it," said Gar-
land quickly.
'' Think! think !'' she answered without impa-
tience, '' what else can I do?"
"And you think of him ?" he asked.
"No, not of him, but of his injustice," she said
quietly.
They had talked sometimes on the subject—he
never knew just how it came about. Perhaps his
interest in Tip had moved her to the confidence, if
it could be called a confidence, for all the free-born
were unbidden participants in the secret. The
story was commonplace enough. When Celia
was sixteen, four years back, she lived with an
elect uncle in the manufacturing town of High-
field, forty miles down the river. One day a road
company with more repertoire than cash, stranded
at Bowies' Opera House and drifted back by high-
way and byway toward Boston. One member of
the company, however, did not drift back. His


244 The Boys Sister.
name was Clarence Minster and he said he had
found salvation, which was true in one sense, for
Celia's elect uncle clawed him into the fold and
having cleansed his soul, gave him a job to cleanse
the stable at very few dollars a month. Celia was
young and simple and pitiful. She also possessed
five hundred dollars of her own. So Clarence
Minster first ran away with her and then with
most of her five hundred dollars. Unfortunately
the marriage was legal, and the uncle implacable,
so Celia took her brother Tip in one hand, and a
thinned-out pocket-book in the other, and went to
her dead parent's home, the stone house at Ten
Pin Corners. She sometimes heard of Minster,
never from him. He had struck the public taste
as " Dick Willard," the hero of the lachrymose
melodrama, " Honour," and his photographs were
occasionally seen in Highfield store windows.
This was Celia's story—part of it. The other
part began as she began to listen to Garland, and
to bring him delicate winged moths that sought
her chamber lamp as she bent over Tip's patched
clothes. Something also was beginning for Gar-
land; he felt it growing as he moved among the
lilies in the dusk while Celia held the bullseye
lantern, and the great sphinx moths hovered over
the pinks. He felt it in the crystal clear morn-
ings when sleepy butterflies clung to the late
lilacs, and Celia moved far afield through raspber-
ries and yellow buttercups. He felt it now, as he
lay beside her among level shadows and gilt-tipped


The Boys Sister. 245
verdure—he felt it and wondered whether it was
love. Perhaps Celia could have told him, I don't
know, but it was plain enough to the tethered kid
and the Maltese cat, to the drifting swallows, and
the orioles in the linden tree besides the well-
sweep. It was simple and self-evident to the
Alderney, lowing at the bars, to the Jersey star-
ing stolidly at Celia, to the robins, the hedge birds
—yes, to the tireless crickets chirping from every
tussock.
Now whether or not it was equally plain to Tip
as he came trudging up the gravel walk, I do not
know.
He said, " Hello, Cis," and came and kissed her
—a thing he did not often do voluntarily. "I
smashed Bill Timerson in the jaw," he continued,
"and he told the teacher, and I dasn't go back."
Then he glanced humbly at Garland.
Celia had tears in her eyes, and she also turned
instinctively to Garland. '' Speak to him, please,''
she said, " I can do nothing."
'' Yes you can,'' said Tip—'' you and Mr. Gar-
land together. I 've told him."
"Tip will go back to school to-morrow," said
Garland, " and take his thrashing."
Tip looked doubtful.
"And," continued Garland, " as Bill Timerson
is older and stronger than Tip, Tip will continue
to punch him whenever assaulted.''
"Oh—no !" pleaded Celia.
"Let him," said Garland, smiling. Tip threw


246 The Boys Sister.
his arms around his sister's neck and kissed her
again, and she held him tightly to her milk-
stained apron.
"Mr. Garland knows," she whispered, "my
darling, try to be good."


III.
ARLAND leaned back in his chair in the
dingy bar-room of the Constitution Hotel.
His abstracted gaze wandered from Uncle
Billy to a framed chromo on the wall, a faithful
reproduction of some catchup bottles, a boiled lob-
ster and a platter of uninviting oysters. The
Hon. Hanford Perkins was speaking—he had been
speaking for half an hour. For years, like Peffer,
he had been telling the Government what to do,
but his patience, unlike Peffer's, was exhausted,
and now he had decided to let the country go to
the devil. He wrote no more letters to the High-
field Banner, he sulked, and an ungrateful coun-
try never even knew it At times, however,
under the kindly stimulus of Uncle Billy's "j'y-
full juice," he condescended to address the free-
born in the bar-room of the Constitution Hotel.
He was doing it now. He had touched upon
silver with the elephantine dexterity of a Populist,
he had settled the tariff to the satisfaction of Ten
Pin Corners, he spoke of the folly of maintaining
a navy, and dismissed the army with a masterly
sarcasm in which the phrase, "fuss 'n feathers"


248 The Boys Sister,
was dwelt upon. Uncle Billy, in the popular atti-
tude of a cherub, elbows on the bar, gazed at him
with undisguised admiration. Cy Pettingil, fear-
ful that he was not on an equality with the drum-
mer in the corner, spat upon the stove until he
was. Then the drummer told an unclean story
which was a success, but the Hon. Hanford Per-
kins, feeling slighted at the loss of attention, told
a scandalous bit of gossip which threw the drum-
mer's story into the shade.
Garland stirred restlessly, and opened Wilson
on Hybrids again. He had been reading for a
moment or two when a name caught his ear, and
he closed his book and raised his eyes.
The Hon. Hanford Perkins was speaking,
and Garland leaned over and touched his coat
sleeve.
"You are speaking of a woman," he said, "that
is not the tone to use nor is this the place to dis-
cuss any woman."
"Hey?" said the Hon. Hauford, with a laugh,
and winked at Uncle Billy.
"I guess he can say what he dam pleases in
my house,'' said Uncle Billy, expectorating;
"the girl's not yourn."
"The girl," added Cy Pettingil, "is a damned
little"
Then Garland took Cy Pettingil by the throat,
swung him around the room twice, and kicked
him headlong into the billiard-table, under which
Pettingil hastily scrambled.


The Boys Sister. 249
"Now," said Garland to the Honourable Han-
ford Perkins, '' do you want to follow Pettingil?
If you do, just wag that bunch of whiskers on
your chin again."
The drummer in the corner smiled uneasily,
picked up his sample case and key, and said good-
night in an uncertain voice to Garland. Uncle
Billy's eyes were fixed upon Garland with a fasci-
nated stare, and his jaw slowly dropped. The
Hon. Hanford Perkins cast one amazed glance at
Pettingil, another at Uncle Billy, and waddled
majestically out into the street.
When Garland had picked up his book and left
the hotel, Cy Pettingil crawled from beneath the
billiard-table and approached Uncle Billy. He
expectorated and leaned on the bar, but no
amount of ejected saliva could re-establish him in
his own estimation—he felt this bitterly.
"I 'll git the law on him," he said after a
moist silence, and rubbed his red hand over his
chin. "I 'll hev the law onto him," he repeated;
but Uncle Billy was non-committal.
"Gimme a little bug-juice," said Cy, after an
uncomfortable silence, and tossed a quarter upon
the bar, with ostentatious carelessness,—"I'm
dry, Billy."
"Yew be?" said Uncle Billy, "wall, yew
don't git no bug-juice nor nawthin' here."
"Hey !" said Pettingil.
"Naw," said Uncle Billy, scornfully, and
retired to the depths of the bar.


250 The Boys Sister.
Garland walked slowly down the road in the
twilight, switching the grass with the bamboo
staff of his butterfly-net, angry with himself and
nauseated with the free-born. And as he walked
he was aware of a light touch on his arm, and a
lighter footstep by his side. It was Tip.
"I—I was in the hallway of the hotel," said
Tip, eagerly, "'n' I seen what you done to Cy
Pettingil"
"What were you doing there?" said Garland
sharply.
"Buyin' salt for Cis,—oh! I just love you,
Mister Garland!" And before Garland could
raise his eyes, Tip had flung himself into his arms
sobbing: "I ain't big enough to lick all the
loafers in town, but I lick all their sons, and
Cis says I am growin' fast. Oh, you do love me
and Cis, don't you, Mister Garland?"
"Yes," said Garland, gravely, and kissed his
wet face. Then he took him by the hand and
told him how low and mean a bar-room fight was,
and that he must never tell Celia what had hap-
pened. He tried to explain to him what was
necessary to resent, and what was not; he spoke
sympathetically as he always did, and Tip ab-
sorbed every word.
"Now let us forget it," said Garland, " Tip,
your grammar is very uncertain. Why do you
not try to speak as your sister does ?''
"The boys I play with don't speak that way,"
said Tip.


The Boys Sister. 251
"Neither does Cy Pettingil,—he speaks as you
do," said Garland.
Tip's hand trembled and clasped Garland's
tighter. "Learn me what to say, Mister Gar-
land, '' he said after a silence.
'' I will,'' replied Garland, '' how would you
like to go to school in Boston ?''
"When?"
"Next winter."
"Can Ciscome too?"
"I—had n't thought,—you can't leave her, can
you, Tip?"
"No," said Tip.
"Well—we 'll see—you need not speak of this
to your sister; I will—er—discuss the question
with her later,'' said Garland.
Celia was standing under the pines as they
walked up the gravel path. She knew his foot-
steps and came up on the verandah to greet him.
"Why, you are all over white!" she said;
"has Tip spilled the salt on you?"
"Tip and I hugged each other to the detriment
of the salt,'' said Garland laughing and brushing
the white grains from his coat.
"Tip, dear, have you been naughty ?" asked
Celia.
"Nope," said Tip so promptly that even Celia
laughed, and Tip retired to bed, glowing with
virtuous resolves. Celia went up to his room
and waited until he had said his prayers. She
was troubled by the fervency of his prayer for


252
The Boys Sister.
Garland, but joined faintly in the Amen, and
covered Tip with the white sheets.
"Mr. Garland says he loves you, Cis," said
Tip, holding up his lips to be kissed. Celia
caught her breath and laid one hand on the bed-
post.
"Tip," she faltered.
"Yep—an' me, too," said Tip, blissfully.
He fell asleep soon; Celia stood and watched
him in the moonlight. She was thinking of Gar-
land; Tip was dreaming of him.
When she came down, Garland was busy among
the lilies with bullseye lantern and butterfly net,
and she took a chair on the verandah and watched
him. Two "Imperial" moths had fallen to his
lot, perfect specimens, and he was happy, for had
not Professor Wormly cautiously deplored the
absence of this species in the whole country?
"One on Wormly," laughed Garland, drop-
ping the great yellow and violet-brown moths
from his cyanide-jar into her lap, "are they not
pretty, Celia?"
Since Garland had come, Celia had seen beauty
through his eyes where ever his eyes saw it; the
shadows on the pasture, the long light over the
hills, the massed pines red in the sunset, the
morning meadow sheeted with cobwebs. For the
first time in her innocent life she had turned to
watch the colour in the evening sky, she had
stooped to lift a clover-drunk butterfly and exam-
ine the rainbow span of its wings, she lingered at


The Boys Sister.
253
the bars, listening to the music of the meadow
brook along the alders. So when he asked her if
the moths were beautiful, she smiled and saw that
they were; and when he asked her to hold his
lantern among the lilies, she prettily consented.
Up and down they moved, to and fro through
the lilies and clustered pinks, but the moonlight
was too clear and the swift sphinx moths did not
visit the garden that night.
He was standing still, looking at the lilies, and
she was swinging the lantern idly. '' About Tip,''
he said abruptly, '' do you think the school here
is good for him ?''
"I know it is not," she said sadly.
'' His English is alarming,'' said Garland.
'' I know it—what can I do?"
"I don't know; if he goes to school he will
play with those children, I suppose."
"He was such a well-bred child," said Celia,
"before—before we came here. He talked when
he was three. I seem to have little influence over
him.''
"You have a great deal—not in that way per-
haps. Suppose you take Tip out of school,
Celia."
"What would become of him?" exclaimed
Celia in gentle alarm.
"It's better than leaving him there. I—er—I
might help him a bit."
"But—it 's very, very kind of you—but you
will go away before winter—will you not?"


254 The Boys Sister.
"I don't know," said Garland, and instinctively
laid his hand on hers. At the contact, her cheeks
flamed in the darkness.
"Celia," he said, "I do not want to go."
Her face was turned from him. After a mo-
ment his fingers unclosed and her impassive hand
fell to her side. The swift touch left him silent
and awkward. He tried to speak lightly again
but could not. Finally he folded his net, extin-
guished the lantern and said good-night. Long
after he had disappeared she stood among the
lilies, her hands softly clasped to her breast.


IV.
"T TEU!" sniffed Uncle Billy, as he poured
I 1 out a glass of beer for himself behind
the fly-soiled bar at the Constitution
Hotel, "there hain't a man araound taown dass
say a word abaout the Minster girl when Mister
Garland 's a settin' here."
"Mister Garland's a skunk !" said Cy Pettin-
gil, morosely.
"He ain't the skunk that yew be, Cy Pettin-
gil,'' retorted Uncle Billy, wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand.
Garland came in a moment later, satchel in
hand, and laid a roll of bills on the bar. Uncle
Billy moistened his thumb with his tongue,
counted them, and shoved them into his waistcoat
pocket. "C'rect," he said, shifting his quid,
'' what can I dew for yew, sir?"
"Send this satchel with my trunk," said Gar-
land, "good-bye, Uncle Billy."
Uncle Billy emerged from the bar, wiped his
right hand on his trousers and extended it.
"Good luck, an' many bugs to yew, Mister
Garland. I'm real cut up that yew air goin',
255


256
The Boys Sister.
sir; ennything in the bug line thet I hev I 'll
send t' Noo York."
"Thank you, Uncle Billy," said Garland, and
walked out of the hotel, gloves in one hand, cane
in the other.
Cy Pettingil sneered when he was gone, but,
receiving no sympathy from Uncle Billy, went
home and nagged at his wife, a pale woman
weighed down with trouble and American pastry
—until she retorted. Then he struck her.
Garland walked on past the church and school-
house, through the sweet-briar lane by the Post
Office, and, taking the path above the cemetery,
followed it until he came in sight of the stone
house among the pines. The Maltese cat trotted
out to greet him, the tethered kid stared at him
from the lawn, but Celia was invisible, and he
stood hesitating under the woodbine on the porch.
He had never entered Celia's house. She had
never asked him in, and he knew that she was
right. He sat down under the pines and looked
off over the pastures where the Alderney and
Jersey were feeding along the brookside.
Garland had come to say good-bye. There was
nothing that he could do for Tip; Celia was not
able to send him to a better school, nor could she
have afforded to go with him. Even if she should
accept an offer to send Tip to school, what would
she do there alone in that scandal nest of the free-
born? So Garland sat poking pine cones with
his stick and crumpling his gloves in his brown


The Boys Sister.
257
hand until a tangle of sun-warmed curls rose over
the fence and Tip appeared, smoking a cigarette.
When he saw Garland he dropped the cigarette
and looked the other way, whistling.
"Come, Tip," said Garland, wearily, "let's
have it out before Celia comes."
Tip went to him at once.
'' Who gave you that cigarette ?'' asked Garland.
"No one, I made it."
"Tobacco?"
"No, sir, sweet-fern and corn silk."
'' That is not much better. Tip, are you going
to stop this?"
The child picked up a pine cone, examined it
carefully, and tossed it toward the Maltese cat.
"Answer me," said Garland.
The child was silent.
"Very well," said Garland.
"I promise!" cried Tip,—"I won't never
smoke nothing,—don't go away, Mr. Garland!"
"Is that your word of honour, Tip?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right," said Garland, smiling, "now you
have promised me not to drink or smoke until you
are twenty-one. I know I can trust you, and I
am very happy. You need not tell Celia of this."
"I—I will if you want?" said Tip, humbly.
"No,—it will only worry her—and you have
promised now. What did you do in school to-
day?"
'' I punched Jimmy Bro ''
'7


258 The Boys Sister.
'' I did not ask for an account of your athletic
victories," said Garland, "I merely wished to
know in what particular branch of the applied
sciences you excelled.''
"Wh—a—at, sir?"
"Were you perfect in reading?"
"N—no, sir."
"In writing?"
"No—o—"
"In arithmetic?"
Tip stirred restlessly, and looked at the Mal-
tese cat. Then he brightened and said, "A
skunk got into the cellar while school was goin'.
Teacher told us all about skunks an' anennals."
"Oh," said Garland, " an object lesson in nat-
ural history?"
"Yep. Skunk ain't its real name, its real
name is Methodist Americanus"
"What 's that ?" exclaimed Garland.
"Methodist Americanus"
"Mephetis Americanus, Tip," said Garland
gravely.
"Oh! I thought the man what named it
might have had a uncle like mine"
"Tip!"
"Yes, sir?"
"That will do," said Garland seriously.
The child nodded contentedly and began an
elaborate series of evolutions, the object of which
was to capture the Maltese cat. The cat was per-
fectly aware of this; she allowed the boy to ap-


The Boys Sister.
259
proach her until his hand was within an inch of
her back; then she ran a few feet, cocked her ears,
switched her tail, and pretended to forget him.
After a while they disappeared behind the lilac
bushes at the end of the verandah, and Garland
leaned back against the tree and poked at pine
cones again.
The sun sank lower and lower, flooding the
pastures, tinging the calm meadow pools with the
splendour of its fading glory. In the evening glow
the turf burned like golden tapestry, the swallows
twittered among the chimneys or drifted and rose
high in the quiet air, and the chickens looked up
with restless peeps to their roost in the lilac
branches. An orange light, ever deepening, dyed
the edges of the pools where the ripples of a rising
fish or a low dipping gnat disturbed the surface
reflection of the placid evening sky. From palest
green to grey the horizon changed until, like a
breath creeping over a window, a rosy flush
stained the zenith. And the sun had set.
With sunset Celia came, walking slowly over
the grass that shone in the shadows with a green
almost metallic. She started slightly when Gar-
land moved in the shade of the pines, but came to
him, offering her hand.
'' Then you are going,'' she said simply.
"Yes,—I am going. My train leaves at nine
to-night. How did you know?"
She glanced at his gloves and stick and smiled
gently,


26o
The Boys Sister.
"I am going," he said, "because they want me
in New York. Some day I will come back ''
A ghost of a smile touched her lips again. He
moved impatiently nearer, and she looked at his
troubled eyes.
"Shall I come back?" he asked awkwardly.
"Yes—come; Tip will welcome you"
"And you?"
"I,"—she said softly—" I don't know."
'' What troubles you?" he said; but she
turned her head toward the sunset. "What
troubles you?" he said again;—"is—is he
coming ?''
She dropped her head.
"When ?" asked Garland in a hard voice.
"To-night."
Something of the horror in her face as she
turned it was reflected in his own. This, then,
was the reward for her quiet struggle for life; this
was the reward,—the return of this miserable
actor whom she had learned to loathe—her hus-
band! Whew! the stench of perfume and grease
paint seemed to fill his nostrils; he could see the
smooth fat face shaved blue, as he had seen it
behind the footlights in the metropolis, the bull
neck, the professional curly head!
Then he set his teeth and dug his stick into the
turf at his feet. The girl moved a step from him.
'' Celia,'' he said unsteadily, '' have you ever
thought of divorce?"
"Yes."


The Boys Sister. 261
They were silent again. The whistle of a dis-
tant train startled Garland from his reverie and
he picked up his gloves and buttoned his coat.
It was the incoming train from New York. With
a frightened glance at him she held out her hand,
murmuring good-bye, and turned toward the
house, but he stepped swiftly to her side and
touched her arm.
Oh, the terror in the eyes that met his,—and the
kiss,—as she clung to his breast in the twilight
there—the kiss that solved all problems, that
broke down barriers and made the way plain and
clear,—the way that they should travel together
through life and the life to come.
And so they went away into the world together,
and Tip went with them, one dimpled hand in
Garland's, one clasping the Maltese cat close to
his breast.





THE CRIME.


How,' says he, blessing himself, ' would I whip this
.... if it were my child.'"
Samue1, Pepys.


THE CRIME.
"Heark I Oh, heark ! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries
Was the cruellest murder done
That e're yet eclipst the sunne."
NOW it happened one day in the early Spring-
time when the sky was china blue and
filmy clouds trailed like lace across the
disk of a pale sun, that I, Henry Stenhouse, nine-
teen years of age, well and sound in mind and
body, decided to commit a crime.
The crime which I contemplated was murder.
For three years past I had watched the object of
my pursuit; I had peered at him at night as he
lay sleeping, I had crept stealthily to his home,
evening after evening, waiting for a chance to
kill him. I had seen him moving about on his
daily business, growing fatter and sleeker, serene,
sly, self-centred, absorbed in his own affairs, yet
keeping a keen, shrewd eye upon strangers. For
265


266
The Crime.
he mistrusted strangers; those who passed by him,
not even noticing him, he mistrusted less than he
did others who came to him with smiles and out-
stretched hands.
He never accepted anything from anybody. A
strange step or the sound of a strange voice made
him shy and suspicious. But he was cold and
selfish, cold-blooded as a fish—in fact he—but I
had better tell you a little more about him first.
He was my enemy; I determined to kill him, and
perhaps he read it in my drawn face and sparkling
eyes, for, as I stepped toward him, the first time,
he turned and fled—fled straight across the Clover-
mead River.
And although I searched the river banks up
and down and up and down again, I saw no more
of him that day.
When I went home, excited, furious, I made
passionate preparations to kill him. All night
long I tossed feverishly in my tumbled bed, long-
ing, aching for the morning. When the morning
came I stole out of the house and bent my steps
towards the river, for I had reason to believe that
he lived somewhere in that neighbourhood. As I
crept along, the early morning sun glittered on
something that I clutched with nervous fingers.
It was a weapon.
This happened three years ago; I did not find
him that morning although I searched until the
shadows fell over meadow and thicket. That
night too found me on his trail, but the calm


The Crime. 267
Spring moon rose over Clovermead village and its
pale light fell on no scene of blood.
So for three years I trailed him and stalked him,
always awaiting the moment to strike,—praying
for an opportunity to slay; but he never gave me
one. He was fierce and shifty, swift as lightning
when aroused, but the battle that I offered he
declined. Oh, he was deep,—deep and crafty,
cold-blooded as a fish,—in fact, he was a fish,
Mine Enemy, the Trout.
Do you imagine that the killing of Mine Enemy
was a crime? No, my friend—that, properly
done, was what is known as sport; improperly
done, it is murder;—there, the murder '& out! I
was going to catch the trout with bait!
You, dear brethren of the angle, brave fly-fish-
ermen, all, wet or dry, turn not from me with
loathing! Hear my confession, the confession of
one who was tempted, listened, fell, and fished for
a trout with a worm!
Anyway, it 's your own fault if you throw down
this book and beat your breasts with cruel vio-
lence. I told you that my story was to be the
story of a crime, and if you don't like to read
about crimes, you had no business to begin this
tale. There are worse crimes too,—some people
habitually fish with bait; some net fish, and there
exist a few degraded objects in human shape who
snare trout with a wicked wire loop on the end of
a sapling.
Now I don't propose to tell you about these


268
The Crime.
things, I am no depraved realist, so thank your
stars that the crime I contemplated was no worse
than it was, and listen to the story of an erring
brother. Mea culpa!
I was only nineteen, a student at the State
School of Engineering, and in my senior year.
What I did in engineering was barely sufficient to
carry me through my examination; what I did in
shooting and trout fishing might have furnished
material for a sporting library. I had no particu-
lar aversion to my profession; my father before
me had been a mining engineer. I was not en-
tirely ignorant either; I knew mica-chist from
malachite, and I could—but that 's of no conse-
quence now. It is true, however, that instead of
applying myself to the studies of my profession I
spent a great deal of time contributing to a New
York sporting journal called the Trigger. I pro-
duced a couple of columns a week on such sub-
jects as '' German Trout versus Natives," "Do
Automatic Reels Pay ?'' and '' Experiments with
the Amherst Pheasant." But my article entitled
"The Enemies of the Spawning-Beds," won me
recognition, and I became a regular contributor to
the Trigger.
How I ever passed my examinations is one of
those mysteries that had better remain uninvesti-
gated. I don't remember that I studied or at-
tended many lectures. I was too busy, shooting
or fishing, or writing for the Trigger.
Also there existed a girls' boarding-school a
mile away.


The Crime.
269
This school was run by two old maids, the
Misses Timmins. It was the Timmins sisters'
aim in life to prevent the members of their school
from coming into contact with the engineers from
Clovermead; therefore we knew them all.
The means of communication were varied and
ingenious, for the little maidens at the boarding-
school were quite as enthusiastic as we were. We
never went through the formality of an introduc-
tion,—it was not expected; we spoke when we
had the chance, and thanked fortune for the
chance.
There was, however, one weird custom laid
down by the boarding-school maidens, a tradition
which had existed as long as the school; and this
was well understood by the Clovermead Engi-
neers. It was this: no youth could expect to
spoon with any Timmins maiden unless he first
declared his intentions by serenading her.
We were not all blessed with a high order of
musical ability,—I played a harmonica,—but we
were willing to try. I had tried several times.
The results were very sweet,—I don't mean in a
musical way.
So between the boarding-school and the Trig-
ger I found little leisure, and the less leisure I
had the less I felt inclined to occupy it with engi-
neering problems. Besides, there was the big
trout to think of, Mine Enemy, whom I had
sworn to drag from the depths of that most deli-
cious of streams, the Clovermead River.
During these three years while I persistently


The Crime.
fished for Mine Enemy (and goodness knows I
had never before beheld so lusty a trout!) every
fly known to anglers, and many flies unknown to
anybody but myself, I tried on that impassive
fish.
And he grew fatter and fatter.
I remember well the day of the temptation. I
was sitting at the foot of the big oak tree that
spreads above the pool where Mine Enemy lurked.
Wearied with casting, I had sought the shadow of
the oak and had lighted a cigarette to change my
luck. And as I sat on the cool turf, I was aware
of an angle worm, travelling along at my feet on
business of its own. Scarcely conscious of what I
did, I picked up a twig and tossed the little worm
over the bank.
Then, in a moment, I was sorry, for I never
willingly bother little things. I watched the
worm sinking slowly into the crystalline depths of
the pool.
When at last the little worm struck the bottom
I suppose it was both astonished and indignant
for it began to twist and turn and shoot out like a
telescope over the gravelly bottom.
I was sorry, as I say, and I hoped it might
make its way to the bank again and bore into it.
Several inquisitive minnows, half as long as the
angle worm, gathered around it staring and open-
ing their diminutive mouths. Then, all at once,
the minnows darted away, scattering in every
direction, and a huge shadow fell upon the gravel,


The Crime.
271
a trout, monstrous, lazy, slowly gliding out from
the dark bank to where the worm wriggled,
pushing its pink head among the pebbles.
Very deliberately the great fish opened his
mouth—not very wide—and the little worm was
gone. For five minutes the trout lay there, and I
watched him, scarcely daring to breathe. After
a while I cautiously reached for my rod, freed the
line and leader, bent a little forward, and cast
over the fish. Lightly as snowflakes falling on
window panes, the flies drifted onto the placid
surface of the pool. The trout did not stir.
It was at this moment that temptation overtook
me; my sinful eyes roved over the turf where the
angle worm had been, and, brethren. forgive me!
—I lusted after bait!!
'' It will be so easy,'' whispered the tempter,
"no one will ever know!"
"Get behind me, Satan," said I.
"But it's so easy,—and the big trout will
never touch artificial flies !''
"Avaunt Apollyon!" I groaned while the
sweat stood in beads on my eyebrows.
So I overcame the devil, and went away to
avoid further contention. And Heaven rewarded
me with the sight of a pretty girl playing a guitar
at her window.
She was so pretty that the fact alone was reward
enough, but Heaven never does things by halves,
Madame, and when for an instant I paused by the
brier hedge to listen, the pretty girl gave me one


272 The Crime.
of those swift, provoking sidelong glances, and
then, touching her guitar, looked innocently up
into the sky.
And this is what she sang:
"Young aia I, and yet unskilled
How to make a lover yield;
How to keep and how to gain,
When to love and when to feign!"
"Take me, take me some of you
While I yet am young and true;
He that has me first is blest,
For I may deceive the rest"
And the guitar went strum! tum-tum! strum!
tura-turn ! tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-strum! tum-tum!
"The little innocent thing," I thought, and
looked at her through the hedge.
She was not so very young; she might have
been my own age. She was sitting in one of the
windows of the dormitory which belonged to
the Misses Timmins' Select Boarding-school for
Young Ladies!
Evidently the Misses Timmins were not in the
immediate neighbourhood.
'' Dear little innocent thing,'' I repeated to
myself.
I moved slightly. She looked at me with that
dreamy confiding look that stirs the pulses of
some people. I am one of those people.


The Crime. 273
"She is lonely," said I to myself, "it is the
duty—nay, the precious privilege of the happy to
sympathize with the lonely."
There was a bud of sweet-brier beside my cheek.
I picked it, sniffed it pensively, and looked at the
girl in the window.
She looked at me, glanced down at her guitar,
thrummed a little, sighed a little, and ate a bon-
bon.
Ah, that sigh !—gentle, troubling, irresistible.
"She," thought I to myself, "shall be my god-
dess,—this humble dormitory shall be my temple,
this window my shrine! Hither will I come to
worship and bring burnt offerings,—almonds and
bon-bons. This village will not be so dull after
all," I thought to myself.
"What time," said I, speaking very gently, for
I did not wish to disturb the Misses Timmins with
my rude voice, — "what time, Mademoiselle,
would it be advisable for an enamoured lover to
serenade the delicious object of his adoration?"
"We retire at half-past nine, fair sir," said the
maiden innocently.
I knew I was not mistaken. The poor child was
lonely.
"Heavens! " said I,—"driven to retire at half
past nine! Are—er—the—Misses Timmins—er
--fierce?" "They are deaf," said the maiden, with a child-
like smile.
"Ah,—unhappy ladies i This is a fine old
18


274
The Crime,
building, a noble facade. Are you fond of archi-
tecture?"
"My window is the one I am sitting in," said
the maid with simple confidence, "I could let
down a string in case you had matters of grave
import or state despatches to communicate."
"Ahem!" said I, " have you a string there
now?"
"Yes, fair sir."
So I slid through the hedge and stood under
her window holding up my creel.
"I have," said I, "a few small brook trout
here—nothing to boast of—but if you would ac-
cept"
"Indeed you are too kind"
"They may vary the monotony of prunes and
weak tea for supper"
"Fair sir, I see you have known other board-
ing-school maidens!"
"Foi de gentilhomme!" I protested.
"Which is not pronounced the way we pro-
nounce French here," she said,—" let me see the
trout."
I opened the creel.
"I will accept," said the girl graciously, and
let down a string, to which I fastened my creel.
"You are very daring—how do you know that
the whole school are not watching ?''
"Because," said I, " this is the afternoon when
the whole school takes a solemn ramble into the
country."


The Crime.
275
"I am not rambling," she said.
"All do not ramble on days of recreation," I
replied significantly.
'' You know a great deal about this boarding-
school, fair sir. I suppose you also know I am
confined to my room as a disciplinary precau-
tion."
"Monstrous!" I cried, suppressing my satis-
faction.
"I only made a cider cocktail," she said.
"Monstrous!" I repeated, " cider cocktails are
no good."
By this time she had lowered the creel to me
again and I slung it on my shoulders and picked
up my rod from the lawn.
"I will bring offerings," I said, "do you like
bon-bons, gentle maiden?"
"Yes, and pickles," she said gravely.
'' And music ?''
"Sometimes—not too classical"
"I will serenade you !" I cried enthusiastically,
—" you say the Misses Timmins are deaf?"
"Shame on you! you know they are. What
do you play? I am not sure that I will accept a
serenade."
"The banjo and the harmonica—not both at
once. I play the harmonica best, but I can't sing
to it at the same time, you know. Shall I come ?''
"Y—es. Are you fond of pickled peaches? I
can let some down to you."
I was on the point of accepting a pickled peach,


276
The Crime.
—I would have accepted a pickled turnip from
her,—when, out of the tail of my eye, I saw the
tops of multi-coloured sunshades appearing above
the crest of the hill, and I knew that the Misses
Timmins were returning with their flock.
"You must go !" she whispered hurriedly,—
"go quickly!"
"Good-bye,—good-night," I said, "you are
the loveliest, sweetest"
"Quick,—what?"
"Angel,—divine, glorious,—er"
"Oh, hasten! What?"
"And I love you!"
"You must n't say that;—must you? Oh,
hurry and say it again—if you must ''
"Oh, I must!" I cried, heedless of all the
Timminses on earth, " I really must"
"My name is May Thorne—go quickly now."
'' Mine is Harry Stenhouse—the deuce! they 're
at the gate!"
They were.
Scarcely had I slipped around the building be-
fore I heard the chatter and laughter of girls and
the patter of feet on the gravel walk. I had
heard it before under similar circumstances. But
there was a back gate; and I went. Now see how
virtue is its own reward! I had resisted the devil
and—he gave me another chance.


n.
"YES," said I to myself, remembering how
Y I had piously ascribed my reward to
Heaven,—" yes, I was mistaken. I
should have said: 'The devil, Madame, never
does things by halves.'"
I looked back at the dormitory door. One of
the Misses Timmins was snipping roses from the
porch trellis.
"To eke out the meagre evening meal," I
thought; '' poor little maid—poor little May!
Only nanny-goats eat roses, and an empty stom-
ach rejoiceth not in perfumes."
This sounded to me like an Eastern proverb.
It smacked well, and I repeated it to myself lux-
uriously.
"Some day," thought I, "when I am famous,
and people begin to write books to prove that I 'm
not, I 'll marry May,—if I like her as well as I do
now—and she likes me,—ahem!" I 'd forgotten
that part.
"There is something about this little maid," I
mused, "that touches my better nature; some-
thing too subtle to analyze, and anyway, I 'm not


278 The Crime.
good at that sort of analysis. She is fond of eat-
ing trout, I 'm fond of catching them. Clearly
we were designed for each other,—if only for an
hour or so."
By this time I had reached my own gate, and
stood pensively regarding a pair of tiny chipping
birds that were absorbed in the excitement of a
violent Spring courtship.
"Certainly," said I to myself, "I am infatu-
ated, and I 'm proud of it. Any man would be—
any man whose mind was not all mouse-coloured
and neutral."
In the mellow evening light the pools of rain
water glimmered like sheets of gold. Two swal-
lows sat on a telegraph wire twittering to each
other of the coming summer, two migrating blue-
jays stopped in the apple tree by the porch to
chatter scandal. A pair of belated white butter-
flies fluttered sleepily about the lower branches of
the lilac bushes.
"They 're probably married also," thought I,
"and now they 're going home to bed. Every-
thing that runs or flies or hops seems to be mated
—except me. True, I don't fly—unless from the
Misses Timmins.''
I opened my creel and looked moodily into it.
Fishing, after all, was cold comfort compared to
stealing an interview with a winsome maid who
ate bon-bons to guitar accompaniment.
"May," said I to myself, softly, " May,—might,
—May makes might and might makes right—


The Crime.
279
pshaw! I 'll not go bothering my conscience
with every little incident that comes up." I had
some consideration for my conscience; I knew
how tired it was.
The rain water in the long road ruts glimmered
with a deeper orange light. A bat fluttered around
the darkening foliage of the maples; a cricket
creaked from door-sill.
"The bat," thought I, "is looking for a little
lady-bat; the cricket is serenading; I think that
I 'll follow their example. I wish I could play
on my harmonica and sing at the same time."
About ten o'clock that night, the moon being
well up, I went out onto the porch and looked at
it until I felt sufficiently sentimental to sit on the
damp grass under May's window and make music
as I understood it. So I took my banjo under my
arm, dropped my harmonica into my coat pocket,
and tip-toed off down the road as many a better
man had done before me, and would continue to
do as long as that boarding-school existed.
O delicious night in early Spring! Lured by
the balm in the soft night winds, all the little field
creatures had come out of their holes in meadow
and pasture, in orchard and thicket, and were
scraping away on monotonous shrill melodies, ac-
centuated by the treble of hundreds of tree toads.
In every shadowy orchard Katydids performed
countless encores to the bass "bravos!" of the
great bull-frogs along the mill-brook's reedy
banks. All living things did their part to cele-


28o
The Crime.
brate the coming Summer, even a distant skunk
added his mite to the spicy night. Personally I
preferred the roadside lilacs, but it's all a matter
of taste, and George the Fourth liked his oysters
over-ripe.
"If these bull-frogs," thought I, "keep up
their sonorous tom-toms, it will ruin my serenade
—I know it, from experience.''
By this time I had reached the dormitory
hedge.
"A brassy cornet would be lost in this hub-
bub," I mused bitterly, looking up at the third
window on the second floor.
I thumbed the bass string of my banjo doubt-
fully, paused, cleared my throat, included frogs,
toads, katydids, and crickets in one general
and comprehensive anathema, and sang this re-
hashed song:
"Ye little loves that round her wait
To bring me tidings of my fate,
As May upon her pillow lies,
Ah! gently whisper—Harry dies."
"If this will not her pity move,
And the proud fair disdains to love,
Smile and say't is all a lie,
And haughty Henry scorns to die!"
"Bother take it," I muttered, "I shouldn't
have sung that last verse—it may offend her.
That 's the trouble about those old songs; you


The Crime.
281
never can tell what you 're singing until you 've
put your foot in it."
This mixed metaphor was probably due to the
confusion in my mind, for what with the frogs and
a lurking fear of the Misses Timmins, I was not
as cool as I might have been.
While I was singing, two or three windows
were softly raised, and now more were being
raised, and I caught glimpses of shadowy white-
draped figures leaning from sills or dodging be-
hind curtains.
And now her window opened softly; I saw a
shape between the curtains and the sweet notes of
a guitar came throbbing out into the night.
'' Miss Thorne,'' I whispered, 'I ask those
young ladies to go in, please. They always come
and bother.''
Some of them took the hint. I did not care for
the rest, for time was precious, and I feared the
Timmins! So I told Miss Thorne in a hollow,
passionate whisper that it was out of the question
for me to try to live without her,—and a few other
facts calculated to melt solid rocks into tears.
But when I desired to be informed concerning her
constancy, she interrupted me.
'kWhat was that last verse you sang ?'' she
asked.
"Oh, that was only one of those old songs, you
know; I did n't intend"
"One of those old songs? Very well. Listen
to this one then, and be assured of my constancy."


282 The Crime.
"The time that is to come, is not;
How then can it be mine?
The present moment 's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Harry, is only thine!
"Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'T is all that Heaven allows."
It was a pretty revenge for my parrot-like repe-
tition of a verse that was out of place, but when,
from a neighbouring window, another voice cried
'' Brava May! serves him right !" I was annoyed
and protested in hoarse whispers.
Then all those little maids began to make fun
of me. I thought I could distinguish May's sil-
very mocking laughter, and, hurt and angry, I
shook the dew of the lawn from my shoes, and
went away, nursing my wrath and my hurt pride.
"That 's what one gets," I mused, "that 's
what a man gets by meddling with things that
don't concern him! I was an ass to make eyes at
her. I was doubly an ass to think that she would
care for good music—I was a triple ass to sing
that idiotic old song. It was a too-cock-sure-in-
dependent—well don't-if-you-don't-want-to! sort
of song, and women don't like that. Women are
all alike—it is only circumstances that change
them. I wish I had sense enough to let 'em


The Crime.
283
alone! The confounded song hurt her vanity—
that's what's the matter!"
I sat down on a flat rock by the roadside and
blew a dismal strain from my harmonica. It com-
forted me a little, so I played "Sir Daniel O'Don-
nel " and " Casey's Lament."
The weird strains of the latter wrung howls
from a dog in a stable near by, so I changed to a
pleasanter air to save his feelings. But my heart
was heavy; I eyed the moon furtively and moped.
'' Those feather-headed girls always come and
listen every time a fellow tries to do a little woo-
ing on his own account," I muttered; "Barclay
had the same experience, so did Kendall and Gor-
don. I 'll be hanged if I repeat this fiasco—it 's
cursedly silly, anyway, and I don't care whether
it's customary and traditional. I 'll not play cir-
cus for any woman on earth!"
I wiped my harmonica on my handkerchief and
played "Bannigan's Barracks" in a minor key.
The dog in the stable howled intermittently.
I could see the dark mass of the dormitory out
of the corner of my eye. A candle flickered be-
hind one of the windows, I could not tell which,
from where I was sitting.
And, as I eyed it askance, tooting resignedly
the while, I saw somebody appear at the great
gate, open it, and move swiftly out and up the
moonlit road toward me.
"Some of those girls have told a Timmins, and
she's coming to do me!" I thought. "I don't


284
The Crime.
care. Miss Thorne made me ridiculous, and I 'll
not see her again, and I'm on the public high-
way! Let the Misses Timmins advance !''
So I struck up a lively quickstep on my har-
monica, and blinked innocently at the moon.
The figure was close to me now, I saw it, but
I tootled away, regardless.
"Mr. Stenhouse!"
I turned slowly.
'' Oh, I know it is terribly imprudent, and if
I 'm caught I 'll be sent home, but I heard your
harmonica — oh, such dismal strains !— and I
thought if only I could see you for a second to tell
you that it was not I that laughed, for I think
your serenade was — was perfectly charming —
there!"
We were standing face to face in the moonlight.
At last I said: "I was a fool to sing that song;
I 'm sorry, Miss Thorne."
'' Oh, it was not the song as much as it was
that you said—you gave me to understand quite
frankly that you had—had been to the school be-
fore. You said ' the girls always bothered '''
"Did I say that?"
"Yes,—it was most humiliating for—for me."
"Oh, I'm a perfect idiot," I admitted.
She looked down at her slippers—they had been
hurriedly and carelessly tied—and I noticed it
and knelt to repair the oversight.
'' I was in such haste,'' she said. "Is it true
that you have serenaded the dormitory before ?''
'' Not the dormitory ''
1


The Crime.
285
"You know what I mean; have you?"
"All the fellows do," I said, vaguely.
She tapped her foot on the gravel.
"Those strings are sufficiently tied," she said,
"tell me whom you serenaded?"
"I can't do that, Miss Thome."
"Why? Then tell me when it was."
'' When? Oh, last year, before I ever imag-
ined such a girl as you existed. It's a silly cus-
tom, anyway"
"It is n't,—it's charming—when the man has
any tact. It's the tradition of the school that no
girl shall spoon with a man who has n't serenaded
her, and I do not expect to break the traditions of
my school"
"Only the rules, Miss Thorne?"
"Only the rules—and a heart or two!"
"Or two!"
"Faith, sir," she said maliciously, "did you
think you were the only one?"
"Yes," said I, "I did."
'' And you tell me deliberately that you had
serenaded other girls there before I came—I don't
know how many, perhaps a dozen, twenty, fifty,
the whole school !''
"What !" I cried, bewildered.
"Oh, I don't care," she said, "I only wished
to show you what men are and what their selfish-
ness requires of women,—to sacrifice everything
while they sacrifice nothing."
"And you don't care?" I asked.
"No, Mr. Stenhouse."


286
The Crime.
"Then why did you risk everything to come
and tell me?"
"W—what?" she stammered.
"Miss Thome," said I, very gravely, "your
school is noted for its escapades. It is known in
the village, not as the 'Misses Timmins's Select
Boarding-School for Young Ladies,' but as 'The
Devil's Own.' We engineer students are a reckless
lot, also. We are, to put it plainly, a godless crew,
but this—this is somehow different. I am begin-
ning to believe that our thoughtless folly—yours
and mine, may leave one of us miserable for life."
"Me?"
"Who knows? I can only speak for myself,—
I—I have changed already,—yes, in these few mo-
ments that we stood here face to face—"
"What do you mean?" she said mockingly.
'' I mean that in another minute I shall love
you—in another second!"
"Are you serious?" she demanded incredu-
lously. Then, "Oh, I thought you jolly and
clever, and you prove to be soft and silly! Mas-
ter Harry, you bore me!"
"Do I?" I answered angrily. "Well, I'll
never do it again, and I was a fool to believe you
would understand anything but chocolate-creams
and dormitory flirting!"
"Not only soft and silly, but a boor," she said.
'' Good-night. No, you need not walk to the
gate with me—I never wish to set eyes on you
again."


III.
ON the first day of June I passed my final
examinations at the great Engineering
School at Clovermead, and was then
ready to let myself loose on the mining regions of
a deluded world.
The commencement exercises bored me; I went
fishing most of the time, or else stayed in my
rooms writing '' Dry Fly Casting as a Fine Art ''
for the Trigger. In the long fragrant evenings I
took lonely walks by the river or sat under the
oak playing minor airs on my harmonica.
At the end of the first week in June the com-
mencement exercises were over, the visiting
hordes from New York and Boston had flitted
away to Newport or Bar Harbor, the Government
officers went back to Washington and West Point,
and the little village of Clovermead lay in the
sunshine, white, sweet-scented, deserted.
The Misses Timmins's " Select Boarding-School
for Young Ladies '' had its commencement—a
rainbow affair—and dissolved, leaving, as residue,
an empty school-house and a dormitory dedicated
to silence.
287


288
The Crime.
I did n't go to their commencement, not because
I was not invited, for most of the fellows went
anyway. No, since my last serenade, I had
shunned the school and all it works.
It was true that I lingered in the village of
Clovermead after my fellow-students had departed,
not, as I frequently explained to myself, to catch
a last glimpse of Miss Thorne, but to catch that
veteran trout in the Clovermead River. '' I shall
never see Miss Thorne again,'' I said to myself,
"and I'm glad of it."
So on the day of her commencement I went
fishing, very far off and I passed a miserable day.
It rained, among other things.
The next morning the sun shone in at my win-
dow and I looked out into the village with a
strange weight at my heart. I did not feel hun-
gry, but went to breakfast, determined to let
nothing disturb me or my appetite. As I touched
the sugar-tongs to the sugar, a faint whistle came
on the June wind from the distant railroad
station.
'' There go the young ladies from the boarding-
school,'' said my landlady; "do take one of these
shirred eggs, Mr. Stenhouse."
"Thank you," said I, with a queer sensation
in my throat.
"May has gone," I was thinking. After a
while I said aloud: "what of it!"
"I beg your pardon," said my landlady, smil-
ing.


The Crime.
289
'' I beg yours—it was nothing; I was only
thinking that I was alone in the village.''
"I hope you will stay," she said, fingering the
black-edged handkerchief in her lap.
"You are very good," I replied; "I shall stay
until I catch that big trout in the river."
"Then poor luck to you !" smiled the kindly
old lady, '' what time will you have your dinner,
Mr. Stenhouse?"
I went back to my room and sat down by the
window. A flowering branch of late apple blos-
soms scraped across the sash as I threw it open
and leaned out.
For a long while I listened to the droning of
bees among the half-opened buds, thinking that
the warmth had fled from the sunshine and the
scent was gone from mead and sedge.
And '' why?" I repeated to myself again and
again, until a sullen anger seized me and I
tramped up and down my room, my hands buried
in the canvas pockets of my shooting coat.
'' Now,'' said I to myself, '' this is d d fool-
ishness. I 'll just go and try for that trout, and
I 'll catch him too," I added, gritting my teeth
to dull the pain in my heart,—" I 'll catch him by
fair means or foul,—yes, by jingo! I 'll use a
worm !'' No, I felt no horror for the deed I was
about to commit. All that was base and depraved
in my nature had risen with my better feelings to
combat a depression, a sorrow, that was so sud-
den, so deep, that I hardly understood it.
'9


The Crime.
Under such circumstances the truly good come
out strong,—in novels; others do something
wrong to occupy their minds. Wallowing dulls
the capability of suffering,—for a time. It is
much practised by weak and strong, contemporary
fiction to the contrary.
So it happened one day in early June, when the
sky was china blue and filmy clouds trailed like
lace across the disk of a pale sun, that I, Henry
Stenhouse, well and sound in mind and body,
decided to commit a crime.
I started down the road, swinging my creel
over my shoulder and whistling, buoyed up by
that false exhilaration which always took posses-
sion of me when I felt myself on good terms with
the devil. In my pocket nestled my luncheon, a
small flask of Bordeaux, fly-book, harmonica,
reel, and a tin bait box.
Imagine what it costs me to write this!
Well it 's written,—and on I went, whistling
"Sir Daniel O'Donnel," as though I had not a
care in the world and love was but an old wive's
tale.
Yet, whistle as I would, I could not close my
eyes to the caustic criticism of the sunny world
on my solitary condition. Robins hopped about
the pastures in pairs, blue-birds flew from sapling
to fence, in pairs, yellow butterflies whirled over
the clover in dozens and dozens of pairs, and the
very trees, the silver birches, the maples and
elms, all seemed to grow in pairs. Two by two


The Crime.
291
I counted oak and beach, nestling in each others
shadows, two by two the twinkling silver aspens
seemed to wink at me with every leaf.
I alone was alone.
"Because," said I to myself, "I 've got
brains '' ; but the boast fell only on the idle un-
believing ears of the corn, too young to under-
stand or sympathize.
A great tenderness was in my heart, but I
crushed it out, and turned into the fields, treading
my way through rustling corn where June breezes
lingered, whispering.
When I struck the hazel patch I felt better,
and I whistled "Sir Daniel O'Donnel " again.
A wood-thrush, striving to imitate me, produced
an unconscious masterpiece; a cat-bird mewed
unceasingly from the deeper growth. Both had
mates.
I took the hidden path through the beech-
woods until I came to a big pine. Here, follow-
ing a trail, known to myself, I entered the denser
woods, crossed the two spring brooks that feed
the river, and after a few minutes rapid walking
came to the oak which spreads above the limpid
silvery pool, the abode of Mine Enemy.
"As long as I have sunk to the level of a pot-
hunter," said I, treading softly over the moss, "I
might as well do the thing thoroughly."
Very cautiously I produced an angle-worm from
my box, baited my hook, cast the infernal machine
into the pool, and then, placing my rod on the


292
The Crime.
bank, put a flat stone on the butt and sat down to
smoke. When I had finished my cigarette I lay
down, stretching out on the moss under the oak
tree.
And as I sprawled on my back looking sky-
ward, I was aware of a pair of stockings,—black
stockings,—hanging from a limb directly over my
head.
Astonished and indignant I lay perfectly still,
staring at the stockings. They had been wet but
now were rapidly drying, swinging gently in the
warm June wind.
"This is pleasant!" I thought; "some credu-
lous country wench has taken my pool for a foot-
bath. I 'll not put up with it, by jingo! Have
fishermen no rights? Is this a picnic ground?
Is that river a resort for barefooted giggling
girls?"
If there were any people splashing and paddling
about among the stones down the river, I knew
that every trout within range would be paralyzed
with fright. I sat up and tried to see through the
foliage which bordered the shallow river where it
curved into the woods.
"They 're down there," I muttered, "and I
bet they 've done the business for every trout be-
tween here and the falls. Idiots!"
I looked up at the stockings. They were cer-
tainly silk, I could see that. The sun bronzed
the pointed toes, now almost dry. And while I
looked there came a faint sound of splashing close


The Crime.
293
by, just where the river narrows to curve into the
woods. Something bright was glistening down
there between the branches, something white that
moved slowly up stream, nearer and nearer, now
plainly in view through the leaves.
It was a young woman in a light summer gown
with a big straw hat on her head, and she was
slowly and deliberately wading through the shal-
low water toward my pool.
She seemed to be enjoying it; the swift water
rippled around her ankles dashing her skirts with
spray, as she lifted her wet pink feet carefully
over the sharp rocks and deeper channels. Her
skirt, gathered naively in both hands, fluttered
perhaps a trifle higher than it might have done
under other circumstances. It was a pretty inno-
cent picture, but it was out of place in my trout
pool, and I stood up, determined to expostulate.
After a second I sat down again, somewhat
suddenly. The black stockings waved triumph-
antly above my head. I looked at them, bewil-
dered, utterly upset. The young lady in the
water was Miss Thome.
Before I could decide what to do, she came in
sight around the trees, stepping daintily over the
sandy shallows. I dared not move. She did not
look up.
"What the mischief shall I do?" I thought,
keeping very still so that no movement should
attract her eyes to the oak on the bank above. I
could not retreat and leave my rod, I dared not


294 The Crime.
creep to the pool to recover it. Besides, I did n't
want to go away.
She had sat down on a sunny rock, just below
me, and was stirring the sandy bottom with her
little toes. It was, as I said, a pretty picture,
sweet and innocent, but utterly fatal to my peace
of mind. I wondered what she 'd do next, and
lay silent, scarcely breathing.
"If she turns her back," I thought, " I 'll get
up and go. I 'm no eavesdropper, and I 'll go,—
only I hope she won't give me the chance."
She had drawn a book from the folds of her
skirt, and, as I lay there without sound or mo-
tion, she began to read, repeating aloud to herself
the passages that pleased her.
"I am the magic waterfall
Whose waters leap from fathomless and living springs,
Far in the mist-hung silence of the Past."
She paused, turning the leaves with languid
capriciousness, then:
"I fill the woods with songs; the trees,
Through whose twigs flow prophecies,
I deck with vestments green."
And again she read:
"The shower has freshened the song of the bird
And budded the bushes
And gilded the maple and tasselled the linden and
willow,
Staining with green the forest-fringed path."


The Crime.
295
She sat silent, idly touching the fluttering pages.
Then she raised her head, singing softly odd bits
of songs to herself—to the thrushes around her.
A great belted kingfisher flashed past, a blurr
of blue and white against the trees. His loud
harsh rattle startled her for an instant.
And, as she turned to watch his flight along the
winding stream, I rose and slipped noiselessly
into the forest. Before I had taken a dozen steps,
however, I remembered my rod, and halted irreso-
lutely. Looking back through the thicket fringe,
I saw that she had turned my way again, and it
was out of the question to recover it without
being seen.
'' If she only had her stockings on,'' I sighed.
Should I wait, taking discreet observations
occasionally? Should I go and let the rod take
care of itself? Suppose the big trout should seize
hold and drag it into the river? Suppose Miss
Thome should step on the barbed hook with her
bare little feet! At the thought I turned hastily
back in my own tracks, halted again, started on,
wavered, took one irresolute step, and stopped.
I could see her now quite plainly without being
seen. She had tossed her book up on the moss,
and was picking her way along the ascending
bank, holding on to branch and root.
"She 's coming for her stockings, that's what
she 's doing," I thought.
Until she had safely passed the pool where the
hook lay, I kept my eyes on her. After that I


296
The Crime.
waited until I saw her reach up to the oak-limb
for the stockings; then I looked the other way.
I gave her ten minutes to complete her toilet,
holding my watch in my hand.
Once she sang pensively that puzzling but
pathetic old ballad:
"' Mother, may I go out to swim?'
'Yes, my darling daughter,—
Hang your hose on a hickory limb,
But don't go near the water.'"
The ten minutes were up at last. '' Now,'' said
I to myself, '' shall I look? No—yes—no indeed!
—I don't know,—I 'll just see whether"
I turned around.
She had left the shelter of the oak and was
hurrying down the bank toward my rod, with
every appearance of excitement.
"I 'll bet there's a fish on it," said I to my-
self; "by jingo! there is!—and it's bending and
tugging as if a porpoise had the line! It 'll be
into the river in a moment! There! It's
gone!"
But I was mistaken, for Miss Thorne grasped it
just as it slid over the edge of the bank.
"She 'll break it! I 'll bet it's my big fish!
There! She's pulling the fish out—she's trying
to drag the fish up! I can't stand this! It's no
use—I 've got to go."
When she saw me hastening down the slope
she did not cry out, neither did she drop the rod,


The Crime.
297
but her blue eyes grew very large and round.
And as I hurried up she gave one last convulsive
tug and hauled up, over, and on to the bank an
enormous trout, flapping and bouncing among the
leaves.
In a second I had seized the fish—it took all the
strength of my arm to hold him—and the rest was
soon over. There he lay, a monarch among
trout, glistening, dappled, crimson-flecked. I
walked down to the water's edge, washed my
hands mechanically, and slowly climbed back
again.
"I did n't know it was your rod," she said.
"I only saw a big fish on it, and I pulled it out."
"I—I thought you had left Clovermead," I
stammered.
"I thought you had also," she said; "all the
others have gone. To-morrow I go; my guardian
is coming."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes; at eight o'clock in the morning."
There was an awkward pause. I glanced
askance at the fish, already ashamed of my work,
dreading to know what she thought of a man who
fished with bait.
"It is a large trout," she said timidly; "it is
a wonder that I did n't break your rod and line.
You see I never before caught a trout."
"And—and you would not—you don't think
less of a man because he fishes with bait?" I
asked, red with shame.


298 The Crime.
"I? Why, no. What else would you use?"
"Flies," I said, desperately. "You know
it."
"Flies? Can you catch enough?"
"I mean artificial flies," I said. "You don't
understand, you can't conceive the depth of
depravity that leads a man to catch a trout as
I 've caught this,—can you? It's simple mur-
der."
"But," said Miss Thorne, with a puzzled
glance at the fish, "I thought that I caught
him."
"I—I baited the hook," I faltered.
"Then," said she, " it 's a clear case of collu-
sion, and we 're both responsible."
We looked at each other for an instant. She
sighed, almost imperceptibly.
"I am very sorry for what I said that night,"
I began. "You can't think how it has troubled
me ever since. I have suffered a great deal—er
—and I 'm deucedly miserable, Miss Thorne."
"I forgive you," she said sweetly. "Why did
you not ask me before ?''
"Because," said I, "being an idiot I did n't
dare."
"It made me very unhappy," she said. "I
should not have spoken so"
"Oh, you were quite right !" I cried ; " it was
my fault entirely."
"No indeed!"
"It was, really."


The Crime.
299
"And to think I should have spoken so after
the trout you gave me and the serenade"
"If the music had been as good as the
trout"
"It was,—it was charming; and you said some
things that first afternoon under my window ''
'' I meant them!—I mean them now a thousand-
fold!"
The crimson stained her cheeks. She half
turned toward the river.
"I think," she said, "that I am late for
luncheon."
Very humbly I produced my flask of Bordeaux,
my cold chicken, bread, and hot-house pears.
She looked at them, her head on one side.
"It is not very much,'' I ventured,—'' for two.''
"I think it will do," she said reflectively;
'' there are some cresses by the brook. I am fond
of cresses. Have you pepper and salt?"
I rummaged in my pockets, produced the har-
monica, a package of tobacco, a spare reel, a knife,
a steel hunting watch, a cigarette case, a box
of dry flies, a match-case, a box of leaders, and
finally a neat little parcel of pepper and salt.
She watched me with perfect gravity.
"If you please," she said, " you may go and
play on your harmonica under that oak tree while
I arrange the table. Will you?"
"Can't I help you?" I murmured, giddy with
happiness.
"No. Go and play ' Sir Daniel O'Donnell.'"


300
The Crime.
I watched her, tooting fitfully the while, and
presently she called to me that luncheon was
ready, and asked me to lend her my handkerchief
to dry her hands.
We drank in turn from the flask, gravely beg-
ging pardon for the goutte sans fafon.
But the luncheon! There never was such a
luncheon served in the palaces of Stamboul! I
ate ambrosia—some name it chicken—and I drank
nectar—foolish people would have called it Bor-
deaux, and I sat opposite to and looked in the
blue eyes of the sweetest maid in the world.
And so we sat and chatted on, I knowing little
of what was said save that it was her voice, always
her voice in my ears and every word was melody.
The swift droop of the long lashes on the pure
curved cheeks, the gentle caress in every move-
ment, the light glinting on tawny hair, on stray
curling strands blown across her eyes—these I
remember.
The shadows came and laid their long shapes
on the sands of the shore, the trees darkened
where the massed foliage swept in one unbroken
sheet above the moss; the red west blazed.
Once a fish splashed among the weeds; a wood-
duck steered fearlessly past, peering and turning,
sousing its gorgeous neck in the shallow stream.
At last she sprang up, touching her hair with
light swift fingers, and shaking her skirts full
breadth.
"I must go."


The Crime.
301
"So soon?"
"Yes. Shall I say good-bye now for to-
morrow?"
"Say it."
"Good-bye, then."
"Is that all?"
"Good-bye"
"Nothing more?"
"Oh, what—what else?" she murmured; "I
can say no more."
"I can," said I.
"You must not—ah, do you mean it?"
"Yes. I love you."
"Then we will go back—together," she said,
innocently, and came close up to me, laying her
white hands in mine.
******
"Ah," said I, as we entered the road by the
dormitory, " the trout is a noble one, but, May, it
was murder that was done on Clovermead water."
"And theft," she said, with a faint smile,
'' where is my heart, if you please ?''
And we looked long, smiling into each other's
eyes.
******
It all happened years ago. I have never
touched bait to hook since, but I confess that I do
still, at times, play " Sir Daniel O'Donnell" on
the harmonica. May permits it, especially when
the children beg me ; and, as they are teasing me
now, I shall probably play it to-night.





A PLEASANT EVENING.


"Et pis, doucett'metit on s'endort,
On fait sa carne, on fait sa sorgue,
On ronfle, et, comme nn tuyen d'orgne,
I/tuyau s'met & ronfler pus fort. . . ."
Arist1db Bruant.


A PLEASANT EVENING.
i.
As I stepped upon the platform of a Broadway
cable-car at Forty-second Street, somebody
said; "hello, Hilton, Jamison's looking
for you."
'' Hello, Curtis,'' I replied, '' what does Jami-
son want ?''
"He wants to know what you 've been doing
all the week,'' said Curtis, hanging desperately to
the railing as the car lurched forward; "he says
you seem to think that the Manhattan Illustrated
Weekly was created for the sole purpose of provid-
ing salary and vacations for you."
"The shifty old tom-cat! " I said, indignantly,
"he knows well enough where I've been. Va-
cation! Does he think the State Camp in June is
a snap ?''
"Oh," said Curtis, "you've been to Peeks-
kill?"
"I should say so," I replied, my wrath rising
as I thought of my assignment.
'' Hot ?'' inquired Curtis, dreamily.
305


306 A Pleasant Evening.
'' One hundred and three in the shade,'' I an-
swered. '' Jamison wanted three full pages and
three half pages, all for process work, and a lot of
line drawings into the bargain. I could have
faked them—I wish I had. I was fool enough to
hustle and break my neck to get some honest
drawings, and that's the thanks I get!"
'' Did you have a camera ?''
"No. I will next time—I 'll waste no more
conscientious work on Jamison," I said sulkily.
"It does n't pay," said Curtis. "When I
have military work assigned me, I don't do the
dashing sketch-artist act, you bet; I go to my
studio, light my pipe, pull out a lot of old Illus-
trated London News, select several suitable battle
scenes by Caton Woodville—and use 'em too."
The car shot around the neck-breaking curve at
Fourteenth Street.
"Yes," continued Curtis, as the car stopped in
front of the Morton House for a moment, then
plunged forward again amid a furious clanging of
gongs, " it does n't pay to do decent work for the
fat-headed men who run the Manhattan Illustrated.
They don't appreciate it."
"I think the public does," I said, "but I'm
sure Jamison does n't. It would serve him right -
if I did what most of you fellows do—take a lot of
Caton Woodville's and Thulstrup's drawings,
change the uniforms, ' chic ' a figure or two, and
turn in a drawing labelled ' from life.' I 'm sick
of this sort of thing anyway. Almost every day
this week I 've been chasing myself over that


A Pleasant Evening. 307
tropical camp, or galloping in the wake of those
batteries. I 've got a full page of the ' camp by
moonlight,' full pages of 'artillery drill' and
'light battery in action,' and a dozen smaller
drawings that cost me more groans and perspira-
tion than Jamison ever knew in all his lymphatic
life!"
"Jamison 's got wheels," said Curtis,—" more
wheels than there are bicycles in Harlem. He
wants you to do a full page by Saturday."
"A what?" I exclaimed, aghast.
'' Yes he does—he was going to send Jim Craw-
ford, but Jim expects to go to California for the
winter fair, and you've got to do it."
"What is it?" I demanded savagely.
'' The animals in Central Park,'' chuckled
Curtis.
I was furious. The animals! Indeed! I'd
show Jamison that I was entitled to some consid-
eration! This was Thursday; that gave me a
day and a half to finish a full-page drawing for
the paper, and, after my work at the State Camp
I felt that I was entitled to a little rest. Anyway
I objected to the subject. I intended to tell Jami-
son so—I intended to tell him firmly. However,
many of the things that we often intended to tell
Jamison were never told. He was a peculiar
man, fat-faced, thin-lipped, gentle-voiced, mild-
mannered, and soft in his movements as a pussy
cat. Just why our firmness should give way
when we were actually in his presence, I have
never quite been able to determine. He said very


3o8
A Pleasant Evening.
little—so did we, although we often entered his
presence with other intentions.
The truth was that the Manhattan Illustrated
Weekly was the best paying, best illustrated
paper in America, and we young fellows were not
anxious to be cast adrift. Jamison's knowledge
of art was probably as extensive as the knowledge
of any '' Art editor '' in the city. Of course that
was saying nothing, but the fact merited careful
consideration on our part, and we gave it much
consideration.
This time, however, I decided to let Jamison
know that drawings are not produced by the yard,
and that I was neither a floor-walker nor a hand-
me-down. I would stand up for my rights; I'd
tell old Jamison a few things to set the wheels
under his silk hat spinning, and if he attempted
any of his pussy-cat ways on me, I'd give him a
few plain facts that would curl what hair he had
left.
Glowing with a splendid indignation I jumped
off the car at the City Hall, followed by Curtis,
and a few minutes later entered the office of the
Manhattan Illustrated News.
"Mr. Jamison would like to see you, sir," said
one of the compositors as I passed into the long
hallway. I threw my drawings on the table and
passed a handkerchief over my forehead.
"Mr. Jamison would like to see you, sir," said
a small freckle-faced boy with a smudge of ink on
his nose.


A Pleasant Evening.
I walked out, half hypnotized, half enraged.
Curtis grinned at me as I passed—I could have
boxed his ears.
'' Why the mischief should I lose my tongue
whenever that old tom-cat purrs !" I asked my-
self as I entered the elevator and was shot down
to the first floor. "I 'll not put up with this sort
of thing much longer—how in the name of all
that's foxy did he know that I went to the moun-
tains? I suppose he thinks I 'm lazy because I
don't wish to be boiled to death. How did he
know about the dance at Cranston's? Old cat!"
The roar and turmoil of machinery and busy
men filled my ears as I crossed the avenue and
turned into the City Hall Park.
From the staff on the tower the flag drooped in
the warm sunshine with scarcely a breeze to lift
its crimson bars. Overhead stretched a splendid
cloudless sky, deep, deep blue, thrilling, scintil-
lating in the gemmed rays of the sun.
Pigeons wheeled and circled about the roof of
the grey Post Office or dropped out of the blue
above to flutter around the fountain in the square.
On the steps of the City Hall the unlovely poli-
tician lounged, exploring his heavy under jaw
with wooden toothpick, twisting his drooping
black moustache, or distributing tobacco juice
over marble steps and close-clipped grass.
My eyes wandered from these human vermin to
the calm scornful face of Nathan Hale, on his
pedestal, and then to the grey-coated Park po-


A Pleasant Evening. 311
liceman whose occupation was to keep little chil-
dren from the cool grass.
A young man with thin hands and blue circles
under his eyes was slumbering on a bench by the
fountain, and the policeman walked over to him
and struck him on the soles of his shoes with a
short club.
The young man rose mechanically, stared
about, dazed by the sun, shivered, and limped
away. I saw him sit down on the steps of the
white marble building, and I went over and spoke
to him. He neither looked at me, nor did he no-
tice the coin I offered.
"You 're sick," I said, " you had better go to
the hospital."
"Where?" he asked vacantly—" I 've been,
but they would n't receive me."
He stooped and tied the bit of string that held
what remained of his shoe to his foot.
"You are French," I said.
"Yes."
'' Have you no friends? Have you been to the
French Consul?"
"The Consul !" he replied; "no, I have n't
been to the French Consul."
After a moment I said, " You speak like a gen-
tleman."
He rose to his feet and stood very straight,
looking me, for the first time, directly in the
eyes.
"Who are you?" I asked abruptly.


A Pleasant Evening. 313
I remembered the case now. Two young
French cavalry officers were arrested, charged
with selling plans of fortifications and other mili-
tary secrets to the Germans. On the eve of their
conviction, one of them, Heaven only knows how,
escaped and turned up in New York. The other
was duly shot. The affair had made some noise,
because both young men were of good families.
It was a painful episode, and I had hastened to
forget it. Now that it was recalled to my mind,
I remembered the newspaper accounts of the case,
but I had forgotten the names of the miserable
young men.
'' Sold his country,'' observed Cusick, watching
a group of children out of the corner of his eyes—
"you can't trust no Frenchman nor dagoes nor
Dutchmen either. I guess Yankees are about the
only white men."
I looked at the noble face of Nathan Hale and
nodded.
"Nothin' sneaky about us, eh, Mr. Hilton?"
I thought of Benedict Arnold and looked at my
boots.
Then the policeman said, "Well, solong, Mr.
Hilton," and went away to frighten a pasty-faced
little girl who had climbed upon the railing and
was leaning down to sniff the fragrant grass.
"Cheese it, de cop!" cried her shrill-voiced
friends, and the whole bevy of small ragamuffins
scuttled away across the square.
With a feeling of depression I turned and


314 A Pleasant Evening.
walked toward Broadway, where the long yellow
cable-cars swept up and down, and the din of
gongs and the deafening rumble of heavy trucks
echoed from the marble walls of the Court House
to the granite mass of the Post Office.
Throngs of hurrying busy people passed up
town and down town, slim sober-faced clerks, trim
cold-eyed brokers, here and there a red-necked
politician linking arms with some favourite heeler,
here and there a City Hall lawyer, sallow-faced
and saturnine. Sometimes a fireman, in his
severe blue uniform, passed through the crowd,
sometimes a blue-coated policeman, mopping his
clipped hair, holding his helmet in his white-
gloved hand. There were women too, pale-faced
shop girls with pretty eyes, tall blonde girls who
might be typewriters and might not, and many,
many older women whose business in that part of
the city no human being could venture to guess,
but who hurried up town and down town, all
occupied with something that gave to the whole
restless throng a common likeness—the expression
of one who hastens toward a hopeless goal.
I knew some of those who passed me. There
was little Jocelyn of the Mail and Express;
there was Hoed, who had more money than he
wanted and wa3 going to have less than he wanted
when he left Wall Street; there was Colonel Tid-
mouse of the 45th Infantry, N.G.S.N.Y., prob-
ably coming from the office of the Army and
Navy Journal, and there was Dick Harding


A Pleasant Evening. 315
who wrote the best stories of New York life that
have been printed. People said his hat no longer
fitted,—especially people who also wrote stories of
New York life and whose hats threatened to fit as
long as they lived.
I looked at the statue of Nathan Hale, then at
the human stream that flowed around his ped-
estal.
'' Quand meme, '' I muttered and walked out
into Broadway, signalling to the gripman of an
uptown cable-car.


II.
{PASSED into the Park by the Fifth Avenue
and sgth Street gate; I could never bring
myself to enter it through the gate that is
guarded by the hideous pigmy statue of Thor-
waldsen.
The afternoon sun poured into the windows of
the New Netherlands Hotel, setting every orange-
curtained pane a-glitter, and tipping the wings of
the bronze dragons with flame.
Gorgeous masses of flowers blazed in the sun-
shine from the grey terraces of the Savoy, from
the high grilled court of the Vanderbilt palace,
and from the balconies of the Plaza opposite.
The white marble facade of the Metropolitan
Club was a grateful relief in the universal glare,
and I kept my eyes on it until I had crossed the
dusty street and entered the shade of the trees.
Before I came to the Zoo I smelled it. Next
week it was to be removed to the fresh cool woods
and meadows in Bronx Park, far from the stifling
air of the city, far from the infernal noise of the
Fifth Avenue omnibuses.
A noble stag stared at me from his enclosure
316


A Pleasant Evening. 317
among the trees as I passed down the winding
asphalt walk. "Never mind, old fellow." said I,
'' you will be splashing about in the Bronx River
next week and cropping maple shoots to your
heart's content."
On I went, past herds of staring deer, past
great lumbering elk, and moose, and long-faced
African antelopes, until I came to the dens of the
great carnivora.
The tigers sprawled in the sunshine, blinking
and licking their paws; the lions slept in the
shade or squatted on their haunches, yawning
gravely. A slim panther travelled to and fro be-
hind her barred cage, pausing at times to peer
wistfully out into the free sunny world. My heart
ached for caged wild things, and I walked on,
glancing up now and then to encounter the blank
stare of a tiger or the mean shifty eyes of some ill-
smelling hyena.
Across the meadow I could see the elephants
swaying and swinging their great heads, the
sober bison solemnly slobbering over their cuds,
the sarcastic countenances of camels, the wicked
little zebras, and a lot more animals of the camel
and llama tribe, all resembling each other, all
equally ridiculous, stupid, deadly uninteresting.
Somewhere behind the old arsenal an eagle was
screaming, probably a Yankee eagle; I heard the
"tchug ! tchug!" of a blowing hippopotamus,
the squeal of a falcon, and the snarling yap! of
quarrelling wolves.


318 A Pleasant Evening,
'' A pleasant place for a hot day!" I pondered
bitterly, and I thought some things about Jami-
son that I shall not insert in this volume. But I
lighted a cigarette to deaden the aroma from the
hyenas, unclasped my sketching block, sharpened
my pencil, and fell to work on a family group of
hippopotami.
They may have taken me for a photographer,
for they all wore smiles as if "welcoming a
friend,'' and my sketch block presented a series
of wide open jaws, behind which shapeless bulky
bodies vanished in alarming perspective.
The alligators were easy ; they looked to me as
though they had not moved since the founding of
the Zoo, but I had a bad time with the big bison,
who persistently turned his tail to me, looking
stolidly around his flank to see how I stood it.
So I pretended to be absorbed in the antics of two
bear cubs, and the dreary old bison fell into the
trap, for I made some good sketches of him and
laughed in his face as I closed the book.
There was a bench by the abode of the eagles,
and I sat down on it to draw the vultures and
condors, motionless as mummies among the piled
rocks. Gradually I enlarged the sketch, bringing
in the gravel plaza, the steps leading up to Fifth
Avenue, the sleepy park policeman in front of the
arsenal—and a slim, white-browed girl, dressed in
shabby black, who stood silently in the shade of
the willow trees.
After a while I found that the sketch, instead


A Pleasant Evening. 319
of being a study of the eagles, was in reality a
composition in which the girl in black occupied
the principal point of interest. Unwittingly I
had subordinated everything else to her, the
brooding vultures, the trees and walks, and the
half indicated groups of sun-warmed loungers.
She stood very still, her pallid face bent, her
thin white hands loosely clasped before her.
"Rather dejected reverie," I thought, "prob-
ably she 's out of work." Then I caught a
glimpse of a sparkling diamond ring on the slen-
der third finger of her left hand.
"She 'll not starve with such a stone as.that
about her," I said to myself, looking curiously at
her dark eyes and sensitive mouth. They were
both beautiful, eyes and mouth—beautiful, but
touched with pain.
After a while I rose and walked back to make a
sketch or two of the lions and tigers. I avoided
the monkeys—I can't stand them, and they never
seem funny to me, poor dwarfish, degraded carica-
tures of all that is ignoble in ourselves.
"I've enough now," I thought ; "I 'll go home
and manufacture a full page that will probably
please Jamison." So I strapped the elastic band
around my sketching block, replaced pencil and
rubber in my waistcoat pocket, and strolled off
toward the Mall to smoke a cigarette in the even-
ing glow before going back to my studio to work
until midnight, up to the chin in charcoal grey
and Chinese white.


320 A Pleasant Evening.
Across the long meadow I could see the roofs
of the city faintly looming above the trees. A
mist of amethyst, ever deepening, hung low on
the horizon, and through it, steeple and dome,
roof and tower, and the tall chimneys where thin
fillets of smoke curled idly, were transformed into
pinnacles of beryl and flaming minarets, swimming
in filmy haze. Slowly the enchantment deepened;
all that was ugly and shabby and mean had fallen
away from the distant city, and now it towered
into the evening sky, splendid, gilded, magnifi-
cent, purified in the fierce furnace of the setting
sun..
The red disk was half hidden now; the tracery
of trees, feathery willow and budding birch, dark-
ened against the glow; the fiery rays shot far
across the meadow, gilding the dead leaves, stain-
ing with soft crimson the dark moist tree trunks
around me.
Far across the meadow a shepherd passed in
the wake of a huddling flock, his dog at his heels,
faint moving blots of grey.
A squirrel sat up on the gravel walk in front of
me, ran a few feet, and sat up again, so close that
I could see the palpitation of his sleek flanks.
Somewhere in the grass a hidden field insect
was rehearsing last summer's solos; I heard the
tap ! tap ! tat-tat-t-t-tat ! of a woodpecker among
the branches overhead and the querulous note of
a sleepy robin.
The twilight deepened; out of the city the


A Pleasant Evetting. 321
music of bells floated over wood and meadow; faint
mellow whistles sounded from the river craft along
the north shore, and the distant thunder of a gun
announced the close of a June day.
The end of my cigarette began to glimmer with
a redder light; shepherd and flock were blotted
out in the dusk, and I only knew they were still
moving when the sheep bells tinkled faintly.
Then suddenly that strange uneasiness that all
have known—that half-awakened sense of having
seen it all before, of having been through it all,
came over me, and I raised my head and slowly
turned.
A figure was seated at my side. My mind was
struggling with the instinct to remember. Some-
thing so vague and yet so familiar—something
that eluded thought yet challenged it, something
—God knows what! troubled me. And now, as
I looked, without interest, at the dark figure
beside me, an apprehension, totally involuntary,
an impatience to understand, came upon me, and
I sighed and turned restlessly again to the fading
west.
I thought I heard my sigh re-echoed—I scarcely
heeded; and in a moment I sighed again, drop-
ping my burned-out cigarette on the gravel
beneath my feet.
'' Did you speak to me ?'' said some one in a
low voice, so close that I swung around rather
sharply.
"No," I said after a moment's silence.


322
A Pleasant Evening.
It was a woman. I could not see her face clearly,
but I saw on her clasped hands, which lay list-
lessly in her lap, the sparkle of a great diamond.
I knew her at once. It did not need a glance at
the shabby dress of black, the white face, a pallid
spot in the twilight, to tell me that I had her
picture in my sketch-book.
"Do—do you mind if I speak to you ?" she
asked timidly. The hopeless sadness in her voice
touched me, and I said: "Why, no, of course
not. Can I do anything for you ?''
"Yes," she said, brightening a little, " if you
—you only would."
"I will if I can," said I, cheerfully; "what is
it? Out of ready cash ?''
"No, not that," she said, shrinking back.
I begged her pardon, a little surprised, and
withdrew my hand from my change pocket.
"It is only—only that I wish you to take
these,"—she drew a thin packet from her breast,
—" these two letters."
"I?" I asked astonished.
"Yes, if you will."
"But what am I to do with them?" I de-
manded.
"I can't tell you ; I only know that I must
give them to you. Will you take them?"
"Oh, yes, I 'll take them," I laughed, " am I
to read them?" I added to myself, " It 's some
clever begging trick.''
"No," she answered slowly, " you are not to


A Pleasant Evening. 323
read them; you are to give them to some-
body."
"To whom? Anybody?"
"No, not to anybody. You will know whom
to give them to when the time comes.''
"Then I am to keep them until further instruc-
tions?"
"Your own heart will instruct you," she said,
in a scarcely audible voice. She held the thin
packet toward me, and to humour her I took it.
It was wet.
'' The letters fell into the sea,'' she said; '' There
was a photograph which should have gone with
them but the salt water washed it blank. Will
you care if I ask you something else ?''
"I? Oh.no."
'' Then give me the picture that you made of me
to-day."
I laughed again, and demanded how she knew
I had drawn her.
"Is it like me ?" she said.
"I think it is very like you," I answered
truthfully.
"Will you not give it to me?"
Now it was on the tip of my tongue to refuse,
but I reflected that I had enough sketches for a
full page without that one, so I handed it to her,
nodded that she was welcome, and stood up. She
rose also, the diamond flashing on her finger.
'' You are sure that you are not in want?" I
asked, with a tinge of good-natured sarcasm.


324 A Pleasant Evening.
"Hark!" she whispered; "listen !—do you
hear the bells of the convent !''
I looked out into the misty night.
"There are no bells sounding," I said, "and
anyway there are no convent bells here. We are
in New York, mademoiselle"—I had noticed her
French accent—"we are in Protestant Yankee-
land, and the bells that ring are much less mellow
than the bells of France."
I turned pleasantly to say good-night. She was
gone.


III.
"T TAVE you ever drawn a picture of a
I I corpse ?'' inquired Jamison next morn-
ing as I walked into his private room
with a sketch of the proposed full page of the
Zoo.
"No, and I don't want to," I replied, sullenly.
'' Let me see your Central Park page,'' said
Jamison in his gentle voice, and I displayed it.
It was about worthless as an artistic production,
but it pleased Jamison, as I knew it would.
"Can you finish it by this afternoon?" he
asked, looking up at me with persuasive eyes.
"Oh, I suppose so," I said, wearily; "any-
thing else, Mr. Jamison?"
"The corpse," he replied, "I want a sketch by
to-morrow—finished.''
'' What corpse?" I demanded, controlling my
indignation as I met Jamison's soft eyes.
There was a mute duel of glances. Jamison
passed his hand across his forehead with a slight
lifting of the eyebrows.
'' I shall want it as soon as possible,'' he said in
his caressing voice.
325


326 A Pleasant Evening.
What I thought was, '' Damned purring pussy-
cat!" What I said was, "Where is this
corpse ?''
'' In the Morgue—have you read the morning
papers? No? Ah,—as you very rightly observe
you are too busy to read the morning papers.
Young men must learn industry first, of course,
of course. What you are to do is this: the San
Francisco police have sent out an alarm regarding
the disappearance of a Miss Tufft—the million-
aire's daughter, you know. To-day a body was
brought to the Morgue here in New York, and it
has been identified as the missing young lady,—
by a diamond ring. Now I am convinced that it
is n't, and I 'll show you why, Mr. Hilton."
He picked up a pen and made a sketch of a
ring on a margin of that morning's Tribune.
'' That is the description of her ring as sent on
from San Francisco. You notice the diamond is
set in the centre of the ring where the two gold
serpents' tails cross!
Now the ring on the finger of the woman in the
Morgue is like this," and he rapidly sketched
another ring where the diamond rested in the
fangs of the two gold serpents.
'' That is the difference,'' he said in his pleas-
ant, even voice.
"Rings like that are not uncommon," said I,
remembering that I had seen such a ring on
the finger of the white-faced girl in the Park the
evening before. Then a sudden thought took


A Pleasant Evening. 327
shape—perhaps that was the girl whose body lay
in the Morgue!
"Well," said Jamison, looking up at me,
'' what are you thinking about ?''
"Nothing," I answered, but the whole scene
was before my eyes, the vultures brooding among
the rocks, the shabby black dress, and the pallid
face,—and the ring, glittering on that slim white
hand!
"Nothing," I repeated, "when shall I go, Mr.
Jamison? Do you want a portrait—or what ?''
"Portrait,—careful drawing of the ring, and,
—er—a centre piece of the Morgue at night.
Might as well give people the horrors while we 're
about it."
"But," said I, "the policy of this paper"
'' Never mind, Mr. Hilton,'' purred Jamison,
'' I am able to direct the policy of this paper.''
"I don't doubt you are," I said angrily.
"I am," he repeated, undisturbed and smiling;
'' you see this Tufft case interests society. I am
—er-—also interested."
He held out to me a morning paper and pointed
to a heading.
I read: "Miss Tufft Dead! Her Fiance1 was
Mr. Jamison, the well known Editor."
"What!" I cried in horrified amazement. But
Jamison had left the room, and I heard him chat-
ting and laughing softly with some visitors in the
press-room outside.
I flung down the paper and walked out.


328 A Pleasant Evening.
"The cold-blooded toad!" I exclaimed again
and again;—" making capital out of his fiancee's
disappearance! Well, I—I 'm d—nd! I knew he
was a bloodless, heartless, grip-penny, but I never
thought—I never imagined "Words failed
me.
Scarcely conscious of what I did I drew a
Herald from my pocket and saw the column
entitled: '' Miss Tufft Found! Identified by a
Ring. Wild Grief of Mr. Jamison, her Fiance1."
That was enough. I went out into the street
and sat down in City Hall Park. And, as I sat
there, a terrible resolution came to me; I would
draw that dead girl's face in such a way that it
would chill Jamison's sluggish blood, I would
crowd the black shadows of the Morgue with
forms and ghastly faces, and every face should
bear something in it of Jamison. Oh, I 'd rouse
him from his cold snaky apathy! I 'd confront
him with Death in such an awful form, that, pas-
sionless, base, inhuman as he was, he 'd shrink
from it as he would from a dagger thrust. Of
course I 'd lose my place, but that did not bother
me, for I had decided to resign anyway, not having
a taste for the society of human reptiles. And, as
I sat there in the sunny park, furious, trying to
plan a picture whose sombre horror should leave
in his mind an ineffaceable scar, I suddenly
thought of the pale black-robed girl in Central
Park. Could it be her poor slender body that lay
among the shadows of the grim Morgue! If ever


A Pleasant Evening. 329
brooding despair was stamped on any face, I had
seen its print on hers when she spoke to me in
the Park and gave me the letters. The letters!
I had not thought of them since, but now I drew
them from my pocket and looked at the addresses.
'' Curious,'' I thought, '' the letters are still
damp ; they smell of salt water too."
I looked at the address again, written in the
long fine hand of an educated woman who had
been bred in a French convent. Both letters
bore the same address, in French:
"CAPTAIN D'YNIOL.
(Kindness of a Stranger.)"
"Captain d'Yniol," I repeated aloud—"con-
found it, I 've heard that name! Now, where
the deuce—where in the name of all that's
queer "Somebody who had sat down on
the bench beside me placed a heavy hand on
my shoulder.
It was the Frenchman, "Soger Charlie."
'' You spoke my name,'' he said in apathetic
tones.
'' Your name !''
"Captain d'Yniol," he repeated; "it is my
name."
I recognized him in spite of the black goggles
he was wearing, and, at the same moment, it
flashed into my mind that d'Yniol was the name
of the traitor who had escaped. Ah, I remem-
bered now!


A Pleasant Evening. 331
"I have been unable to read for two years," he
said.
After a moment he placed the tip of one finger
on the letters.
"They are wet," I said; "shall—would you
like to have me read them ?'' For a long time
he sat silently in the sunshine, fumbling with his
cane, and I watched him without speaking. At
last he said, "Read, Monsieur," and I took the
letters and broke the seals.
The first letter contained a sheet of paper, damp
and discoloured, on which a few lines were
written:
"My darling, I knew you were innocent—"
Here the writing ended, but, in the blur beneath,
I read: "Paris shall know—France shall know,
for at last I have the proofs and I am coming to
find you, my soldier, and to place them in your
own dear brave hands. They know, now, at the
War Ministry—they have a copy of the traitor's
confession—but they dare not make it public—
they dare not withstand the popular astonishment
and rage. Therefore I sail on Monday from Cher-
bourg by the Green Cross Line, to bring you back
to your own again, where you will stand before
all the world, without fear, without reproach."
"ALINE."
"This—this is terrible !" I stammered; "can
God live and see such things done!"


332 A Pleasant Evening.
But with his thin hand he gripped my arm
again, bidding me read the other letter; and I
shuddered at the menace in his voice.
Then, with his sightless eyes on me, I drew the
other letter from the wet, stained envelope. And
before I was aware—before I understood the pur-
port of what I saw, I had read aloud these
half effaced lines:
"The Orientis sinking—an iceberg—mid-
ocean—good-bye—you are innocent—I love"
"The Lorient!" I cried; "it was the French
steamer that was never heard from—the Lorient
of the Green Cross Line! I had forgotten—I"
The loud crash of a revolver stunned me; my
ears rang and ached with it as I shrank back from
a ragged dusty figure that collapsed on the bench
beside me, shuddered a moment, and tumbled to
the asphalt at my feet.
The trampling of the eager hard-eyed crowd,
the dust and taint of powder in the hot air, the
harsh alarm of the ambulance clattering up Mail
Street,—these I remember, as I knelt there, help-
lessly holding the dead man's hands in mine. "Soger Charlie," mused the sparrow police-
man, "shot his-self, did n't he, Mr. Hilton?
You seen him, sir,—blowed the top of his head
off, did n't he, Mr. Hilton?"
'' Soger Charlie,'' they repeated, '' a French
dago what shot his-self;'' and the words echoed
in my ears long after the ambulance rattled away,
and the increasing throng dispersed, sullenly, as


A Pleasant Evening, 333
a couple of policemen cleared a space around the
pool of thick blood on the asphalt.
They wanted me as a witness, and I gave my
card to one of the policemen who knew me. The
rabble transferred its fascinated stare to me, and I
turned away and pushed a path between fright-
ened shop girls and ill-smelling loafers, until I
lost myself in the human torrent of Broadway.
The torrent took me with it where it flowed—
East? West ?—I did not notice nor care, but I
passed on through the throng, listless, deadly
weary of attempting to solve God's justice—
striving to understand His purpose—His laws—
His judgments which are " true and righteous al-
together."


IV.
"IV A ORK to be desired are the>'than
/ V V yea, than mu°k nne gold- Sweeter also
than honey and the honey-comb!"
I turned sharply toward the speaker who sham-
bled at my elbow. His sunken eyes were dull
and lustreless, his bloodless face gleamed pallid as
a death mask above the blood-red jersey—the em-
blem of the soldiers of Christ.
I don't know why I stopped, lingering, but, as
he passed, I said, " Brother, I also was meditating
upon God's wisdom and His testimonies."
The pale fanatic shot a glance at me, hesitated,
and fell into my own pace, walking by my side.
Under the peak of his Salvation Army cap his
eyes shone in the shadow with a strange light.
"Tell me more," I said, sinking my voice
below the roar of traffic, the clang! clang! of the
cable-cars, and the noise of feet on the worn pave-
ments—'' tell me of His testimonies.''
"Moreover by them is Thy servant warned
and in keeping of them there is great reward.
Who can understand His errors? Cleanse Thou
me from secret faults. Keep back Thy servant
334


A Pleasant Evening. 335
also from presumptuous sins. Let them not have
dominion over me. Then shall I be upright and
I shall be innocent from the great transgression.
Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of
my heart be acceptable in Thy sight,—O Lord!
My strength and my Redeemer !''
"It is Holy Scripture that you quote,'' I said;
'' I also can read that when I choose. But it can-
not clear for me the reasons—it cannot make me
understand ''
"What?" he asked, and muttered to him-
self.
'' That, for instance,'' I replied, pointing to a
cripple, who had been born deaf and dumb and
horridly misshapen,—a wretched diseased lump on
the sidewalk below St. Paul's Churchyard,—a
sore-eyed thing that mouthed and mowed and
rattled pennies in a tin cup as though the sound
of copper could stem the human pack that passed
hot on the scent of gold.
Then the man who shambled beside me turned
and looked long and earnestly into my eyes.
And after a moment a dull recollection stirred
within me—a vague something that seemed like
the awakening memory of a past, long, long for-
gotten, dim, dark, too subtle, too frail, too indefi-
nite—ah! the old feeling that all men have
known—the old strange uneasiness, that useless
struggle to remember when and where it all oc-
curred before.
And the man's head sank on his crimson jersey,


336 A Pleasant Evening.
and he muttered, muttered to himself of God and
love and compassion, until I saw that the fierce
heat of the city had touched his brain, and I went
away and left him prating of mysteries that none
but such as he dare name.
So I passed on through dust and heat; and the
hot breath of men touched my cheek and eager
eyes looked into mine. Eyes, eyes,—that met
my own and looked through them, beyond—far
beyond to where gold glittered amid the mirage
of eternal hope. Gold! It was in the air where
the soft sunlight gilded the floating moats, it was
under foot in the dust that the sun made gilt, it
glimmered from every window pane where the
long red beams struck golden sparks above the
gasping gold-hunting hordes of Wall Street.
High, high, in the deepening sky the tall build-
ings towered, and the breeze from the bay lifted
the sun-dyed flags of commerce until they waved
above the turmoil of the hives below — waved
courage and hope and strength to those who
lusted after gold.
The sun dipped low behind Castle William as I
turned listlessly into the Battery, and the long
straight shadows of the trees stretched away over
greensward and asphalt walk.
Already the electric lights were glimmering
among the foliage although the bay shimmered
like polished brass and the topsails of the ships
glowed with a deeper hue, where the red sun rays
fall athwart the rigging.


A Pleasant Evening. 337
Old men tottered along the sea-wall, tapping
the asphalt with worn canes, old women crept to
and fro in the coming twilight,—old women who
carried baskets that gaped for charity or bulged
with mouldy stuffs,—food, clothing ?—I could not
tell ; I did not care to know.
The heavy thunder from the parapets of Castle
William died away over the placid bay, the last
red arm of the sun shot up out of the sea, and
wavered and faded into the sombre tones of the
afterglow. Then came the night, timidly at first,
touching sky and water with grey fingers, folding
the foliage into soft massed shapes, creeping on-
ward, onward, more swiftly now, until colour and
form had gone from all the earth and the world
was a world of shadows.
And, as I sat there on the dusky sea-wall,
gradually the bitter thoughts faded and I looked
out into the calm night with something of that
peace that comes to all when day is ended.
The death at my very elbow of the poor blind
wretch in the Park had left a shock, but now my
nerves relaxed their tension and I began to think
about it all,—about the letters and the strange
woman who had given them to me. I wondered
where she had found them,—whether they really
were carried by some vagrant current in to the
shore from the wreck of the fated Lorieni.
Nothing but these letters had human eyes en-
countered from the Lorient, although we believed
that fire or berg had been her portion; for there
22


338 A Pleasant Evening.
had been no storms when the Lorient steamed
away from Cherbourg.
And what of the pale-faced girl in black who
had given these letters to me, saying that my
own heart would teach me where to place
them?
I felt in my pockets for the letters where I had
thrust them all crumpled and wet. They were
there, and I decided to turn them over to the
police. Then I thought of Cusick and the City
Hall Park and these set my mind running on
Jamison and my own work,—ah ! I had forgotten
that,—I had forgotten that I had sworn to stir
Jamison's cold, sluggish blood! Trading on his
fiancee's reported suicide,—or murder! True,
he had told me that he was satisfied that the body
at the Morgue was not Miss Tufft's because the
ring did not correspond with his fiancee's ring.
But what sort of a man was that !—to go crawling
and nosing about morgues and graves for a full-
page illustration which might sell a few extra
thousand papers. I had never known he was
such a man. It was strange too—for that was
not the sort of illustration that the Weekly
used; it was against all precedent—against the
whole policy of the paper. He would lose a hun-
dred subscribers where he would gain one by such
work.
"The callous brute!" I muttered to myself,
"I 'll wake him up—I 'll"
I sat straight up on the bench and looked stead-


A Pleasant Evening. 339
ily at a figure which was moving toward me
under the spluttering electric light.
It was the woman I had met in the Park.
She came straight up to me, her pale face
gleaming like marble in the dark, her slim hands
outstretched.
"I have been looking for you all day—all
day," she said, in the same low thrilling tones,—
"I want the letters back; have you them
here?"
"Yes," I said, " I have them here,—take them
in Heaven's name; they have done enough evil
for one day!"
She took the letters from my hand; I saw the
ring, made of the double serpents, flashing on
her slim finger, and I stepped closer, and looked
her in the eyes.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I? My name is of no importance to you,"
she answered.
"You are right," I said, "I do not care to
know your name. That ring of yours"
'' What of my ring ?'' she murmured.
'' Nothing,—a dead woman lying in the Morgue
wears such a ring. Do you know what your
letters have done? No? Well I read them to a
miserable wretch and he blew his brains out!"
'' You read them to a man!''
"I did. He killed himself."
"Who was that man?"
"Captain d'Yniol"


340 A Pleasant Evening.
With something between a sob and a laugh she
seized my hand and covered it with kisses, and I,
astonished and angry, pulled my hand away from
her cold lips and sat down on the bench.
"You needn't thank me," I said sharply; " if
I had known that,—but no matter. Perhaps
after all the poor devil is better off somewhere
in other regions with his sweetheart who was
drowned,—yes, I imagine he is. He was blind
and ill,—and broken-hearted."
'' Blind ?'' she asked gently.
'' Yes. Did you know him ?''
"I knew him."
"And his sweetheart, Aline?"
"Aline," she repeated softly,—" she is dead.
I come to thank you in her name.''
"For what ?—for his death?"
"Ah, yes, for that."
'' Where did you get those letters?" I asked
her, suddenly.
She did not answer, but stood fingering the wet
letters.
Before I could speak again she moved away
into the shadows of the trees, lightly, silently,
and far down the dark walk I saw her diamond
flashing.
Grimly brooding, I rose and passed through
the Battery to the steps of the Elevated Road.
These I climbed, bought my ticket, and stepped
out to the damp platform. When a train came I
crowded in with the rest, still pondering on my


A Pleasant Evening. 341
vengeance, feeling and believing that I was to
scourge the conscience of the man who speculated
on death.
And at last the train stopped at 28th Street, and
I hurried out and down the steps and away to the
Morgue.
When I entered the Morgue, Skelton, the
keeper, was standing before a slab that glistened
faintly under the wretched gas jets. He heard
my footsteps, and turned around to see who was
coming. Then he nodded, saying: "Mr. Hilton,
just take a look at this here stiff—I 'll be back
in a moment—this is the one that all the papers
take to be Miss Tufft,—but they 're all off,
because this stiff has been here now for two
weeks.''
I drew out my sketching-block and pencils.
"Which is it, Skelton?" I asked, fumbling for
my rubber.
"This one, Mr. Hilton, the girl what's smilin'.
Picked up off Sandy Hook, too. Looks as if she
was asleep, eh?"
"What's she got in her hand—clenched tight?
Oh,—a letter. Turn up the gas, Skelton, I want
to see her face."
The old man turned the gas jet, and the flame
blazed and whistled in the damp, fetid air. Then
suddenly my eyes fell on the dead.
Rigid, scarcely breathing, I stared at the ring,
made of two twisted serpents set with a great dia-
mond,—I saw the wet letters crushed in her


342 A Pleasant Evening.
slender hand,—I looked, and—God help me !—I
looked upon the dead face of the girl with whom I
had been speaking on the Battery!
"Dead for a month at least," said Skelton,
calmly.
Then, as I felt my senses leaving me, I screamed
out, and at the same instant somebody from be-
hind seized my shoulder and shook me savagely
—shook me until I opened my eyes again and
gasped and coughed.
"Now then, young feller! " said a Park police-
man bending over me, '' if you go to sleep on a
bench, somebody 'll lift your watch!"
I turned, rubbing my eyes desperately.
Then it was all a dream—and no shrinking girl
had come to me with damp letters,—I had not
gone to the office—there was no such person as
Miss Tufft,—Jamison was not an unfeeling vil-
lain,—no, indeed !—he treated us all much better
than we deserved, and he was kind and generous
too. And the ghastly suicide! Thank God
that also was a myth,—and the Morgue and the
Battery at night where that pale-faced girl had
—ugh!
I felt for my sketch-block, found it; turned the
pages of all the animals that I had sketched, the
hippopotami, the buffalo, the tigers—ah ! where
was that sketch in which I had made the woman
in shabby black the. principal figure, with the
brooding vultures all around and the crowd in the
sunshine—? It was gone.


A Pleasant Evening. 343
I hunted everywhere, in every pocket. It was
gone.
At last I rose and moved along the narrow
asphalt path in the falling twilight.
And as I turned into the broader walk, I was
aware of a group, a policeman holding a lantern,
some gardeners, and a knot of loungers gathered
about something,—a dark mass on the ground.
'' Found 'em just so," one of the gardeners was
saying, " better not touch 'em until the coroner
comes."
The policeman shifted his bull's-eye a little; the
rays fell on two faces, on two bodies, half sup-
ported against a park bench. On the finger of
the girl glittered a splendid diamond, set between
the fangs of two gold serpents. The man had
shot himself; he clasped two wet letters in his
hand. The girl's clothing and hair were wringing
wet, and her face was the face of a drowned person.
"Well, sir," said the policeman, looking at me;
'' you seem to know these two people—by your
looks"
"I never saw them before," I gasped, and
walked on, trembling in every nerve.
For among the folds of her shabby black dress
I had noticed the end of a paper,—my sketch that
I had missed 1





THE MAN AT THE NEXT TABLE.


"Awed and afraid I cross the border-land.
Oh, who am I that I dare enter here
Where the great artists of the world have trod?"
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX


348 The Man at the Next Table.
terly. Then I began to ponder on my great-aunt
and the Crimson Diamond.
The white walls of the Hotel St. Antoine rose
in a rectangle around the sunny court, casting
long shadows across the basin of the fountain.
The strip of blue overhead was cloudless. Spar-
rows twittered under the eaves; the yellow awn-
ings fluttered, the flowers swayed in the summer
breeze, and the jet of the fountain splashed among
the water plants. On the sunny side of the piazza
the tables were vacant ; on the shady side, I was
lazily aware that the tables behind me were occu-
pied, but I was indifferent as to their occupants,
partly because I shunned all tourists, partly be-
cause I was thinking of my great-aunt.
Most old ladies are eccentric, but there is a
limit, and my great-aunt had overstepped it. I
had believed her to be wealthy ;—she died bank-
rupt. Still, I knew there was one thing she did
possess, and that was the famous "Crimson
Diamond." Now, of course, you know who my
great-aunt was.
Excepting the Koh-i-noor, and the Regent, this
enormous and unique stone was, as everybody
knows, the most valuable gem in existence. Any
ordinary person would have placed that diamond
in a safe-deposit. My great-aunt did nothing of
the kind. She kept it in a small velvet bag,
which she carried about her neck. She never
took it off, but wore it dangling openly on her
heavy silk gown.


350 The Man at the Next Table.
also offered $25,000 reward for the recovery of the
gem. All New York was agog.
The case seemed hopeless enough, although
there were five of us after the thief. McFarlane
was in London, and had been for a month, but
Scotland Yard could give him no help, and the
last I heard of him he was roaming through Sur-
rey after a man with a white spot in his hair.
Harrison had gone to Paris. He kept writing me
that clues were plenty and the scent hot, but as
Dennet, in Berlin, and Clancy, in Vienna, wrote
me the same thing, I began to doubt these gentle-
men's ability.
"You say," I answered Harrison, "that the
fellow is a Frenchman, and that he is now con-
cealed in Paris; but Dennet writes me by the
same mail that the thief is undoubtedly a German,
and was seen yesterday in Berlin. To-day I
received a letter from Clancy, assuring me that
Vienna holds the culprit, and that he is an Aus-
trian from Trieste. Now for Heaven's sake,"
I ended, "let me alone and stop writing me letters
until you have something to write about."
The night clerk of the Waldorf had furnished
us with our first clue. On the night of my
aunt's death he had seen a tall, grave-faced man,
hurriedly leave the hotel. As the man passed
the desk, he removed his hat and mopped his
forehead, and the night clerk noticed that in the
middle of his head there was a patch of hair, as
white as snow.


The Man at the Next Table. 3 51
We worked this clue for all it was worth, and,
a month later, I received a cable dispatch from
Paris, saying that a man, answering to the
description of the Waldorf suspect, had offered an
enormous crimson diamond for sale to a jeweller
in the Palais Royal. Unfortunately the fellow
took fright and disappeared before the jeweller
could send for the police, and since that time,
McFarlane in London, Harrison in Paris, Dennet
in Berlin, and Clancy in Vienna, had been chas-
ing men with white patches on their hair until no
gray-headed patriarch in Europe was free from
suspicion. I myself had sleuthed it through Eng-
land, France, Holland and Belgium, and now I
found myself in Antwerp at the Hotel St. Antoine
without a clue that promised anything except
another outrage on some respectable white-haired
citizen. The case seemed hopeless enough, un-
less the thief tried again to sell the gem. Here
was our only hope, for, unless he cut the stone
into smaller ones, he had no more chance of sell-
ing it than he would have had if he had stolen the
Venus of Milo and peddled her about the rue de
Seine. Even were he to cut up the stone, no
respectable gem collector or jeweller would buy
a crimson diamond without first notifying me;
for although a few red stones are known to collec-
tors, the colour of the Crimson Diamond was abso-
lutely unique, and there was little probability of
an honest mistake.
Thinking of all these things I sat sipping my


352 The Man at the Next Table.
Rhine wine in the shadow of the yellow awnings.
A large white cat came sauntering by and stopped
in front of me to perform her toilet until I wished
she would go away. After a while she sat up,
licked her whiskers, yawned once or twice, and
was about to stroll on, when, catching sight of me,
she stopped short and looked me squarely in the
face. I returned the attention with a scowl because
I wished to discourage any advances towards so-
cial intercourse which she might contemplate ; but
after a while her steady gaze disconcerted me, and
I turned to my Rhine wine. A few minutes later
I looked up again. The cat was still eyeing me.
'' Now what the devil is the matter with the
animal," I muttered, " does she recognize in me
a relative ?''
"Perhaps," observed a man at the next table.
"What do you mean by that ?" I demanded.
'' What I say,'' replied the man at the next table.
I looked him full in the face. He was old and
bald and appeared weak-minded. His age pro-
tected his impudence. I turned my back on him.
Then my eyes fell on the cat again. She was still
gazing earnestly at me.
Disgusted that she should take such pointed
public notice of me, I wondered whether other
people saw it; I wondered whether there was
anything peculiar in my own personal appear-
ance. How hard the creature stared. It was
most embarrassing.
"What has got into that cat?" I thought.


The Man,at the Next Table. 353
"It's sheer impudence. It's an intrusion, and
I won't stand it!" The cat did not move. I
tried to stare her out of countenance. It was
useless. There was aggressive inquiry in her
yellow eyes. A sensation of uneasiness began to
steal over me—a sensation of embarrassment not
unmixed with awe. All cats looked alike to me,
and yet there was something about this one that
bothered me—something that I could not explain
to myself, but which began to occupy me.
She looked familiar—this Antwerp cat. An
odd sense of having seen her before—of having
been well acquainted with her in former years
slowly settled in my mind, and, although I could
never remember the time when I had not detested
cats, I was almost convinced that my relations
with this Antwerp tabby had once been intimate
if not cordial. I looked more closely at the ani-
mal. Then an idea struck me,—an idea which
persisted and took definite shape in spite of me.
I strove to escape from it, to evade it, to stifle and
smother it; an inward struggle ensued which
brought the perspiration in beads upon my
cheeks,—a struggle short, sharp, decisive. It
was useless—useless to try to put it from me,—
this idea so wretchedly bizarre, so grotesque and
fantastic, so utterly inane,—it was useless to deny
that the cat bore a distinct resemblance to my
great-aunt!
I gazed at her in horror. What enormous eyes
the creature had I
»3


The Man at the Next Table, 355
myself repeating: '' the soul of his grandam
might happily inhabit a bird; the soul of his
grandam might happily inhabit a bird; the soul
of—nonsense!" I growled — "it isn't printed
correctly! One might possibly say, speaking in
poetical metaphor, that the soul of a bird might
happily inhabit one's grandam—" I stopped
short, flushing painfully. "What awful rot!"
I murmured, and lighted another cigar. The cat
was still staring; the cigar went out. I grew
more and more nervous. "What rot!" I re-
peated. "Pythagoras must have been an ass,
but I do believe that there are plenty of asses
alive to-day who swallow that sort of thing."
"Who knows," sighed the man at the next
table, and I sprang to my feet and wheeled about.
But I only caught a glimpse of a pair of frayed
coat-tails and a bald head vanishing into the
dining-room. I sat down again, thoroughly
indignant. A moment later the cat got up and
went away.


II.
d was fading in the city of Ant-
werp. Down into the sea sank the sun,
tinting the vast horizon with flakes of
crimson, and touching with rich deep undertones
the tossing waters of the Scheldt. Its glow fell
like a rosy mantle over red-tiled roofs and mead-
ows; and through the haze the spires of twenty
churches pierced the air like sharp, gilded flames.
To the west and south the green plains, over
which the Spanish armies tramped so long ago,
stretched away until they met the sky; the en-
chantment of the afterglow had turned old Ant-
werp into fairyland; and sea and sky and plain
were beautiful and vague as the night mists float-
ing in the moats below.
Along the sea-wall from the Rubens Gate, all
Antwerp strolled, and chattered, and flirted and
sipped their Flemish wines from slender Flemish
glasses or gossiped over krugs of foaming beer.
From the Scheldt came the cries of sailors, the
creaking of cordage, and the puff! puff! of the
ferry-boats. On the bastions of the fortress oppo-
site a bugler was standing. Twice the mellow
notes of the bugle came faintly over the water,
356


The Man at the Next Table. 357
then a great gun thundered from the ramparts,
and the Belgian flag fluttered along the lanyards
to the ground.
I leaned listlessly on the sea-wall and looked
down at the Scheldt below. A battery of artil-
lery was embarking for the fortress. The tub-
like transport lay hissing and whistling in the slip,
and the stamping of horses, the rumbling of gun
and caisson, and the sharp cries of the officers
came plainly to the ear.
When the last caisson was aboard and stowed,
and the last trooper had sprung jingling to the
deck, the transport puffed out into the Scheldt,
and I turned away through the throng of prom-
enaders, and found a little table on the terrace,
just outside of the pretty cafe\ And as I sat
down, I became aware of a girl at the next table
—a girl all in white—the most ravishingly and
distractingly pretty girl that I had ever seen. In
the agitation of the moment I forgot that I was a
woman-hater, I forgot my name, my fortune, my
aunt, and the Crimson Diamond—all these I for-
got in a purely human impulse to see clearly; and
to that end I removed my monocle from my left
eye. Some moments later I came to myself and
feebly replaced it. It was too late; the mischief
was done. I was not aware at first of the exact
state of my feelings,—for I had never before been
in love—but I did know that at her request I
would have been proud to stand on my head, or
turn a flip-flap into the Scheldt.


The Man at the Next Table. 359
reason it out; why should cats bite? Don't you
know? I do."
He looked at me anxiously.
"You take no interest in this problem?" he
demanded.
"Oh, yes."
"Then why do you not ask me why?" he
said, looking vaguely disappointed.
"Well," I said in desperation, " why do cats
bite ?—hang it all!" I thought, "it 's like a
burnt-cork show, and I 'm Mr. Bones and he 's
Tambo!"
Then he smiled gently. "Young man," he
said, '' cats bite because they feed on cat-nip. I
have reasoned it out."
I stared at him in blank astonishment. Was
this benevolent looking old party poking fun at
me? Was he paying me up for the morning's
snub? Was he a malignant and revengeful old
party, or was he merely feeble-minded? Who
might he be? What was he doing here in Ant-
werp—what was he doing now!—for the bald one
had turned familiarly to the beautiful girl in white.
"Elsie," he said, " do you feel chilly?" The
girl shook her head. .
"Not in the least, papa."
"Good Lord !" I thought—" her father!"
"I have been to the Zoo to-day," announced
the bald one, turning toward me.
"Ah, indeed," I observed,—" er—I trust you
enjoyed it."


360 The Man at the Next Table.
"I have been contemplating the apes," he con-
tinued, dreamily. "Yes, contemplating the
apes."
I said nothing, but tried to look interested.
"Yes, the apes," he murmured, fixing his
mild eyes on me. Then he leaned toward me
confidentially and whispered; "can you tell me
what a monkey thinks?"
"I can not," I replied, sharply.
"Ah," he sighed, sinking back in his chair,
and patting the slender hand of the girl beside
him, " ah, who can tell what a monkey thinks?"
His gentle face lulled my suspicions, and I replied
very gravely; " who can tell whether they think
at all?"
"True, true! Who can tell whether they
think at all; and if they do think, ah! who can
tell what they think?"
"But," I began, "if you can't tell whether
they think at all, what 's the use of trying to
conjecture what they would think if they did
think?"
He raised his hand in deprecation. "Ah, it is
exactly that which is of such absorbing interest,
exactly that! It is the abstruseness of the prop-
osition which stimulates research—which stirs
profoundly the brain of the thinking world. The
question is of vital and instant importance. Pos-
sibly you have already formed an opinion."
I admitted that I had thought but little on the
subject.


TheMan at the Next Table. 361
"I doubt," he continued, swathing his knees
in his coat-tails,—" I doubt whether you have
given much attention to the subject lately dis-
cussed by the Boston Dodo Society of Pytha-
gorean Research."
'' I am not sure,'' I said politely, '' that I recall
that particular discussion. May I ask what was
the question brought up?"
"The Felis Domesticus question."
"Ah, that must indeed be interesting! And
—er—what may be the Felis Do—do ''
"Domesticus—not Dodo. Felis Domesticus,
the common or garden cat."
"Indeed," I murmured.
"You are not listening," he said.
I only half heard him; I could not turn my
eyes from her face.
"Cat !" shouted the bald one, and I almost
leaped from my chair. "Are you deaf? " he in-
quired, sympathetically.
"No—oh no !" I replied, colouring with con-
fusion; "you were—pardon me—you were—er
—speaking of the Dodo. Extraordinary bird
that"
"I was not discussing the Dodo," he sighed—
"I was speaking of cats."
"Of course," I said.
"The question is," he continued, twisting his
frayed coat-tails into a sort of rope—'' the ques-
tion is, how are we to ameliorate the present con-
dition and social status of our domestic cats ''


362 The Man at the Next Table.
"Feed 'em," I suggested.
He raised both hands. They were eloquent
with patient expostulation. '' I mean their spir-
itual condition,'' he said.
I nodded, but my eyes reverted to that exquisite
face. She sat silent, her eyes fixed on the waning
flecks of colour in the western sky.
"Yes," repeated the bald one, " the spiritual
welfare of our domestic cats ''
'' Toms and Tabbies?" I murmured.
"Exactly," he said, tying a large knot in his
coat-tails.
'' You will ruin your coat,'' I observed.
"Papa!" exclaimed the girl, turning in dis-
may, as that gentleman gave a guilty start, '' stop
it at once !''
He smiled apologetically and made a feeble
attempt to conceal his coat-tails.
"My dear," he said, with gentle deprecation,
"I am so absent-minded—I always do it in the
heat of argument.''
The girl rose, and, bending over her untidy
parent, deftly untied the knot in his flapping
coat. When he was disentangled, she sat down
and said, with a ghost of a smile; " he is so very
absent-minded.''
"Your father is evidently a great student," I
said, pleasantly. How I pitied her, tied to this
lunatic!
"Yes, he is a great student," she said, quietly.
"I am," he murmured, "that's what makes


The Man at the Next Table. 363
me so absent-minded. I often go to bed and
forget to sleep." Then looking at me he asked
me my name, adding, with a bow, that his name
was P. Royal Wyeth, Professor of Pythagorean
Research and Abstruse Paradox.
'' My first name is Penny—named after Profes-
sor Penny of Harvard," he said, " but I seldom
use my first name in connection with my second,
as the combination suggests a household remedy
of penetrating odour."
"My name is Kensett," I said, "Harold Ken-
sett of New York."
"Student?"
"Er—a little"
"Student of diamonds?"
I smiled. '' Oh, I see you know who my great-
aunt was," I said.
'' I know her,'' he said.
"Ah,—perhaps you are unaware that my
great-aunt is not now living"
"I know her," he repeated, obstinately.
I bowed. What a crank he was!
"What do you study? You don't fiddle away
all your time, do you ?" he asked.
Now that was just what I did, but I was not
pleased to have Miss Wyeth know it. Although
my time was chiefly spent in shooting and fish-
ing, I had once, in a fit of energy, succeeded in
stuffing and mounting a woodcock, so I evaded a
humiliating confession by saying that I had done
a little work in ornithology.


364 The Man at the Next Table.
'' Good !'' cried the Professor, beaming all
over. "I knew you were a fellow scientist.
Possibly you are a brother member of the Boston
Dodo Society of Pythagorean Research. Are you
a Dodo?"
I shook my head. "No, I am not a Dodo."
"Only a jay?"
"A—what?" I said, angrily.
"A jay. We call the members of the Junior
Ornithological Jay Society of New York, jays,
just as we refer to ourselves as Dodos. Are you
not even a jay?"
"lam not," I said, watching him suspiciously.
"I must convert you, I see," said the Professor,
smiling.
"I'm afraid I do not approve of Pythagorean
research," I began, but the beautiful Miss Wyeth
turned to me very seriously, and looking me
frankly in the eyes, said:
"I trust you will be open to conviction."
"Good Lord!" I thought, "can she be an-
other crank." I looked at her steadily. What a
little beauty she was. She also then belonged to
the Pythagoreans—a sect I despised. Everybody
knows all about the Pythagorean craze, its rise in
Boston, its rapid spread, and its subsequent con-
solidation with Theosophy, Hynpotism, the Sal-
vation Army, the Shakers, the Dunkards, and
the Mind Cure Cult, upon a business basis. I
had hitherto regarded all Pythagoreans with the
same scornful indifference which I accorded to the


The Man at the Next Table. 365
Faith Curists; being a member of the Catholic
Church I was scarcely prepared to take any of
them seriously. Least of all did I approve of the
"business basis," and I looked very much
askance indeed at the '' Scientific and Religious
Trust Company," duly incorporated and gener-
ally known as the Pythagorean Trust, which,
consolidating with Mind Curists, Faith Curists,
and other flourishing Salvation Syndicates, actu-
ally claimed a place among ordinary Trusts, and
at the same time pretended to a control over
man's future life. No, I could never listen—I
was ashamed of even entertaining the notion, and
I shook my head.
"No, Miss Wyeth, I am afraid I do not care to
listen to any reasoning on this subject."
"Don't you believe in Pythagoras?" demanded
the Professor, subduing his excitement with diffi-
culty, and adding another knot to his coat-tails.
"No," I said, "I do not."
"How do you know you don't ?" enquired the
Professor.
'' Because,'' I said, firmly, "it is nonsense to
say that the soul of a human being can inhabit a
hen!"
'' Put it in a more simplified form !'' insisted
the Professor; "do you believe that the soul of a
hen can inhabit a human being?"
"No, I don't!"
"Did you ever hear of a hen-pecked man?"
cried the Professor, his voice ending in a shout.


366 The Man at theNext Table.
I nodded, intensely annoyed.
"Will you listen to reason, then?" he con-
tinued, eagerly.
"No," I began, but I caught Miss Wyeth' s
blue eyes fixed on mine with an expression so
sad, so sweetly appealing, that I faltered.
"Yes, I will listen," I said, faintly.
"Will you become my pupil?" insisted the
Professor.
I was shocked to find myself wavering, but my
eyes were looking into hers, and I could not dis-
obey what I read there. The longer I looked the
greater inclination I felt to waver. I saw that I
was going to give in, and, strangest of all, my
conscience did not trouble me. I felt it coming—
a sort of mild exhilaration took possession of me.
For the first time in my life I became reckless—I
even gloried in my recklessness.
'' Yes, yes,'' I cried, leaning eagerly across the
table, "I shall be glad—delighted! Will you
take me as your pupil?" My single eye-glass
fell from its position unheeded. "Take me!
Oh, will you take me?" I cried. Instead of an-
swering, the Professor blinked rapidly at me for a
moment. I imagined his eyes had grown bigger,
and were assuming a greenish tinge. The corners
of his mouth began to quiver, emitting queer,
caressing little noises, and he rapidly added knot
after knot to his twitching coat-tails. Suddenly
he bent forward across the table until his nose
almost touched mine. The pupils of his eyes ex-


The Man at the Next Table. 367
panded, the iris assuming a beautiful changing
golden-green tinge, and his coat-tails switched
violently. Then he began to mew.
I strove to rouse myself from my paralysis—I
tried to shrink back, for I felt the end of his cold
nose touch mine. I could not move. The cry of
terror died in my straining throat, my hands tight-
ened convulsively; I was incapable of speech or
motion. At the same time my brain became won-
derfully clear. I began to remember everything
that had ever happened to me—everything that I
had ever done or said. I even remembered things
that I had neither done nor said, I recalled dis-
tinctly much that had never happened. How
fresh and strong my memory! The past was like
a mirror, crystal clear, and there, in glorious tints
and hues, the scenes of my childhood grew and
glowed and faded, and gave place to newer and
more splendid scenes. For a moment the episode
of the cat at the Hotel St. Antoine flashed across
my mind. When it vanished, a chilly stupor
slowly clouded my brain; the scenes, the memo-
ries, the brilliant colours, faded, leaving me envel-
oped in a grey vapour, through which the two
great eyes of the Professor twinkled with a murky
light. A peculiar longing stirred me,—a strange
yearning for something—I knew not what—but,
oh ! how I longed and yearned for it! Slowly
this indefinite, incomprehensible longing became
a living pain. Ah, how I suffered!—and how the
vapours seemed to crowd around me. Then, as at


368 The Man at the Next Table.
a great distance, I heard her voice, sweet, impera
tive:
'' Mew !'' she said.
For a moment I seemed to see the interior of
my own skull, lighted as by a flash of fire; the
rolling eye-balls, veined in scarlet, the glistening
muscles quivering along the jaw, the humid
masses of the convoluted brain,—then awful dark-
ness—a darkness almost tangible—an utter black-
ness, through which now seemed to creep a thin
silver thread, like a river crawling across a world
—like a thought gliding to the brain—like a
song, a thin, sharp song which some distant voice
was singing—which I was singing.
And I knew that I was mewing!
I threw myself back in my chair and mewed
with all my heart. Oh, that heavy load which
was lifted from my breast! How good, how
satisfying it was to mew! And how I did mew!
I gave myself up to it, heart and soul; my
whole being thrilled with the passionate outpour-
ings of a spirit freed. My voice trembled in the
upper bars of a feline love song, quavered, de-
scended, swelling again into an intimation that I
brooked no rival, and ended with a magnificent
crescendo.
I finished, somewhat abashed, and glanced
askance at the Professor and his daughter, but
the one sat nonchalantly disentangling his coat-
tails, and the other was apparently absorbed in
the distant landscape. Evidently they did not


The Man at the Next Table. 369
consider me ridiculous. Flushing painfully, I
turned in my chair to see how my gruesome solo
had affected the people on the terrace. Nobody
even looked at me. This, however, gave me
little comfort, for, as I began to realize what I
had done, my mortification and rage knew no
bounds. I was ready to die of shame. What on
earth had induced me to mew? I looked wildly
about for escape—I would leap up—rush home
to bury my burning face in my pillows, and
later in the friendly cabin of a homeward-bound
steamer. I would fly—fly at once! Woe to the
man who blocked my way! I started to my feet,
but at that moment I caught Miss Wyeth's eyes
fixed on mine.
"Don't go," she said.
What in Heaven's name lay in those blue
eyes! I slowly sank back into my chair.
Then the Professor spoke. "Elsie, I have just
received a dispatch."
"Where from, Papa?"
"From India. I 'm going at once."
She nodded her head, without turning her eyes
from the sea. "Is it important, papa?"
"I should say so. The cashier of the Trust
has eloped with an Astral body, and has taken all
our funds, including a lot of first mortgages on
Nirvana. I suppose he's been dabbling in
futures, and was short in his accounts. I shan't
be gone long.''
'' Then good-night, papa,'' she said, kissing


The Man at the Next Table. 3 71
able to read my thoughts? This was too much,
and I rose and bowed stiffly.
'' I have the honour to bid you good-evening,''
I began, and reluctantly turned to include the
Professor, expecting to see that gentleman balanc-
ing himself on his chair. The Professor's chair
was empty.
"Oh," said the girl, faintly, "my father has
gone."
"Gone! Where?"
"To—to India, I believe."
I sank helplessly into my own chair.
"I do not think he will stay very long—he
promised to return by eleven," she said, timidly.
I tried to realize the purport of it all. "Gone
to India? Gone! How? On a broomstick?
Good Heavens!" I murmured, " am I sane?"
"Perfectly," she said, "and I am tired; you
may take me back to the hotel."
I scarcely heard her; I was feebly attempting
to gather up my numbed wits. Slowly I began
to comprehend the situation, to review the start-
ling and humiliating events of the day. At noon,
in the court of the Hotel St. Antoine, I had been
annoyed by a man and a cat. I had retired to
my own room and had slept until dinner. In the
evening I met two tourists on the sea-wall prom-
enade. I had been beguiled into conversation—
yes, into intimacy with these two tourists! I had
had the intention of embracing the faith of Py-
thagoras! Then I had mewed like a cat with all


372 The Man at the Next Table.
the strength of my lungs. Then the male tourist
vanishes—and leaves me in charge of the female
tourist, alone and at night in a strange city!
And now the female tourist proposes that I take
her home!
With a remnant of self-possession I groped for
my eye-glass, seized it, screwed it firmly into my
eye, and looked long and earnestly at the girl.
As I looked, my eyes softened, my monocle
dropped, and I forgot everything in the beauty
and purity of the face before me. My heart
began to beat against my stiff white waistcoat.
Had I dared—yes, dared to think of this won-
drous little beauty, as a female tourist? Her
pale sweet face, turned toward the sea, seemed to
cast a spell upon the night. How loud my heart
was beating. The yellow moon floated, half
dipping in the sea, flooding land and water with
enchanted lights. Wind and wave seemed to feel
the spell of her eyes, for the breeze died away,
the heaving Scheldt tossed noiselessly, and the
dark Dutch luggers swung idly on the tide with
every sail adroop.
A sudden hush fell over land and water, the
voices on the promenade were stilled; little by
little the shadowy throng, the terrace, the sea
itself vanished, and I only saw her face, shadowed
against the moon.
It seemed as if I had drifted miles above the
earth, through all space and eternity, and there
was nought between me and high Heaven but


The Man at the Next Table. 373
that white face. Ah, how I loved her! I knew
it—I never doubted it. Could years of passionate
adoration touch her heart—her little heart, now
beating so calmly with no thought of love to star-
tle it from its quiet and send it fluttering against
the gentle breast? In her lap her clasped hands
tightened,—her eyelids drooped as though some
pleasant thought was passing. I saw the colour
dye her temples, I saw the blue eyes turn, half-
frightened to my own, I saw—and I knew she
had read my thoughts. Then we both rose, side
by side, and she was weeping softly, yet for my
life I dared not speak. She turned away, touch-
ing her eyes with a bit of lace, and I sprang to
her side and offered her my arm.
'' You cannot go back alone,'' I said.
She did not take my arm.
"Do you hate me, Miss Wyeth?"
"I am very tired," she said, "I must go
home."
"You cannot go alone."
"I do not care to accept your escort."
"Then—you send me away?"
"No," she said, in a hard voice. "You can
come if you like." So I humbly attended her to
the Hotel St. Antoine.


III.
As we reached the Place Verte and turned
into the court of the hotel, the sound of
the midnight bells swept over the city,
and a horse-car jingled slowly by on its last trip
to the railroad station.
We passed the fountain, bubbling and splashing
in the moonlit court, and, crossing the square,
entered the southern wing of the hotel. At the
foot of the stairway she leaned for an instant
against the banisters.
"I am afraid we have walked too fast," I said.
She turned to me coldly. '' No,—conventional-
ities must be observed. You were quite right in
escaping as soon as possible."
"But," I protested, " I assure you"
She gave a little movement of impatience.
"Don't," she said, "you tire me—convention-
alities tire me. Be satisfied,—nobody has seen
you."
"You are cruel," I said, in a low voice—" what
do you think I care for conventionalities ''
"You care everything,—you care what people
think, and you try to do what they say is good
374


The Man at the Next Table. 375
form. You never did such an original thing in
your life as you have just done."
"You read my thoughts," I exclaimed, bit-
terly—" it is not fair"
'' Fair or not, I know what you consider me,
—ill-bred, common, pleased with any sort of at-
tention. Oh! Why should I waste one word—
one thought on you !''
"Miss Wyeth,—" I began, but she interrupted
me.
'' Would you dare tell me what you think of
me ?—Would you dare tell me what you think of
my father ?''
I was silent. She turned and mounted two
steps of the stairway, then faced me again.
'' Do you think it was for my own pleasure that
I permitted myself to be left alone with you? Do
you imagine that I am flattered by your attention
—do you venture to think I ever could be? How
dared you think what you did think there on the
sea-wall?"
'' I cannot help my thoughts !" I replied.
"You turned on me like a tiger when you
awoke from your trance. Do you really suppose
that you mewed? Are you not aware that my
father hypnotized you ?''
"No—I did not know it," I said. The hot
blood tingled in my finger tips, and I looked
angrily at her.
"Why do you imagine that I waste my time
on you ?'' she said. '' Your vanity has answered


The Man at the Next Table. 377
rapidly, but it brought no calm to the fierce tu-
mult of my thoughts, and at last I dropped into a
chair before the empty fireplace, burying my head
in my hands.
Uncertain, shocked, and deadly weary, I tried
to think,—I strove to bring order out of the chaos
in my brain, but I only sat staring at the long-
stemmed rose. Slowly I began to take a vague
pleasure in its heavy perfume, and once I crushed
a leaf between my palms, and, bending over,
drank in the fragrance.
Twice my lamp flickered and went out, and
twice, treading softly, I crossed the room to re-
light it. Twice I threw open the door, thinking
that I heard some sound without. How close the
air was,—how heavy and hot! And what was
that strange, subtle odour which had insensibly
filled the room? It grew stronger and more pene-
trating, and I began to dislike it, and to escape
it I buried my nose in the half-opened rose.
Horror! The odour came from the rose,—and
the rose itself was no longer a rose—not even a
flower now,—it was only a bunch of catnip; and
I dashed it to the floor and ground it under my
heel.
"Mountebank !" I cried in a rage. My anger
grew cold—and I shivered, drawn perforce to the
curtained window. Something was there—out-
side. I could not hear it, for it made no sound,
but I knew it was there, watching me. What
was it? The damp hair stirred on my head. I


378 The Matt at the Next Table.
touched the heavy curtains. Whatever was out-
side them sprang up, tore at the window, and
then rushed away.
Feeling very shaky, I crept to the window,
opened it, and leaned out. The night was calm.
I heard the fountain splashing in the moonlight
and the sea winds soughing through the palms.
Then I closed the window and turned back into
the room; and as I stood there a sudden breeze,
which could not have come from without, blew
sharply in my face, extinguishing the candle and
sending the long curtains bellying out into the
room. The lamp on the table flashed and smoked
and sputtered; the room was littered with flying
papers and catnip leaves. Then the strange wind
died away, and somewhere in the night a cat
snarled.
I turned desperately to my trunk and flung it
open. Into it I threw everything I owned, pell-
mell, closed the lid, locked it, and seizing my
mackintosh and traveling bag, ran down the
stairs, crossed the court and entered the night office
of the hotel. There I called up the sleepy clerk,
settled my reckoning, and sent a porter for a cab.
"Now," I said, "what time does the next train
leave?"
"The next train for where?"
"Anywhere!"
The clerk locked the safe, and carefully keep-
ing the desk between himself and me, motioned
the office boy to look at the time-tables.


380 The Man at the Next Table.
asleep, and the guard awoke me with diffi-
culty.
'' Breakfast, sir?" he asked.
'' Anything,'' I sighed, and stepped out to the
platform, rubbing my legs and shivering. The
other passengers were already breakfasting in the
station cafe\ and I joined them and managed to
swallow a cup of coffee and a roll.
The morning broke, grey and cloudy, and I
bundled myself into my mackintosh for a tramp
along the platform Up and down I stamped,
puffing a cigar, and digging my hands deep in
my pockets, while the other passengers huddled
into the warmer compartments of the train or
stood watching the luggage being lifted into the
forward mail carriage. The wait was very long;
the hands of the great clock pointed to six, and
still the train lay motionless along the platform.
I approached a guard, and asked him whether
anything was wrong.
"Accident on the line," he replied; " Monsieur
had better go to his compartment and try to sleep,
for we may be delayed until noon."
I followed the guard's advice, and crawling into
my corner, wrapped myself in the rug and lay
back watching the rain-drops spattering along the
window-sill. At noon, the train had not moved,
and I lunched in the compartment. At four
o'clock in the afternoon the station-master came
hurrying along the platform, crying "montez!
montez! Messieurs—Dames, s'il vous plait,"—


The Man at the Next Table. 381
and the train steamed out of the station and
whirled away through the flat, treeless Belgian
plains. At times I dozed, but the shaking of the
car always awoke me, and I would sit blinking
out at the endless stretch of plain, until a sudden
flurry of rain blotted the landscape from my eyes.
At last, a long, shrill whistle from the engine, a
jolt, a series of bumps, and an apparition of red
trousers and bayonets warned me that we had
arrived at the French frontier. I turned out
with the others, and opened my valise for inspec-
tion, but the customs officials merely chalked it
without examination, and I hurried back to my
compartment amid the shouting of guards and the
clanging of station bells. Again I found that I
was alone in the compartment, so I smoked a
cigarette, thanked Heaven, and fell into a dream-
less sleep.
How long I slept I do not know, but when I
awoke, the train was roaring through a tunnel.
When again it flashed out into the open country,
I peered through the grimy rain-stained window
and saw that the storm had ceased and stars were
twinkling in the sky. I stretched my legs,
yawned, pushed my travelling cap back from my
forehead, and stumbling to my feet, walked up
and down the compartment until my cramped
muscles were relieved. Then I sat down again,
and, lighting a cigar, puffed great rings and
clouds of fragrant smoke across the aisle.
The train was flying; the cars lurched and


The manat the Next Table. 383
smoke. Then my hair slowly rose on my head.
For my hand touched another hand, and my eyes
had met two other eyes.
My senses reeled. I heard a voice in the
gloom, low and sweet, calling me by name; I
saw the eyes again, tender and blue ; soft fingers
touched my own.
"Are you afraid?" she said.
My heart began to beat again, and my face
warmed with returning blood.
"It is only I," she said, gently.
I seemed to hear my own voice speaking as if
at a great distance; "you here—alone?"
"How cruel of you," she faltered, "I am not
alone." At the same instant my eyes fell upon
the Professor, calmly seated by the further win-
dow. His hands were thrust into the folds of a
corded and tasselled dressing-gown, from beneath
which peeped two enormous feet encased in car-
pet slippers. Upon his head towered a yellow
night cap. He did not pay the slightest attention
to either me or his daughter, and, except for the
lighted cigar which he kept shifting between his
lips, he might have been taken for a wax dummy.
Then I began to speak, feebly, hesitating like
a child.
'' How did you come into this compartment?
You—you do not possess wings, I suppose. You
could not have been here all the time. Will
you explain—explain to me? See, I ask you
very humbly, for I do not understand. This is


384 The Man at the Next Table.
the 19th century, and these things don't fit in.
I 'm wearing a Dunlap hat—I 've got a copy
of the New York Herald in my bag,—President
Cleveland is alive and everything is so very
commonplace in the world! Is this real magic?
Perhaps I 'm filled with hallucinations. Perhaps
I'm asleep and dreaming. Perhaps you are
not really here—nor I—nor anybody, nor any-
thing!"—
The train plunged into a tunnel, and when
again it dashed out from the other end, the cold
wind blew furiously in my face from the further
window. It was wide open; the Professor was
gone.
"Papa has changed to another compartment,"
she said, quietly; "I think perhaps you were
beginning to bore him."
Her eyes met mine and she smiled faintly.
"Are you very much bewildered?"
I looked at her in silence. She sat very quietly,
her white hands clasped above her knee, her curly
hair glittering to her girdle. A long robe, almost
silvery in the twilight, clung to her young figure;
her bare feet were thrust deep into a pair of shim-
mering eastern slippers.
"When you fled," she sighed, "I was asleep
and there was no time to lose. I barely had a
moment to go to Bombay, to find Papa, and re-
turn in time to join you. This is an East Indian
costume."
Still I was silent.


The Man at the Next Table. 385
"Are you shocked?" she asked simply
"No," I replied in a dull voice, "I'm past
that."
"You are very rude," she said, with the tears
starting to her eyes.
"I do not mean to be. I only wish to go away
—away somewhere and find out what my name is.''
"Your name is Harold Kensett."
"Are you sure?" I asked, eagerly.
"Yes,—what troubles you?"
"Is everything plain to you? Are you a sort
of prophet and second sight medium? Is nothing
hidden from you?" I asked.
"Nothing,"—she faltered. My head ached
and I clasped it in my hand.
A sudden change came over her. '' I am
human,—believe me!"—she said with piteous
eagerness; "indeed I do not seem strange to
those who understand. You wonder, because you
left me at midnight in Antwerp and you wake
to find me here. If, because I find myself rein-
carnated, endowed with senses and capabilities
which few at present possess ;—if I am so made,
why should it seem strange? It is all so natural
to me. If I appear to you—"
"Appear!!!"
"Yes—"
"Elsie!" I cried, "can you vanish?"
"Yes," she murmured,—" does it seem to you
unwomanly ?''
"Great Heaven !" I groaned.


386 The Man at the Next Table.
"Don't," she cried, with tears in her voice,—
"oh, please don't! Help me to bear it! If you
only knew how awful it is to be different from
other girls,—how mortifying it is to me to be
able to vanish,—oh, how I hate and detest it
all!"
"Don't cry," I said, looking at her pityingly.
"Oh dear me!" she sobbed. "You shudder
at the sight of me because I can vanish."
"I don't!" I cried.
"Yes you do! You abhor me,—you shrink
away! Oh why did I ever see you,—why did
you ever come into my life,—what have I done in
ages past, that now, reborn, I suffer cruelly—
cruelly!"
"What do you mean!" I whispered. My
voice trembled with happiness.
'' I ?—nothing—but you think me a fabled
monster.''
"Elsie,—my sweet Elsie," I said, "I don't
think you a fabled monster;—I love you,—
see—see—I am at your feet,—listen to me, my
darling,"—
She turned her blue eyes to mine. I saw tears
sparkling on the curved lashes.
"Elsie, I love you," I said again.
Slowly she raised her white hands to my head
and held it a moment, looking at me strangely.
Then her face grew nearer to my own, her glitter-
ing hair fell over my shoulders, her lips rested on
mine.


390 The Man at the Next Table.
"Keep quiet!" I said sharply in French, "I
am not speaking to you."
The guard stared stupidly at me, then at my
luggage, and finally, entering the car, knelt down
and peered under the seats. Presently he got up,
very red in the face, and went out slamming the
door. He had not paid the slightest attention
to Elsie, but I distinctly heard him say, "only
Englishmen and idiots talk to themselves !''
"Elsie," I faltered, "do you mean to say that
guard could not see you ?''
She began to look so serious again that I merely
added, "never mind, I don't care whether you
are invisible or not, dearest."
"I am not invisible to you," she said; "why
should you care?"
A great noise of bells and whistles drowned
our voices, and amid the whirring of switch bells,
the hissing of steam, and the cries of " Paris!
All out!" our train glided into the station.
It was the Professor who opened the door of
our carriage. There he stood, calmly adjusting
his yellow nightcap and drawing his dressing-
gown closer with the corded tassels.
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"On the engine."
"In the engine I suppose you mean," I said.
"No I don't; I mean on the engine,—on the
pilot. It was very refreshing. Where are we
going now?"
"Do you know Paris?" asked Elsie, turning
to me.


The Man at the Next Table. 391
"Yes. I think your father had better take
you to the Hotel Normandie on the rue de
l'Echelle—"
"But you must stay there too!"
"Of course—if you wish—"
She laughed nervously.
"Don't you see that my father and I could not
take rooms—now? You must engage three
rooms for yourself.''
"Why?" I asked stupidly.
"Oh dear—why because we are invisible."
I tried to repress a shudder. The Professor
gave Elsie his arm and, as I studied his ensemble,
I thanked Heaven that he was invisible.
At the gate of the station I hailed a four-seated
cab, and we rattled away through the stony
streets, brilliant with gas jets, and in a few mo-
ments rolled smoothly across the Avenue de
l'Opera, turned into the rue de l'Echelle, and
stopped. A bright little page, all over buttons,
came out, took my luggage, and preceded us
into the hallway.
I, with Elsie on my arm and the Professor
shuffling along beside me, walked over to the
desk.
"Room?" said the clerk, "we have a very desirable room on the second fronting the rue St.
Honore'—"
"But we—that is I want three rooms—three
separate rooms!" I said.
The clerk scratched his chin. '' Monsieur is
expecting friends?"


The Man at the Next Table. 395
I saw her glide from the room, followed by the
Professor, playing a gay quick-step, to which the
cats danced two and two.
"Good night sir," said each cat, as it passed
my bed ; and I dreamed no more.
When I awoke, the room, the bed had vanished;
I was in the street, walking rapidly; the sun
shone down on the broad white pavements of
Paris, and the streams of busy life flowed past
me on either side. How swiftly I was walking!
Where the devil was I going? Surely I had
business somewhere that needed immediate atten-
tion. I tried to remember when I had awakened,
but I could not. I wondered where I had dressed
myself; I had apparently taken great pains with
my toilet, for I .was immaculate, monocle and all,
even down to a long-stemmed' rose nestling in
my button-hole. I knew Paris and recognized
the streets through which I was hurrying.
Where could I be going? What was my hurry?
I glanced at my watch and found I had not a
moment to lose. Then as the bells of the city
rang out mid-day, I hastened into the railroad
station on the Rue Lafayette and walked out
to the platform. And as I looked down the
glittering track, around the distant curve shot
a locomotive followed by a long line of cars.
Nearer and nearer it came while the station gongs
sounded and the switch-bells began ringing all
along the track.
"Antwerp express!" cried the Sous-Chef de


396 The Man at the Next Table.
Gare, and as the train slipped along the tiled
platform I sprang upon the steps of a first-class
carriage and threw open the door.
"How do you do, Mr. Kensett," said Elsie
Wyeth, springing lightly to the platform. "Really
it is very nice of you to come to the train." At
the same moment a bald, mild-eyed gentleman
emerged from the depths of the same compart-
ment carrying a large covered basket.
"How are you, Kensett?" he said. "Glad to
see you again. Rather warm in that compart-
ment—no I will not trust this basket to an ex-
pressman; give Miss Wyeth your arm and I 'll
follow. We go to the ' Normandie' I believe ?''
All the morning I had Elsie to myself, and at
dinner I sat beside her with the Professor opposite.
The latter was cheerful enough, but he nearly
ruined my dinner for he smelled strongly of catnip.
After dinner he became restless and fidgeted
about in his chair until coffee was brought, and
we went up to the parlour of our apartment.
Here his restlessness increased to such an extent
that I ventured to ask him if he was in good health.
"It's that basket—the covered basket which I
have in the next room," he said.
"What's the trouble with the basket?" I asked.
"The basket's all right—but the contents
worry me."
"May I inquire what the contents are?" I
ventured.
The Professor rose.


The Man at the Next Table. 399
"Yes and no. That was only a paste stone
that he had in Paris. It was to draw you over
here. He had the real Crimson Diamond also."
"Your father?"
"Yes. He has it in the next room now.
Can you not see how it disappeared, Harold?
Why, the cat swallowed it!"
"Do you mean to say that the white tabby swal-
lowed the Crimson Diamond ?''
'' By mistake. She tried to get it out of the
velvet bag, and, as the bag was also full of catnip,
she could not resist a mouthful, and unfortunately
just then you broke in the door and so startled
the cat that she swallowed the Crimson Diamond."
There was a painful pause. At last I said;
"Elsie, as you are able to vanish, I suppose
you also are able to converse with cats."
"I am," she replied, trying to keep back the
tears of mortification.
"And that cat told you this?"
"She did."
"And my Crimson Diamond is inside that
cat?"
"It is."
"Then," said I firmly, " I am going to chloro-
form the cat.''
"Harold!" she cried in terror, "that cat is
your great-aunt!"
I don't know to this day how I stood the shock
of that announcement, or how I managed to
listen, while Elsie tried to explain the transmi-


400 The Man at the Next Table.
gration theory, but it was all Chinese to me. I
only knew that I was a blood relation of a cat,
and the thought nearly drove me mad.
"Try, my darling, try to love her," whispered
Elsie, "she must be very precious to you—"
"Yes, with my diamond inside her," I replied
faintly.
"You must not neglect her," said Elsie.
"Oh no, I 'll always have my eye on her—I
mean I will surround her with luxury—er, milk
and bones and catnip and books—er—does she
read?"
"Not the books that human beings read.
Now go and speak to your aunt, Harold."
"Eh! How the deuce—"
"Go, for my sake try to be cordial."
She rose and led me unresistingly to the door
of my room.
"Good Heavens!" I groaned, "this is awful."
"Courage, my darling!" she whispered,
"be brave for love of me."
I drew her to me and kissed her. Beads of
cold perspiration started in the roots of my hair,
but I clenched my teeth and entered the room
alone. The room was dark and I stood silent,
not knowing where to turn, fearful lest I step on the cat, my aunt! Then through the dreary
silence I called; "Aunty!"
A faint noise broke upon my ear, and my heart
grew sick, but I strode into the darkness calling
hoarsely :—


The Man at the Next Table. 401
"Aunt Tabby ! it is your nephew!"
Again the faint sound. Something was stir-
ring there among the shadows,—a shape moving
softly along the wall, a shade which glided by
me, paused, wavered, and darted under the bed.
Then I threw myself on the floor, profoundly
moved, begging, imploring my aunt to come
to me.
"Aunty! Aunty!" I murmured, "your
nephew is waiting to take you to his heart!"
And at last I saw my great-aunt's eyes, shin-
ing in the dark.
Close the door. That meeting is not for the
eyes of the world! Close the door upon that
sacred scene where great-aunt and nephew are
united at last.
THE END.


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